The Bequest

by Hope Anika

Inside the house, the wooden blinds had been drawn, and it was dim, lit only by narrow beams of sunlight where the shades didn’t conceal the windows, and two large squares of bright white light that illuminated the living room floor from the skylights overhead. Two men stood within the shadows, one tall and broad and armed with a shoulder holster like Will’s and another, more narrow, clad in a black suit, a bright white shirt and shiny black shoes. He held a narrow silver phone in his hand, his fingers a blur on its touchscreen.

  The man who held Rafe dropped him in the middle of the floor, and he almost landed on top of Lucky. Cheyenne moved to help Rafe up, one arm tight around his shoulders. She faced the man in the suit, and Rafe could feel her vibrating against him. Her cheeks were flushed with color, her scar paper white. Her right cheek bore an angry imprint of the hand that’d hit her.

  “You’ve made this entire ordeal incredibly difficult,” the man in the suit said conversationally. He didn’t bother to look at her, his attention locked on his phone. “Who knew you would protect him so fiercely? The child of your nemesis.” He looked up then, his eyes as dark as coal, and smiled at Cheyenne. “I must say I’ve found it quite…intriguing.”

  Cheyenne’s hold on Rafe tightened. She said nothing. Lucky growled, and Rafe shushed her, ushering her behind him, terrified they would shoot her, too.

  “Perhaps that’s why his mother gave him to you. You certainly care more for him than she ever did.” The smile faded. “All she cared for was herself.”

  “Boo-fucking-hoo,” Cheyenne said.

  He blinked, and a hint of the smile returned. “You’re very different than she was.”

  They stared at one another for a long, silent moment, and Rafe shoved his hands deep into his pockets. The Taser fit perfectly in his palm; the knife was there, too, but it would take time. He had to open it. Cheyenne squeezed him, as if she knew.

  “She would not have saved your child,” the man said. “Why did you save hers?”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Cheyenne told him, so quiet the hair at Rafe’s nape bristled. “You don’t have it in you.”

  The man stilled. “No?”

  “You killed your own brother. Your own blood.”

  Rafe didn’t understand. Who was this guy?

  “Not me. Her.” The man’s dark eyes were locked on Cheyenne. “Rye’s death was never part of the plan. He was supposed to survive.”

  A harsh laugh broke from her. “You’re a moron.”

  “Yes,” he replied, and Rafe stared at him, perplexed.

  There was pain there, even Rafe heard it. But he still didn’t get what the hell was going on, or who this guy was, or what they were talking about—

  “It’s been you the whole time, hasn’t it?” Cheyenne tilted her head, her eyes hard as they raked the man. “Malik was never a worry.”

  “Very perceptive.” The man took a step toward them. “Of course, the men I sent thought they were working for the Ambassador. How did you figure it out?”

  “Will.”

  The man blinked. “Will?”

  Cheyenne said nothing. Rafe still didn’t understand. If this guy didn’t work for his pop…who did he work for?

  “Well.” A dark smile. “I’m impressed. I didn’t think he had it in him.”

  “That’s why you’re a fucking moron.”

  “Careful,” the man warned softly.

  “Why? Because discretion will save me?”

  Rafe didn’t like the way the man was looking at her. It was like how Will looked at her…only different. Bad different. His hackles rose, and his hand tightened around the Taser.

  “What did she do to you?” the man asked.

  “The same thing she did to you,” Cheyenne told him.

  The man said nothing for a long minute. “I shouldn’t have involved her.”

  “Why did you?”

  Another smile, but this one was sad.

  “You loved her,” Cheyenne said.

  “Unfortunately, yes. She contacted me several years ago, looking for access to the Agency’s servers. To Malik and Ethan Scott and all the men who sought to use her. She was so beautiful. So intelligent. So—”

  “Insane,” Cheyenne muttered.

  “Yes. The realization was…devastating.”

  “Takes one to know one.”

  Rafe watched them, turning the words over in his head. “The fox,” he whispered. Cheyenne’s hands tightened on him, and he knew he was right.

  “Why?” Cheyenne asked.

  The man didn’t respond. He looked her up and down, and Rafe took a small step toward him, but she pulled him back.

  “My brother was…perfect. The perfect son, the perfect soldier. While he drew accolades for fighting an illegal war and slaughtering innocents, I was berated for exposing the men who orchestrated that war. I was punished for pursuing the true terrorists. Rye was golden, faultless, without flaw. While I was…a criminal.”

  “So this was…what? Revenge?”

  “Opportunity.”

  “To lay the loss at his feet? To wash him in blood and guilt and destroy everything he was? In addition to the valuable little nuclear arsenal you’d get to walk away with…”

  The fox looked pleased. “No wonder Will guarded you so zealously.”

  “How did you know about the cache?” Cheyenne demanded. “Who told you?”

  “Why, my brother, of course. He thought he was saving the world. Stupid fool.”

  “He called and told you?”

  “We were speaking when they were given the go ahead. You see, our mother is dying. Stage four breast cancer. We were discussing her imminent demise when he got word…and being the heroic idiot he was, he told me.”

  Cheyenne stared at him for a long moment. “How did you know where he would be?”

  “Baby brother was micro chipped. We both were. My father was the CEO of GenTek; he feared we would be kidnapped, and he might have to part with some of his precious pennies to retrieve us. I dug mine out years ago, of course, but Rye, being Rye, assumed the chip would make it easier for him to be found if he was ever captured. He had no idea I’d been monitoring his movements for years.”

  “So Ethan Scott, Malik…neither of them had anything to do with it?”

  A small smile was the only answer she received.

  “And the video? Were you the one who leaked it?”

  “No.” The smile faded. “I wouldn’t have. It was too valuable a tool.”

  “For extortion.”

  “Yes. But she took that from me, too.”

  “You killed her,” Rafe said, the knowledge instant, the words bursting from his throat. “Didn’t you?”

  The fox looked surprised, as if he’d forgotten Rafe stood there, listening.

  “It wasn’t my intention. At least, not until she’d shared the location of the cache she’d secreted away. However…I lost my temper. And then it was too late. She was the only one who knew where they were. And then…then I found you, my boy.” The fox grinned at him. “And I knew she had to have left them with you. You were all she had.”

  Rafe wanted smash his face into bits and pieces. No matter that his ma had asked for everything she’d gotten. This man had killed her. Had taken her from him.

  He was going to—

  Cheyenne caught him when he tried to go around her.

  “No,” she growled at him.

  His heartbeat was deafening in his head. He tried to shrug her off, to push past her, but she held tight.

  “Will’s going to kill you,” he snarled.

  But the fox only laughed, a low, deep laugh that made Cheyenne stiffen and Rafe’s knees go weak.

  “Will is dead,” the fox said. “I received confirmation yesterday. Would you like to see?”

  He looked down at his phone briefly and held it out so the touchscreen faced them. The letters were abnormally large. Clearly the fox couldn’t see worth a damn. But that thought faded when Rafe focused on the words.

  Package del
ivered. Blackheart dead.

  “You’re going to die today, too,” Cheyenne told him softly, and Rafe felt a violent tremor move through her. Her tone scared him.

  Will is dead.

  Rafe didn’t want to believe it. He couldn’t believe it. Not Will. Will was strong and brave and good. Will didn’t deserve to die. Rage rushed up Rafe’s throat, almost choking him.

  His ma and Chuck and now Will…

  “I would imagine he went quickly, if it’s any consolation,” the fox said.

  Cheyenne jerked, and Rafe knew it was over. He could feel her shaking, trying to hold it together. Part of him wanted her to detonate; the other part wanted her calm. Part of him didn’t give a shit anymore; the other part wanted to live. The Taser was slippery with sweat in his hand, but the man next to him wore a t-shirt, and all he had to do was make contact with skin and pull the trigger.

  That’s what he was going to do.

  “Angus,” Cheyenne said, and Rafe knew what she was telling him. He understood. But he didn’t care.

  “I’m sorry?” the fox asked.

  “You’re not,” Cheyenne replied, fury vibrant in her voice. “But you will be.”

  And then she went straight at him.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Will had left exactly seven voicemail messages on Cheyenne’s cell. He’d sent five text messages. He’d even tried Rafe’s phone.

  Nothing.

  She’d left him five voicemails and four texts over the last three days, which made her sudden, resounding silence fucking terrifying.

  He’d been forced to wait until they’d landed in Denver to contact her. Security protocol dictated that no messages were sent or received when on an official military flight, and he hadn’t called her from Bagram or replied to her texts because he was afraid Red was listening. His phone might have been safe, but there was no guarantee hers was.

  The last thing he wanted to do was give Red a head’s up. But the price he’d paid—not being able to reach out, to connect if only briefly over a satellite connection—had left him in a place that was silent and dark and filled with quiet, suffocating fear.

  Nerves massed in his throat as he and Brodie traveled the road that would lead him to Cheyenne’s home. They’d caught a direct flight out of Bagram and managed to shave almost eight hours off the flight time back from Afghanistan, but he knew it wasn’t enough.

  Red had too much of a head start.

  Stomach churning, Will flexed his hands around the steering wheel of the large black Suburban he drove. Muscle twitched and flexed along his spine; his legs were tense; his arms as taut as a bow string. In his chest, his heart beat heavily. The darkness hovered, but he refused to let it wash over him. He would be useless if he fell into that crazed, lost state. He had to hold on. Fight it. Beat it.

  There was no other option.

  “Damn, this place is gorgeous,” Brodie muttered, looking over at the line of mountains that edged the valley, huge up thrusts of jagged granite that rose from the valley floor to kiss the sky. “I’m gonna have to come back here.”

  Will only hoped he would have the opportunity.

  On the flight back, he’d learned that Georgia’s porno had found its way to the Washington Post along with Rafe’s birth certificate, and he wondered how Cheyenne was dealing, how Rafe was doing, and if Malik would finally stop chasing the boy. To go after him now would be wholly self-defeating, but considering the lack of judgment Malik had exercised regarding Georgia Humboldt, there were no guarantees that logic would hold sway.

  Either Red had released the video or Georgia had—either way, the cat was out of the bag. And it would have to be dealt with.

  “Jesus Christ,” Brodie said.

  A woman on a large bay horse suddenly leapt into the middle of the narrow gravel road they drove and cut them off, forcing Will to stop the Suburban. Dust flew, and the horse danced impatiently. A long rifle lay across the woman’s lap; narrow eyes watched them from beneath the low brim of her worn straw hat.

  “What the fuck?” Will snarled, but when he went to open his door he found an ancient man standing beside the Suburban, a double barrel shotgun aimed and ready in his gnarled hands.

  “No trespassing,” the man announced and spat a wad of chewing tobacco to the ground. “Violators will be shot. Survivors will be shot again.”

  Will watched him, his heart pounding with painful force.

  “Can’t you read?” the old man asked, his eyes two small, faded green orbs in a face wreathed in lines. “We got a sign.”

  It was nothing to slam the door into him, kick his legs out from beneath him and take the gun, which Will aimed back at him, hands flexing around the stock, blood rushing like a runaway freight train.

  “Dad!” the woman on the horse yelled. She aimed the rifle at Will, and Brodie said, “Easy, sugar. We’re the good guys.”

  The old man glared at Will. “Blackheart?”

  Will stared at him. “Angus?”

  “Christ on a cracker.” Angus rolled sideways before pushing slowly to his feet. Will didn’t lower the shotgun, didn’t offer to help. Instead he watched the man carefully, aware of the weapon the woman had trained on him, of Brodie holding his 9 mm in his lap, of precious time bleeding away.

  “Well, ain’t this a shitshow,” Angus said, dusting off his pants. “About damn time the Calvary arrived.” He looked at his daughter and said, “Put that thing away, Prue.” He turned back to Will and said, “I don’t suppose those folks who got here ahead of you are part of your crew?”

  Terror surged through Will. “No.” He thrust the shotgun back at Angus. “They aren’t.”

  Angus took the weapon, but as Will turned to climb back into the Suburban, the old man stopped him with a surprisingly strong hand on his shoulder. “Now just wait a minute, son. Riding up like a herd of menopausal bison ain’t going to make Cheyenne and her boy any safer. We’ll go on foot. Leave your rig.”

  Then he turned and walked into the stand of pine trees that lined the road and disappeared.

  “This just keeps getting better and better,” Brodie said, climbing out of the Suburban.

  The woman—Prue—rode over and dismounted, a graceful, agile movement that spoke of a lifetime of repetition. The bay horse was monstrous and eyed both Will and Brodie nervously.

  “We heard shots,” Prue said, tying her reins to the rail of the wooden fence that lined the road.

  Will tried not to focus on those words. Panic licked at his nerves, and an ominous cloud of dread hovered at the periphery of his vision. If his heart beat any harder, it was going to explode. He turned to follow Angus and checked his .45, which he’d left in a locker in Denver; he hoped like hell Cheyenne still had his Glock. That she was using it.

  “When?” Brodie asked.

  “Ten—fifteen minutes ago,” Prue said. “We were branding or we would’ve come right away. The boys are out pulling stock. There was no one we could send.”

  She was a pretty woman, tall and slender with hair the color of dark chocolate and her father’s green eyes, but her face was strained, her mouth a tight line.

  “How many of them?” Brodie asked, checking his weapons as they walked.

  Prue watched him. “I don’t know. I just saw the vehicle. A black Hummer with Colorado plates.”

  Angus was up ahead, winding his way through the trees. Will had to force himself to walk, not run. He didn’t even know where he was going; following Angus was a necessity.

  Angus.

  So much for the young, slick cowboy he’d pictured.

  You’re gonna pay for that, baby.

  If she was still alive.

  Angus halted at the line where the trees ended. In the small clearing in front of him sat a two-story cabin with a large deck facing the western mountains and a two car garage with one door open. A Jeep four-by-four was parked in the garage. The black Hummer Prue had referred to sat out front.

  Will halted and assessed the situation. The sun
was sinking, and shadows were beginning to creep across the land; the trees had stilled as the wind died at the edge of the day. Somewhere close, an animal bleat as though it were dying.

  “How many?” Brodie asked Angus.

  “Four of ‘em, I think.” He shook his head. “Can’t be sure.”

  “We should circle around this side,” Prue said. “We can—”

  “You’re staying here,” Brodie told her.

  “Bite me,” she retorted, and Will thought of Cheyenne and almost smiled.

  “Hell, she’s probably a better shot than you,” Angus added and spat tobacco.

  Brodie only shook his head.

  “Someone needs to call law enforcement,” Will said grimly and removed his .45. “These assholes will shoot first.”

  If they haven’t already.

  A thought that pierced him as effectively as the sharpest blade.

  “How you wanna do this, hoss?”

  He met Brodie’s gaze. “Quickly and quietly.”

  “Then let’s go. Clock’s ticking.”

  Package delivered. Blackheart dead.

  That had been the point of no return.

  Chuck going down had nearly cleaved Cheyenne in two; it was all she could do to leave him lying there, to focus on Rafe and the men who threatened to do much more than kill a dog. But it was hard. She clung to control with everything she had in her. Watched Rafe, told herself to think, imagined their pleas as she watched the men bleed out.

  Getting Red to extrapolate had helped. His self-important babbling had explained more than a few things and helped to calm her to the point she could focus and think. Plan.

  But then… Will is dead. And the world had gone red. The roar in her head was deafening. Rage. Incendiary and ferocious. She knew Rafe wouldn’t listen; he wouldn’t run for the ranch, he wouldn’t find Angus. He was like her. He would fight.

  There was nothing she could do. Pleading with a son of a bitch who’d anted up his own twin on the altar of sibling rivalry would get them nowhere. He was here to kill them. No words, no tears, no hope. Nothing would sway him.

  So they would fight.

  Her baton was in her pocket. She wished like hell she’d grabbed Will’s Glock but it was in the drawer of her bedside table. The .22 was in the mudroom; maybe Rafe could get to it. Maybe he had his Taser. His knife.