The Bequest

by Hope Anika

  The warehouse door shuddered violently. Will had left the padlock in place and locked them in; clearly, no one had thought to bring a pair of channel locks along. The loading bay door only opened from the inside.

  Another shudder.

  Will waved Beckham and Davis forward, and they flanked the vibrating door. Somewhere behind him, Johnson and Mills hid in the shadows. Brodie and Cline were outside, Brodie on the roof of the building across the street, Cline at street level on the side that held the loading bay.

  Gunfire was going to be unavoidable, but if they could take them down swiftly—and not turn the place into the fucking OK Corral—it wouldn’t draw too much attention. It was only late afternoon, and there were still plenty of people working on the streets around them; a firefight with the locals was the last thing anyone wanted.

  Pop pop pop; they were firing at the lock. The door rattled and burst open, and the first merc strode through, weapon drawn and aimed. Will stood in the center of the building, his own weapon steady in his hands. It was the first time he’d held an SSAR-15 since the night that had blown his life to pieces and shredded his identity, but other than the cramping in his damaged arm, his hold was rock-steady. Adrenaline speared through him, a heady slide he knew how to ride, and anticipation licked at his nerves. He was ready.

  The chaos and lunacy he’d feared was still, as if slumbering, and he felt nothing but the sharp bite of exhilaration. The sight of the merc coming at him made his heart jerk hard and eyes sharpen; he heard the click of Mills’ weapon, tasted the Afghan dust on his tongue.

  Alive. Not dead. Damaged but not undone.

  Three more mercs followed the first, weapons drawn. Not one of them bothered to check the doorway they walked through, and Will couldn’t help but wonder where Red had gotten them. Not from the same pool Georgia fished from, that was certain.

  “Took you boys long enough,” Will told them.

  Beckham and Davis closed the door. Mills and Johnson stepped out of the shadows and flanked Will, weapons aimed and ready.

  The last two mercs through the door—Three and Four—turned to face Beckham and Davis, weapons raised, but it was clear from their expressions they hadn’t expected soldiers. Hell, they probably hadn’t expected anyone but Will, and definitely not Army Rangers, who were some of the fiercest warriors the U.S. military trained. The men froze, their faces so full of uncertainty, Will almost smiled.

  Surprise.

  “Blackheart?” demanded merc One, a tall, swarthy, unshaven man of indecipherable heritage.

  “I prefer Lieutenant,” Will said.

  “We’ve come for the cache. You let us take it, and you’ll walk out of here upright.”

  Beckham laughed. “Sure he will.”

  “We don’t want no trouble,” the merc insisted, but his finger caressed the trigger of his weapon like the absent stroke of a lover.

  “We like trouble,” Mills replied.

  The merc swept them with a glance and met the gaze of merc Two beside him. An almost imperceptible nod followed. They were clearly more experienced; neither wore the hesitation that had frozen Three and Four.

  “Last chance,” he told Will, his tone as grim as his features.

  “You sure about that?” Will asked him.

  He was ready when the merc fired; he’d known it was coming. These weren’t the kind of guys who would lay down their weapons and surrender. They were outmanned, outgunned, and out trained—the only thing that could turn the tide was an archaic hail of gunfire.

  Will went left—behind a strategically placed group of empty steel barrels—and came around the other side; merc One was still firing into the empty space where Mills and Johnson had stood. Will aimed his SSR and let it rip, turning the guy’s legs into pulp. Mills was beside him a moment later, firing at the merc Two, who was smarter than One: he was headed for the door. But he had no chance to escape; Mills’ shots—all aimed at his posterior—put him down before he even got three feet.

  “Nice,” Will told him.

  Mills grinned.

  Beckham and Davis stood over Three and Four. Will wasn’t even certain they’d fired—it looked like they’d just hit the ground and prayed. Mills and Johnson moved in, disarmed each one and cuffed them.

  Ten maybe fifteen rounds fired…not too bad. Hopefully not so many that anyone came running. Except for Red.

  “What’s cookin’, hoss?” Brodie’s slow draw was tight with tension. “I need an update.”

  “Four down, two to go,” Will replied.

  “You won’t have to wait long. They’re headed your way now.”

  “Roger that.”

  Another shuffle of feet. Beckham moved to the door; Will stepped into place on the other side. Mills and Johnson stood next to their captives, guns pointed at their skulls in silent warning against speaking.

  When the door swung open and the two men strode through, Will didn’t bother to fire. He simply hit the first one with the butt of his gun, a sharp, swift blow that laid the guy out immediately. The second one had Beckham’s barrel in his cheek before he could even assimilate what had occurred.

  The first was clad in the same Kevlar and armed with the same semi-automatic as the others—merc Five. But the second…the second wore a shiny silver suit and bright blue tie. Pale blond hair slicked back with pomade, narrow framed, grey-tinted eyeglasses, matching diamond studs in his ears.

  And no resemblance to Rye Morrow whatsoever.

  Will lifted his weapon and slammed it into the guy’s chest, shoving him back into the door, which Beckham had once again closed.

  “Where is he?” Will grated, only minutely satisfied by the slam of the guy’s skull into the door.

  But the man—boy, more like, no more than twenty-five—only shook his head, his glasses askew, his eyes as big as saucers. Will thrust his weapon at Beckham, who took it and tsked softly at the kid.

  “Where?” Will snarled and slammed his fist into that pale, narrow jaw.

  Blood streamed down the young man’s chin. He made no move to defend himself, staring at Will in shock. “Wh-what?”

  “Red!” Will roared and hit him again. “Where the fuck is he?”

  “I…”

  Another hit. Blood spattered the door.

  “You’d better open your mouth, boy,” Beckham told him ruefully. “While you still got some teeth left.”

  Will raised his fist again, and the guy cried, “No, not again, please don’t hit me again!”

  Will crushed that fine silver suit in his fists and lifted him from the floor. “Where?”

  “He left for the states….” Blood dribbled from the corner of the kid’s mouth. His nose was busted, maybe his jaw, too. His glasses were under Will’s left foot. “Said…said he had unfinished business.”

  Will froze, and his blood—rushing hot and thick in his veins—instantly went cold.

  “What unfinished business?” he gritted, his heart suddenly pounding with sickening force.

  When the kid didn’t respond, Will hit him again, a kidney punch that—had he not been holding the kid up with one arm—would have dropped him where he stood.

  “I don’t know, I swear I don’t know!” Tears now, rolling down pale cheeks. “I was just supposed to come here with Tito and pick up the cache. He said it would be easy. He said Tito would take care of everything, take care of…”

  “Me,” Will rasped.

  The kid’s eyes widened. “Blackheart?”

  “What else?” Will asked him, a hairsbreadth from snapping the idiot’s neck.

  “I don’t know! I was just supposed to pick them up and get them to the border. I don’t know. Tito had a plan.” He looked over at merc number one, who was only semi-conscious, bleeding out onto the hard-packed dirt floor. “I was supposed to send a text when it was done.”

  Beckham reached into the interior of the kid’s suit and removed a slim silver phone.

  “What were you supposed to say?” he asked, his hands moving sw
iftly over the touchscreen.

  “Package delivered.” More blood, a fine mist that sprayed across Will’s arms. “Blackheart dead.”

  Beckham scrolled through the contacts list and then showed the kid the phone. “That him?”

  A weary nod.

  Beckham typed. Package delivered. Blackheart dead.

  Whoosh!

  “What’s up, hoss?” Brodie’s voice broke the silence.

  Will made himself release the kid, who fell to his knees, shaking violently, tears slipping down his cheeks. One of the Unnamed, obviously. Far more capable at hacking than war.

  Red was a fucking moron.

  “Just a small fish,” Will replied to Brodie. “Big one’s gone to finish some business in the states.”

  Brodie, with whom Will had shared just about everything that’d happened in the last two weeks, said, “Aw, fuck.”

  Will looked down at the kid. The need to get to Cheyenne and Rafe swelled within him, a massive, unstoppable tide that pressed against his skin and threatened to unleash the monster he held so carefully in check.

  “Get him out of my sight before I kill him,” he muttered to Beckham.

  “What’s the plan?” Brodie asked.

  They would be okay, Will told himself. Cheyenne wasn’t foolish or stupid or weak. She would hold on until he got there.

  “Hoss?”

  Will took his weapon back from Beckham. “I’m going after him.”

  “Shotgun,” Brodie said.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Rafe stared down at the basket he carried, which held six large mushrooms—morels, Cheyenne had called them. “They look like brains.”

  They’d left the cabin hours ago armed with a backpack full of sandwiches and water bottles, a can of bear spray—which Rafe thought was nuts, because what was a can full of pepper going to do against a bear—two fishing poles and an empty mushroom basket.

  They’d been escaping. Ever since the news had gotten its hands on that video yesterday, Cheyenne’s phone had been ringing off the hook. She’d finally unplugged it and turned off her cell, checking every few hours only to see if Will had finally called.

  He hadn’t.

  They’d gone for a hike, soaked their feet in an ice-cold stream, ate their sandwiches and hunted for mushrooms. Rafe had videoed a moose they’d seen munching on willow while Lucky and Chuck followed game trails, and Cheyenne fished for trout. The sky above was bright, shimmering blue, like Sasha’s eyes, dotted by huge white clouds that cast monstrous shadows down upon the land. Rafe heard his first hawk cry and had his first encounter with a raven—a giant black bird that had watched him eat his sandwich with a piercing black stare, strange sounds working in its throat. The air smelled of sunlight and sage and pine, and he thought of Will and hoped he was okay.

  “Yeah—but they taste much better than they look,” Cheyenne replied. “We’ll dip them in beer batter and fry them up. Yum.”

  Rafe eyed the mushrooms doubtfully, but didn’t argue. He’d come to realize in the last few days that Cheyenne could cook. He was going to get fat as St. Nick if he wasn’t careful. And she let him eat as much as he wanted—a first in his life.

  The sun was beginning to sink over the mountains as they got closer to the cabin. Far off, the sounds of the ranch echoed, and beside him, Lucky struggled to keep up, clearly exhausted from her adventure. Chuck nudged her forward again and again; Cheyenne was right: Chuck loved Lucky.

  “How about fried chicken for dinner?” Cheyenne asked.

  “Okay,” Rafe said, his belly growling. Their sandwiches had burned off long ago, and he was hungry and tired, but happy. As happy as he could be, anyway. Worry for Will churned within him. It had been three days. Three whole days. And he knew Cheyenne was scared, too. Rafe could tell.

  He was learning her.

  “Maybe some potato salad, too. I’ve got—” Cheyenne halted abruptly.

  Rafe froze and looked around.

  “Bear?” he whispered.

  “Worse.” She looked behind them, at the sweeping hills that led to the narrow canyon they’d explored, but there was nothing. Chuck stopped and looked around, lifting his nose to the wind. A low growl rumbled in his chest. “Men.”

  Rafe frowned. “How do you know?”

  She inhaled deeply. “I can smell them.” Chuck’s growls grew deeper. “So can he.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Cologne. Something strong and expensive.” She shook her head and looked around, studying the stand of pines trees they stood within. The wind whistled, and the boughs rustled, but there was no crashing through underbrush, no twigs snapping underfoot. Chuck was frozen beside them; Lucky looked around, clearly confused, and whined.

  “Let’s go,” Cheyenne said quietly. “Stay beside me. If anyone comes, you grab Lucky and haul ass to the ranch, and get Angus.”

  Everything in him rebelled. “I ain’t leaving you,” he told her.

  “Yes, you will,” she told him.

  “No,” he said. “I can help. I can—”

  “Getting Angus will help.”

  Rafe said nothing else. But he wasn’t going anywhere if there was trouble. Will would never forgive him if he let something happen to Cheyenne. Rafe would never forgive himself. And besides—

  Chuck made a sound that lifted the hair at Rafe’s nape. The fur along the dog’s back rose, and his lips drew back to bare gleaming white teeth. Lucky followed his lead, growling low in her throat.

  On the trail ahead of them suddenly stood a man, a big, ugly, dark skinned man with black eyes and scars on his face. He wore all black and held a huge gun, and the mirrored sunglasses he wore reflected their surprise.

  “I knew I smelled asshole.” Cheyenne stepped sideways, blocking Rafe from sight. Chuck quivered, snarls breaking from him. Lucky echoed him. Cheyenne held out a hand and stayed them, but they clearly sensed a threat. And wanted blood.

  “Do not move again,” the man replied, his voice thick with an accent Rafe didn’t recognize. He moved toward them until he was only a handful of feet away.

  “Seriously,” Cheyenne said. “This is getting old.”

  The man waved his gun at them. “Up to the house. Now. Move.” He motioned toward Chuck. “Control your beast, or I will end him.”

  Cheyenne turned slightly and looked down at Rafe. At the same time, she reached for the can of pepper spray that sat in the nylon holster attached to her belt. Her arm was turned toward Rafe, hidden from view, and she was careful not to move too quickly, slowing unsnapping the holster and sliding the slender can out.

  “Angus,” she said distinctly. Then she turned and and unloaded the can into the guy’s face.

  He dropped his gun, fell to his knees and began to scream.

  “Move!” Cheyenne ordered and kicked the man over.

  Rafe hopped around him and ran hell bent for leather up the trail, looking back to make sure Cheyenne was behind him. She was ushering Chuck in front of her—Chuck, who wanted a piece of the guy so badly he was frothing at the mouth—and Rafe leaned down and scooped Lucky into his arms. He lost his basket as he ran across the sage covered meadow toward the cabin. He looked back again; Cheyenne was just a few steps behind him.

  Lucky barked, and Chuck streaked past him. He was almost there, so close he could almost—

  A loud thud behind him. He whirled to see Cheyenne and another man suddenly on the ground, rolling away from him. They rolled to a stop, the man on top, and he backhanded her hard. Chuck snarled, a grisly, terrifying sound and tore off toward them. Rafe turned to follow, but hard, painful hands closed around his waist, yanked him from his feet and stopped him. He fought, squirming and kicking, Lucky barking hysterically in his arms.

  Cheyenne reared up and head-butted the man on top of her, and his head snapped back. She followed the blow with a flat palm smashed against underside of his nose and then punched him in the nuts. Chuck was there then, his teeth sinking deep into the man’s arm, dragging him sid
eways. Cheyenne rolled to her feet, staggered a little, and kicked him in the head. The man who held Rafe tucked him under one arm—as though his weight and his battle to be free were nothing—and pulled a gun from his coat pocket.

  “No!” Rafe fought harder, slamming his head back, kicking with his heels. Lucky squirmed frantically against him, but he was afraid to drop her, afraid—

  The man fired, and Chuck cried out sharply and fell. Cheyenne looked up, and the change that came over her chilled Rafe to the bone. She started toward them, her hands fisted at her sides, her pace measured and even. She walked, her face getting darker and darker until her eyes looked black, and Rafe’s gaze fell to Chuck, who lay unmoving, and rage welled within him. He screamed, a loud, ear-piercing cry that hurt his throat.

  “Not one more step,” hissed the man who held him, and Rafe realized that the gun that had just put Chuck down was suddenly pointed at his temple, the barrel painfully hot against his skin.

  Cheyenne halted, held her hands up, and stared at the man with such burning hatred, Rafe felt its sting against his skin. Behind her, the man who’d hit her was crawling to his feet, lurching toward her, murder in his eye.

  “You’re going to die today,” Cheyenne told the man who held him, her voice cold frost.

  He laughed. The man behind Cheyenne shoved her forward, and she turned on him and punched him in the throat. He went down, gasping for breath, but before she could do more, the man who held Rafe fired his gun into the air. The sound was deafening.

  Cheyenne froze, and Rafe’s heart beat so hard he thought it would burst.

  “Inside the fucking house. Now,” the man ordered. Cheyenne walked past them, and her gaze met Rafe’s. He could see her rage.

  It gave him hope. He was also aware of the Taser and the knife in his pocket, but he couldn’t get to either. Not yet.

  They went into the house. Rafe could hear Dexter bleating like he was dying; he hoped Angus could hear him, too. No doubt everyone at the ranch heard those shots. That gave Rafe hope, too.

  They weren’t alone. But he desperately wished Will was there.