The Bequest

by Hope Anika

  Rafe knew eventually that would fade. He’d had other messed up things happen; they always grew dimmer as time passed. But this…this might well happen again. And next time, he might not get away. He trusted Cheyenne to try to keep him safe, but she was just one person. One tiny—if ferocious—little person. Armed or not. Just one. And Will had said…

  That asshole is only the beginning.

  Which was what Rafe was afraid of. So he tried to be hyperaware as they drove through Yellowstone National Park toward Cheyenne’s home, of the tourists and their giant, house-sized campers as they jammed the roads to get a look at a grizzly, of the people who lingered outside the restrooms, of anyone who even looked at him sideways.

  It was exhausting.

  He hadn’t gotten any video of Devil’s Tower, but Cheyenne said they could go back. He hadn’t gotten much video of Yellowstone, either, even though it was filled with wolves and grizzlies and giant, shaggy buffalo that lingered everywhere. Elk stood in clusters, grazing, and they’d seen a small black bear in a tree. There were bubbling mud pots and steaming pools and geysers that would suddenly shoot skyward as they passed.

  According to the brochure they’d gotten at the east entrance, Yellowstone was a super volcano—the largest in the work. The Yellowstone Caldera was thirty-four by forty-five miles and was filled with magma. The Park was active, with several hundred earthquakes happening on a daily basis, and half of the world’s geothermal features were located within its borders.

  “There’s no place like it on earth,” Cheyenne told him.

  It was massive and alien and beautiful. Even Yellowstone Lake was different than anything he’d ever seen. It wasn’t as big as Lake Michigan, but it was surrounded by mountains and pine trees, and it had a weird feel to it, not bad, just…odd. Otherworldly, almost, as if they’d driven through some invisible barrier where everything was touched by magic. A fanciful thought, but it stuck with him. And, he thought, everything else aside, this was a place he would like to learn.

  “You’re very quiet,” Cheyenne said as he pulled his phone out and began to take video of the lake.

  Rafe only shrugged.

  “I’m sorry about your blanket.”

  He looked at her. “What do you mean?”

  “The coordinates.” Cheyenne shook her head. “Your mom shouldn’t have done that; none of this should have touched you. It was her final gift to you, and I’m sorry even that was tainted.”

  “Ain’t your fault,” he told her. “It was the nicest thing she ever gave me. I should’ve known something was up.”

  “That’s just sad.”

  Yeah. It was. “I can’t believe it was there the whole time.”

  “Right? It’s almost funny.”

  He sighed. “I should have seen it. But Leon took it when it came, so I never really looked at it.”

  “Leon?”

  “Ruby’s brother. He’s a dick.”

  “He took it from you?”

  “Letitia gave it to him. Said my ma owed it to her.”

  “I should have kicked her ass.”

  Rafe smiled. “You did.”

  Cheyenne only shook her head.

  “I only grabbed it, because he wasn’t there,” Rafe added. “I almost didn’t.”

  “That’s why Ruby hid the key? Because she knew they would take it?”

  Ruby. Rafe’s heart squeezed. “Yeah. She’s a good kid.”

  “You miss her?”

  He shrugged. “How much farther are we going?”

  “A couple of hours, give or take.”

  In Rafe’s lap, Lucky yawned and stretched, her little legs quivering. He swept a hand down her back, and she sighed and settled again. “You think Will is gonna be okay?”

  “I don’t know,” Cheyenne said. “I hope so.”

  Rafe did, too.

  “I think he’s a tough SOB,” she added. “And he has a better chance than most.”

  “What about us? You think we’ll be okay?” Rafe waited for her answer, his chest tight. He hadn’t meant to ask; he knew she couldn’t predict the future. But she always told him the truth, and he needed the truth.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “How?” he whispered.

  “Because we’re not helpless, sweet pea. We’re not at their mercy. We decide. Not them.”

  “I feel helpless.”

  She looked at him then, her eyes serious. “Then we do something to make that feeling go away.”

  “Like what?”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  Will was just north of Denver when his phone rang. He tensed, half expecting to see Cheyenne’s name, terrified chaos had descended the moment he’d left them, but the display read “UNKNOWN.”

  Red.

  “You rang?” Red asked.

  “I found it.”

  “Define ‘it.’”

  “The location.”

  Silence. Will wondered if he’d lost him. Then, “Holy shit. Holy shit! Way to go, William. Where are they?”

  “Afghanistan.”

  “Where in Afghanistan?”

  Something in Red’s tone made Will’s skin tighten. A little too sharp. Too impatient. But who could blame him? They’d waited far too long.

  “I’m on my way to collect them,” Will said.

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “I don’t trust anyone.”

  A sigh. “Did you get any closer to discovering who reached out to her?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” Will paused as he changed lanes. “Malik went after Rafe this morning.”

  “Unsuccessfully, I presume?”

  “You presume correctly.”

  “Did you have to kill anyone?”

  “Not today. Not yet.”

  A soft laugh. “Where are you?”

  “Just outside Denver.”

  “And the boy?”

  “On his way home.”

  “With the guardian?”

  Will didn’t particularly care for Red’s questions, even though they weren’t unreasonable. Where Rafe and Cheyenne were was none of Red’s business. And never would be.

  “There were GPS coordinates,” Will said. “And a key.”

  “Where?”

  “Somewhere I should have seen them.”

  “Did the boy have them?”

  Will only shook his head. “I’ll let you know when I land in Kabul.”

  “You can’t do this alone,” Red told him. “You shouldn’t do it alone. Tell me where they are. I can meet you.”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  “Will—”

  “This is mine.”

  Another silence. “Alright, brother, you win. At least GPS is more exact than some random poppy field. I’ll talk to you when you land.”

  The line disconnected, but Will sat frozen, phone in hand, and drove right past the exit for DIA. Red’s words played and replayed in his head until they were a relentless, unending stream. Until the truth bled through and settled over him, as distinctive as a fingerprint. As irrefutable as DNA. A handful of thoughtless words that were, in effect, an admission.

  An ingenuous confession.

  Some random poppy field.

  But there had been nothing random about that patch of poppies; someone had planted those blooms deliberately. A field of blossoms so vibrant it had glistened like scattered rubies among the desert scrub; “X” marking the spot. Something only his team—and Cheyenne—had known. Because Will had never mentioned it to anyone else. Not even Ethan. And sure as hell not Red. Ergo, Red would only know if Cheyenne had told him…

  Or if Rye had.

  “Son of a bitch,” Will said.

  He’d patently refused to believe any of his men were involved. He’d been certain. They’d all died—brutally, violently—and while Will knew double-cross was the name of the game when it came to the spooks, he’d chosen to believe in his men’s innocence. He’d witnessed no subterfuge; none of them had shied from the battle which had
ultimately killed them. There was no reason for him to believe any of them were involved…except, now, this.

  But if Rye had reached out and told his brother about the weapons and—goddamn it—planned their theft and the execution of the team, why had he, too, ended up dead? Was it possible Red would murder his own brother for a handful of dirty bombs? Red, whose every move was—purportedly—about serving his own brand of justice to those he considered humanity’s worst transgressors…a group he had clearly joined. And what connection could there possibly be between Red, Rye and Georgia? How had those paths crossed? Had Georgia betrayed them both?

  How the hell did it all fit together?

  Will didn’t know. Because every single piece of information he had was supplied by Red. Every fact, every detail, every photo and file. He had only Red’s word that it was someone with military ops who’d reached out to Georgia; only Red’s insinuation that Malik or Ethan had been that someone. It was possible that connection didn’t even exist, that Red had fabricated almost everything he’d told Will simply to steer Will exactly where Red wanted him to go.

  Except for the video. No Photoshop was that good—and Ethan had copped to it.

  But what had been left out? A picture could appear to be many different things when only half painted. What hadn’t he seen? What didn’t he know?

  Will needed to think. He needed to sit down and think. Before he acted.

  Red. Rye. And Georgia Humboldt.

  “Fuck,” he muttered.

  He took the next exit and merged onto a ramp that would lead him to the airport. He dialed Cheyenne, but got her voicemail, and when he checked his watch realized she would be in the Park, where she’d warned there would be no service. He left her a brief, brusque message and put his phone away. His mind continued to churn.

  Why go after the weapons?

  Because Rye would have been jeopardizing his entire career—and Will knew Rye had valued that career. You didn’t go into a war with a man and not come out knowing exactly who and what he was. And Rye had been a damn fine man, one Will had trusted, more than once, with his life.

  So what the fuck was going on?

  That Red had no clue what he’d inadvertently revealed was the only upside—that and the fact that Will hadn’t disclosed the location of the cache.

  Sometimes it paid to be fucking paranoid.

  But the only way Will was going to come out on top of this was by utilizing that slip—that and Red’s massive ego. He already had bait. He simply needed a trap. An airtight, windowless trap—one with steel teeth and a snap powerful enough to break bone.

  One from which the leader of the Unnamed could not escape.

  Red was right about one thing: Will couldn’t do it alone. The crates would take at least two men to move; there was no way he was going to get it done by himself. And he couldn’t bring in anyone who knew anything about them, anyone who might—in any way, shape or form—be connected to them.

  Will thought about the handful of men he called friends, those who wouldn’t bat an eye at walking into this situation, one they were not necessarily guaranteed to walk back out of. Who were fearless and courageous and believed in purpose. Who were trustworthy. And a little nuts.

  He slowed down as he approached the airport and picked up his phone, scrolled through his contacts and dialed.

  Brodie McAllister answered immediately. “Blackheart, you crazy bastard. What’s goin’ on, hoss?”

  “You bored yet?” Will asked, knowing Brodie had been stateside for the past six months.

  “Hell yeah. Why? You got something cooking?”

  “How fast can you get to Denver?”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Red’s involved. He knows who you are, and where you’re going. Call me as soon as you get home. And be fucking careful, baby.

  “Fan-freaking-tastic,” Cheyenne muttered as she slid her phone into her pocket.

  Next to her, Rafe snored softly, slumped against the passenger side window, his breath fogging the glass. Poor kid. He was beat.

  She was, too. The adventure that had played out over the last week had kicked her sideways, and nothing sounded better than her own bed and a cold beer.

  She’d left Whitney a message and asked her to drop Chuck off at the house; she also needed to talk to Angus, but that was better done in person. Because after what had happened that morning, Cheyenne wasn’t going it alone unless she had to, and Angus was well armed and mean. He also had a passel of wranglers who were young enough and tough enough not to shy from the situation at hand.

  Will’s reaction to the knowledge that she wasn’t alone in the world—that she had friends who would help her—had been somewhat comical, and something Cheyenne hadn’t ever expected to experience in relation to herself. Jealousy. That Angus was sixty-seven and very married with five grown children was something Cheyenne supposed she could have shared, but Will’s obvious dismay had bemused her. And warmed her, whether she wanted to admit it or not.

  What they’d done in the shadowed forest of Devil’s Tower continued to haunt her. Even with all that had happened since, the memory clung. The deep rasp of Will’s voice, the roughness of his hands, the pleasure of his mouth… The stolen moments they’d shared would tear through her at random, unexpected, potent, and heat would burn in her veins. Sometimes she could feel him, still holding her, still stroking her, still using his mouth to drive her toward orgasm.

  Orgasm.

  What a fine how-do-you-do that had been! No wonder people lost their marbles over sex. Such pleasure… Cheyenne had never imagined such a thing existed. Mindless and unbound by morality or self-awareness. Free. Utterly and completely, for the first time in her life. Without care, wholly unconscious of her fears, her anger, her scars. Pure physical being; lost in ecstasy.

  She knew it would not have been that way if she didn’t trust Will. If he hadn’t gone out of his way to try to give her back something that had once been taken from her. And that realization had shaken her.

  Deeply.

  Because what he’d done wasn’t about sex—not really. It was about giving. About trust. Maybe even love.

  Love.

  “You are so fucked,” she whispered.

  Love. Something she’d spent most of her life scoffing at. Oh, she’d loved Hank—and Whitney, too, she supposed. And maybe even Angus. But that wasn’t what she felt for Will.

  Not even close. How was it possible? That in—what? Six days she could love someone…?

  “That’s just stupid,” she told herself.

  But was it, really? Because she was pretty sure she’d fallen head over heels for Rafe—and that hadn’t even taken one day. And in spite of all she didn’t know about Will—his past, his dreams, hell even where he lived—she felt she knew him. She understood him in a way she’d never understood anyone, had never tried to understand anyone. And—terrifying though it was—he seemed to understand her.

  Not that it meant anything. Will was on the hunt. He wanted justice, vengeance. Blood. Who knew if she’d ever see him again. And now…Red is involved.

  Will’s fox, someone he’d seemed to trust. Another betrayal, another blow. Question was—how did he know? And had he shared the location of the cache with Red before he’d figured it out? Was he now a target?

  Fucking Afghanistan. What do you think?

  Fear for him gnawed at her, but he was tough, and he knew what he was doing. Another form of trust—that he would keep himself safe. That he would accomplish his mission and get those damn bombs taken care of. That he would return.

  Because there was still Malik to deal with. And Cheyenne was far beyond pissed off when it came to the Ambassador. She was ready to shoot first and ask questions later. Watching that asshole throw Rafe into his trunk had been the final straw, and the terror shadowing Rafe all day made her see red. She could almost smell his fear.

  Cheyenne knew what it was to exist in that dark, horrifying place, and she would be damned before she condemned
him to that. They would have to kill her. So tomorrow Rafe would learn how to defend himself. Ten wasn’t too young to learn to shoot—not out here, where kids were bagging elk at that age—and weapons were a fact of life. She would teach him everything he needed to know and sign him up for hunter’s safety classes. She would give him some form of self-assurance. Knowledge. Arm him as best she could to deal with the future.

  The foggy, unknown future.

  There was also the issue Will had raised: whether or not to publicly name Malik as Rafe’s father. Cheyenne understood she was going to have to make that call, and while she would have been happy to let that secret lie until Rafe was older and more prepared to deal with it himself, this morning’s attempted kidnapping had burned her good will to ash. If she had to go public to protect Rafe, she would. Fallout be damned.

  Fuck it.

  At least they would be home soon. Grand Teton Park lay to the west as they headed south down through the Jackson Hole valley. The sun was sinking slowing beyond the Teton Range, casting long fingers of light across the valley floor; flecks of gold glinted atop the surface of the Snake River, aspen trees fluttered in the breeze. The sight of those familiar peaks made Cheyenne’s throat swell.

  Home.

  She hadn’t realized what home was until she’d left it. That after all these years she did in fact have a home—and this was it. That this place soothed her soul and made her feel like she belonged. That it was far more valuable than she’d ever before understood.

  She hoped Rafe would—someday—feel the same way. Because she wanted to give him a home. A life. Everything she’d never had.

  “Are we almost there?” he mumbled, sitting up to rub his eyes.

  “Ten minutes,” she told him.

  He looked out the window, and his eyes widened. “Holy shit.”

  Cheyenne sighed. They were going to have to talk about his language. He couldn’t go around talking like a trucker—which meant she was going to have to stop talking like a trucker.