The Bequest

by Hope Anika

  Maybe they would survive this.

  “Angus,” she said to Rafe, her heart so loud she barely heard her own voice.

  That dual-colored gaze met hers, his resistance clear. She wanted to shake him, to make him go, but there was no time for that fight.

  “I’m sorry?” Red said, arching a brow. Oddly beautiful, with long, sable brown hair and dark chocolate eyes, the fox’s allure had become clear.

  Georgia had always liked pretty—and if he was useful, all the better. A game. Just a fucking game. Those men, those lives…nothing to them. Including Will.

  “You’re not,” she said, rage bleeding from her pores, like gravel in her throat. A red mist hovered at the edge of her vision, and her hand slid into her pocket and closed around her baton. “But you will be.”

  Run, she thought to Rafe. And then she went for the fox.

  The first blow landed, a sharp crack against his neck. She was too angry; if she’d taken her time, it would have shattered his cervical vertebra like glass. But fury fueled her, and she was not as precise as she should have been. He went down, but not out, and as she brought the baton back for another blow, a man barreled into her from the side.

  They went down, crashing against the wooden floor with brute force. Cheyenne held onto her baton for dear life and brought it down with vicious force—his head, his shoulders, his back, but he was big and heavy and still pissed off about that punch to the throat. He tore the baton away and slammed a big-boned, meaty fist into her cheek.

  Intense, shearing pain and blood bursting across her tongue in a coppery wash; she reared up and head butted him—a second time, the dumbass—and his bruised nose cracked. He roared, but those strong, crushing hands didn’t retreat. Somewhere behind her, someone was yelling and Lucky was barking, but she couldn’t turn and see, couldn’t—

  Big hands grabbed her skull and slammed her head into the floor, hard, and stars shimmered in her brain. She bucked against the weight on top of her, grappling for her baton, which lay only a few feet away. Too far. The man shoved her down and climbed astride her, a bloody grin turning his mouth as he looked down at her. Cheyenne bared her teeth in response and hit him in the throat again. Then she swung her legs up and around him and slammed her booted heels into his chest. She crossed her feet and pulled him backward for all she was worth, the muscles in her thighs screaming.

  He fought, twisting left then right, but she only wedged her heels beneath his chin and pulled harder, her heels slicing his throat, her elbows digging into the floor. She arched her back and leverage won; he toppled backward and slammed against the floor. She rolled over, her legs groaning as she forced him to roll with her, and as soon as they were facing the floor, she pulled her legs free and whirled to pounce on top of him, one knee landing on his spine, the other punching into his kidneys. Then she slid her arm around his throat and did her best to choke the crap out of him.

  He reared against her, and she held on for dear life, squeezing his carotid artery with the forearm she’d laid against it, holding on tight when he began to flop and fight and pull at her arm where it wrapped him. Fingers tore at her hair, nails gouged her arms, his strength tested hers, and she clung blindly, her arm aching, the ride as rough as any wild mustang. Thirty seconds of brutal struggle for control later, he suddenly slumped beneath her.

  Blood roared in her head; blood leaked down her chin. She pulled her cramped arm from around his neck and looked up to see Rafe standing over the man who’d brought them inside, Taser in hand, his eyes big and horrified as he watched the man writhe and scream and convulse on the floor. She stumbled off the fallen man, scooped up her baton, dragged Rafe behind her and turned once more toward the fox.

  “Stop,” Red said, and a faint, final golden ray of sunlight glinted off the barrel of the gun he held, a shimmering wink that made Cheyenne freeze.

  His gaze was deep and turbulent, and her skin crawled when he smiled at her.

  “You really are something,” he whispered. “It’s a shame I have to kill you.”

  Cheyenne stared at him, aware they were only half-way home. One more thug—half-blind, maybe, from bear spray, but he was out there—and this asshole in front of her.

  Him she wanted to kill. Even if it took her bare hands.

  Behind her, Rafe was shaking, his hands twisted in the back of her shirt, Lucky hovering around his feet. And while the guy he’d Tased wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon, the one she’d knocked out would stir in just a few minutes. Then she’d have to put him down again.

  “So much for saving the world,” she said to Red, her voice a cold scalpel that sliced the air between them.

  “I am saving it,” he insisted. “This situation is…an anomaly.”

  A sharp sound tore from her. “Greed. For power, for love. You’re no different. You’re the same.”

  “No,” he said sharply and took an abrupt step toward them, his weapon trained on her. “I’m better.”

  “Delusions of grandeur.” This time she laughed. “Exactly the same.”

  “No!” he snarled.

  Boom!

  Cheyenne jerked with the sound and looked down, but there was no pain and no blood. She looked up again; crimson bloomed across Red’s chest, a scarlet stain that spread across his snowy white shirt like ink bleeding through paper. A startled expression shaped his face; the corners of his mouth glistened with blood. He dropped his weapon and fell to his knees.

  Behind him stood Will.

  Cheyenne’s heart stopped. Rafe flew around her before she could stop him.

  “Will!” he cried and threw himself at Will, who caught him with one arm and lifted him against his chest.

  Lucky barked, and Rafe wrapped himself around Will, his cries shearing the sudden silence, and Cheyenne could only stare stupidly at them, her hand clenched around her baton, the wild beat of her heart deafening in her head.

  “Cheyenne,” Will said quietly, and the sound of his voice made her bleed inside. Pale blue eyes glinted at her. “Come here, baby.”

  She was moving, even though she hadn’t decided to do so. Even though she wanted to punch him in the face for the portentous silence he’d left her in for the past three days. Even though—when Red had declared him dead—she’d suddenly realized how much she loved him.

  He reached for her with his free arm and hauled her against him, and she felt the faint, fine tremor that moved through him. His breath touched her scar, and his fingers dug into her hip, and as the scent of pine filled her lungs, tears stretched in her throat and leaked from her eyes. She dropped her baton and wrapped her arms around him and let his heat and scent and strength sink into her.

  “He said you were d-dead,” Rafe wept, and Cheyenne laid one trembling hand on his back.

  “I’m hard to kill,” Will replied, and his gaze met Cheyenne’s. “I want to live.”

  The connection arrowed through her like live current, and she felt too much: hope, fear, need…and such incandescent joy she flinched from it. Too much. Rafe was shaking against her; Will was solid, unmoving, his arm like an iron band, and for a moment she wished she could weep like Rafe was, huge, shuddering sobs for all of the loss they’d endured—

  “Chuck,” she whispered and pushed away, horror crashing through her.

  “We found him,” Will said and tightened his hold. “He’ll be okay. He’s down at the ranch.”

  Cheyenne tried to speak, but tears wedged in her throat and streamed down her cheeks, and she could do nothing but battle the swell of emotion that threatened to erupt.

  Bawling like a stinking baby. Buck the fuck up. But Will was alive. And Chuck was shot. And—

  She pushed away again, but Will resisted. “There’s another one. He’s—”

  “Dead,” Will said.

  Sirens sounded then, and Cheyenne’s fingers curled into his shirt and clung.

  “Almost done.” He pressed a kiss to her hair. “Just a little longer.”

  But that’s what she was su
ddenly afraid of.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Three hours, seven phone calls and one interrogation later, Will finally began to relax.

  Red—who was still breathing—was in surgery in Salt Lake City, guarded by an entire FBI team and a dozen local cops. Will was confident the fox would make it through surgery; after all, what was a little punctured lung?

  Small pleasures.

  Even though Will had imagined killing the man responsible for that night of sand and blood and death a million different ways, in the end the leader of the Unnamed was far more valuable alive than dead. Too much lived in that brain; better exploited and explored than buried. Guantanamo, Will thought, could have him.

  Not an outcome he’d envisioned. But he knew, too, that had he arrived too late, had Cheyenne and Rafe died, those fantasies of blood soaked walls—paint the world in flesh and blood and bone—would have materialized. If they’d fallen, he wouldn’t have been able to control the darkness.

  Carnage he did not want to even try to fathom.

  He’d taken responsibility for the loss of his team and the cache; Will knew that was his cross to bear. But listening to Cheyenne reiterate Red’s confession had helped dilute the bitter regret that dwelled within, and he suddenly understood that—from the moment Rye had included his brother in something no one outside the team should have known—the situation had become untenable. So while he could concede that he bore blame, he was no longer willing to accept all of it. There was plenty to go around.

  He would still dream of it; memory would still overlay reality in moments of stress and chaos and pain. That simply was, no use fighting it. But there was no reason—no excuse—to allow it to define him. To let such a thing shape the days he had left on this earth was to inexcusably shame the band of brothers he’d buried, something for which they would not thank him. Punishing himself only made their sacrifice less.

  So he would live.

  “What happens now?” Rafe stood beside him before the windows that overlooked mountains, where the moon washed the world in liquid silver. “Is it over?”

  Will put his hand on Rafe’s shoulder. “Yes.”

  The boy looked up at him, his face solemn. “You leaving now?”

  “No,” Will told him.

  “Cheyenne know that?”

  She ought to, Will thought. But she didn’t trust like she should, and in the aftermath of the confrontation with Red she’d been unusually withdrawn. While she hadn’t shied from him, the retreat had been palpable. There’d been nothing to do for it during the hours that followed, while he was dealing with the local Sheriff and the FBI and contacting Bagram, but the storm had finally died, and in the silence, he would act.

  “I’ll tell her,” he said.

  “She’s looking for Harry. She can’t find him.”

  “Harry?”

  “The cat.”

  Will nodded.

  “The bombs….they’re safe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” Rafe paused. “He killed her.”

  “Who?”

  “The fox. He killed my ma.”

  Will crouched beside him. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  Rafe shrugged. “Least now I know what happened.”

  For all the good it did, Will thought, and reached for the boy. Rafe wrapped his arms around Will and clung; he smelled like sunshine and sagebrush and orange soda.

  “Are you gonna keep us?” Rafe asked in a hushed voice, his small fingers digging into Will’s shoulders.

  “Yes,” Will said. “That okay with you?”

  A nod.

  “You sure? I have your blessing?”

  Rafe pulled back and those odd, old eyes studied Will with a seriousness that made his chest tight. If someone had told him two weeks ago that he would undertake the safety and protection of his enemy’s child, he would have laughed.

  If he’d known how.

  But his relationship with Rafe had gone far beyond simple defense, and he wasn’t sure when it happened, what it was that had grown into the space between them and connected them, but the bond was strong and real, and Will wasn’t letting it go.

  Even if Cheyenne sent him away.

  “You don’t need it,” Rafe said.

  “I want it,” Will said seriously. “It’s important to me.”

  “Okay,” Rafe said and offered a small smile. “You got it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Rafe nodded. A moment of silence, then, “I was really scared.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I cried,” Rafe whispered. “I tried not to.”

  “You did great,” Will told him. “I’m proud of you.”

  “You are?”

  “Hell yes.” Will hugged him again, hard. “You’re smarter and stronger than some of the men I’ve fought beside, Rafe. And you always do your best. No one can ask for more than that.”

  Rafe’s slender arms held him tight. “I don’t want to be scared anymore.”

  “Then don’t.” Will rubbed his back, throat tight. “It’s over. It’s time to live now.”

  Silky hair brushed his chin as the boy nodded again.

  “I’m glad you’re staying,” Rafe said.

  “Me, too.”

  They stayed like that until Brodie’s voice broke the silence, where he sat in the living room watching a survival program.

  “You see this, hoss? He’s teachin’ how to make a fire, and he’s using a goddamn Bic. What a bunch of horseshit.”

  Will smiled and stood.

  “You should tell Cheyenne you’re staying,” Rafe said, watching him. “I’ll hang out with Brodie.” He looked toward the other man. “He’s pretty cool.”

  “He’s a good friend.”

  Rafe shot him a sideways look. “He helped you, didn’t he? With the bombs?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so.” Rafe turned, took two steps and then ran back to Will and hugged him around the waist, hard, before taking off again, leaping over the back of the couch to land beside Brodie, who said, “Hey, little man, you see this fool? Survivalist, my lily white ass.”

  Will left them discussing the lack of reality on reality TV and stepped out into the chilled night, where the only sound was the rustle of the wind and the occasional hoot of a horned owl. The moon bathed the landscape, so bright he had no trouble making his way over to the barn, where he could hear Cheyenne talking to someone.

  He wondered if Angus or Prue had returned, but as he got closer, he realized it wasn’t a person she was speaking to—it was an animal.

  “He’s down at the ranch,” she was saying. “And Dex is with him. Don’t worry, he’s going to be okay. Before you know it, they’ll both be back, annoying the crap out of you.”

  “Meow,” came the plaintive reply.

  “I know, baby. I’m sorry.”

  Will stepped through the doorway and pulled the door quietly shut behind him. Cheyenne stood in front of a small stack of hay bales, stroking a long-haired yellow cat with one eye. She wore faded jeans and a lime green fleece hoodie; her hair was contained in messy bun at the back of her head, and his fingers twitched with the urge to free it. A dark, angry bruise had formed on her right cheek and along her jaw, and the darkness within him stirred. In that moment, he wished he’d killed them all.

  “Meow,” the cat repeated and looked over at him, one large green eye staring at him.

  Cheyenne followed the cat’s gaze and said, “Hey.”

  Then she looked back at the cat and stroked him again, and Will watched her shoulders tense, her face close. His chest went tight. He strode over to them, noting the small step she took back when he halted beside her.

  “You did it,” she said. “Congratulations.”

  He didn’t reply. Instead, he reached up and tugged the tie from her hair.

  “Hey,” she protested as her brilliant red mane cascaded down to her hips like living fire.

  Will ignored her. He stepped into the space she’d
put between them, thrust his hands into her hair, and put his mouth on hers.

  It was not the kiss Cheyenne had anticipated.

  After the last few hours—hell, the last week—she was wired and impatient and high on adrenaline. When Will’s mouth descended toward hers, she expected the same wildness she felt, a culmination of the chaos they’d weathered, but the press of his mouth was tender, an exquisite rasp of his lips against hers.

  It made her throat burn.

  “Scared me,” he murmured and licked delicately at her bottom lip, his mouth as light as his hands were heavy. “Thought I was too late.”

  His fingers clenched in her hair, and the kiss deepened before she could respond, his tongue stroking into her mouth, rubbing against hers. Her blood turned thick and hot, liquid fire in her veins. Her belly clenched, and her knees went weak, and the current between them crackled in her ears.

  A low, rough sound rumbled from him; the vibration resonated through her, making her skin prickle. Her nipples budded, hard and aching, remembering his mouth, and a soft, painful sound whispered from her. Tears burned her eyes.

  “I know,” he muttered and rubbed his cheek against hers. “I know, baby.”

  Her breath hitched in her chest, but he kissed her again, slow and deep, so gentle the tears slid down her cheeks, unheeded. Her body burned beneath the languorous assault, her heartbeat heavy and erratic. She moaned into his mouth, her hands sliding up the hard plane of his chest to wrap his nape, her nails digging into his flesh.

  “Missed you,” he rasped. He nipped at her ear, her throat, the sensitive place where her neck and shoulder met. His hands, wrapped in her hair, tugged her head back, giving him better access, and he pressed a kiss to the frantic pulse that fluttered in the hollow of her throat. “Say you missed me, too.”

  She didn’t want to. This man…he had the power to strip her bare. To erase every barrier and tear down every wall. With him she was terrifyingly exposed, bared of her defenses, her guard ash around her feet. He could destroy her.