She stole another look at the three men on their feet, now ranged around the room. “Those...look like real guns.”
Boss Man across from her shrugged. “Sure, we have a shooting range set up. A bunch of us have been out there all morning. Gotta keep sharp, even if we’re mostly using paintball guns.”
Nobody else’s expression changed.
“Well,” she said, starting to push herself up.
The sound of the back door opening was as loud as a shot. Bounced off the wall, she diagnosed, in a small, calm part of her mind surrounded by near hysteria.
All of the men turned their heads.
Grinning, a man emerged from the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he carried a huge gun, painted army green. Even as he said, “Hot damn!” before seeing her, Leah’s blood chilled.
She’d seen pictures, taken in places like the Ukraine and Afghanistan. That wasn’t a gun—it was a rocket launcher.
* * *
SON OF A BITCH.
Spencer Wyatt restrained himself from so much as twitching a muscle only from long practice. His mind worked furiously, though. Could this juxtaposition be any more disastrous? An unsuspecting woman wandering in here like a dumb cow to slaughter, coupled with that cocky, careless jackass Joe Osenbrock striding in with an effing rocket launcher over his shoulder? Yee haw.
Especially a young, pretty woman. Did she have any idea what trouble she was in?
Flicking a glance at her, he thought, yeah, she had a suspicion.
In fact, she said, in a voice that sounded a little too cheerful to be real, “Is that one of the paintball guns? I’ve never seen one before.”
Good try.
Ed Higgs didn’t buy it. “You know better than that. Damn. I wish I could let you go, but I can’t.”
She flung her full coffee cup at his face, leaped off the bench and tore for the front door, still standing ajar. Smart move, trying to get out of here. She actually brushed Spencer. He managed to look surprised and stagger back to give her a chance. No surprise, the little creep Larson was on her before she so much as touched the door.
She screamed and struggled. Her nails raked down Larson’s cheek. Teeth set, he slammed her against the wall, flattening his body on hers. Spencer wanted to rip the little pissant off and throw him into the wall. Went without saying that he stayed right where he was. There was no way for him to help now that wouldn’t derail his mission.
He had more lives than hers to consider.
Ed snapped, “Get her car keys. Wyatt, go over the car. When you’re done, bring in her purse and whatever else she brought with her. Make sure you don’t miss anything. Hear me?”
“Sure thing.” He knew that once he had the keys, he’d have to hand them over to Higgs, who kept all the vehicle keys hidden away. No one had access to an SUV without Higgs knowing.
Arne Larson burrowed a hand into the woman’s jeans pocket. When he groped with exaggerated pleasure, his captive struck quick as a snake, sinking her teeth into his shoulder. Arne yanked out the set of keys and backhanded her across the face. Her head snapped back, hitting the log wall with an audible thunk.
Spencer jerked but once again pulled hard on the leash. If she would only cooperate, she might have a chance to get out of this alive.
Arne tossed the keys at him and Spencer caught them. Without a word, he walked out, taking with him a last glimpse of her face, fine-boned and very pale except for the furious red staining her right jaw and cheek where the blow had fallen.
She hadn’t locked the car, which didn’t appear to be a rental. He used the keys to unlock the trunk and pull out a small wheeled suitcase, sized to be an airline carry-on, as well as a rolled-up sleeping bag and a cardboard box filled with basic food. Then he searched the trunk, removing the jack and spare tire, going through a bag of tools and an inadequate first-aid kit.
He couldn’t believe even Higgs, with his paranoid worldview, would think the woman in there was an undercover FBI or ATF agent.
She hadn’t packed like one, he discovered, after opening the suitcase on the trunk lid once he closed it. Toiletries—she liked handmade soap, this bar smelling like citrus and some spice—jeans, T-shirts, socks and sandals. Two books, one a romance, one nonfiction about the Lipizzaner horses during World War II. He fanned the pages. Nothing fell out. A hooded sweatshirt. Lingerie, practical but pretty, too, lacking lace but skimpy enough to heat a man’s blood and in brighter colors than he’d have expected from her.
Not liking the direction his thoughts had taken him, he dropped the mint-green bra back on top of the mess he’d made of the suitcase’s contents.
There was nothing but food in the carton, including basics like boxes of macaroni and cheese, a jar of instant coffee, a loaf of whole-grain bread and packets of oatmeal with raisins. The sleeping bag, unrolled, unzipped and shaken, hid no secrets.
A small ice chest sat on the floor in front. No surprises there, either, only milk, several bars of dark chocolate, a tub of margarine and several cans of soda.
He took her purse from the passenger seat and dumped the contents out on the hood of the car. A couple of items rolled off. Plastic bottle of ibuprofen and a lip gloss. Otherwise, she carried an electronic reader, phone, a wallet, hairbrush, checkbook, wad of paper napkins, two tampons and some crumpled receipts for gas and meals. Her purse was a lot neater than most he’d seen.
Opening the wallet, he took out her driver’s license first. Issued by the state of Oregon, it said her name was Leah E. Keaton. She was described as blond, which he’d dispute, but he didn’t suppose strawberry blond would fit on the license. Weight, one hundred and twenty pounds, height, five feet six inches. Eyes, hazel. Age, thirty-one. Birthday, September 23.
She’d smiled for the photo. For a moment Spencer’s eyes lingered. DMV photos were uniformly bad, no better than mug shots, but he saw hope and dignity in that smile. She reminded him of a time when his purpose wasn’t so dark.
Did Leah E. Keaton know it wasn’t looking good for her to make it to that next birthday, no matter what he did?
Chapter Two
Leah watched out the small window in an upstairs guest room with fury and fear as one of those brutes dug through her purse. He’d already searched her suitcase; it still lay open on the trunk of the car, the scant amount of clothing she’d brought left in a disheveled heap.
Everything that had been in her purse sat atop the hood. She felt stripped bare, increasing her shock. They would now know her name, her weight, that she used tampons. Her credit cards and checkbook were in their possession, along with her keys and phone.
That wasn’t all. They had her, too.
Wyatt, if that was really his name, stood for a moment with his head bent, staring at the stuff he’d dumped out of her bag, before he began scooping it up and dropping it unceremoniously back in. Then he systematically examined the car interior, under the seats, the glove compartment, the cubbies designed to hold CDs, maps or drinks.
Following orders, of course.
Still gripped by fear, she saw him lie down on his back and push himself beneath the undercarriage. Looking for a bomb? Or a tracking device? Leah had no idea.
Her heart cramped when he shifted toward the rear of the car. How could he miss seeing the magnetic box holding a spare key?
From this angle, there was no way to tell if he pocketed it.
Eventually, if her parents didn’t hear from her, they’d sound the alarm and a county deputy might drive up here looking for her, but that wouldn’t happen for days. Maybe as much as a week. She’d been vague about how long she intended to stay, and they knew she was unlikely to have phone service once she reached the rugged country tucked in the Cascade Mountain foothills.
Would these men kill a lone deputy who walked into the same trap she had?
When the man below climbed to his feet and closed her suitcase, s
he took a step back from the small-paned window. He didn’t so much as glance upward as he carried the suitcase and her purse toward the lodge, disappearing beneath the porch roof. The groceries, ice chest and sleeping bag sat abandoned beside her car.
A rocket launcher. Or was it even a missile launcher? Was there a difference? The image flashed into her mind again. Leah tried to absorb the horror. Her knees gave out and she sagged to sit on the bed, fixing her unseeing gaze on the log walls with crumbled chinking. She wasn’t naive enough not to be aware that, with enough money and the right connections, anybody could acquire military-grade and banned weapons. But...what did these people intend to do with this one? And what other weapons did they have?
Her cheekbone throbbed. When she lifted her hand to it, she winced. The swelling was obvious at even a light touch. By tomorrow, a dark bruise would discolor half her face and probably crawl under her eye, too. Her head ached.
Leah wished she could hold on to hope that, whatever the group’s political objective, the men might follow some standards of honor where women were concerned. After the stocky blond guy who’d slammed her against the wall had leered and tried to grope her while his hand was in her pocket, that was a no-go. Not one of the other men present had shown the slightest reaction.
But she was sure she’d seen a woman on the porch of one of the cabins. If women belonged to the group, would they shrug at seeing another woman raped? Somehow, she had trouble picturing this particular group of men seeing any woman as an equal, though. Armed to the teeth, buff, tattooed and cold-eyed, they made her think of some of the far-right militia who appeared occasionally on the news. Every gathering she’d ever seen of white supremacists seemed to be all male. If they had women here, they might be no more willing than she was.
But maybe...this group had a completely different objective. Could they be police or, well, members of some kind of super-secret military unit?
That thought didn’t seem to offer an awful lot of hope.
Nausea welling, Leah pressed a hand to her stomach and moaned. She’d driven right into their midst, offering herself up like...like a virgin sacrifice. Except for not being a virgin. Somehow, she didn’t think they’d care about that part, not if their leader decided to let them have her.
No one would be coming for her. She had to escape. Would they leave her in this room, the exit guarded? Feed her? Talk to her? Give her back any of her things?
Not her keys, that was for sure. She’d have to take the chance that Wyatt had missed the spare key. If not, she’d rather be lost and alone in the dense northwest rain forest miles from any other habitation than captive here. It would get cold at night, but this was July. She wouldn’t freeze to death. At least she had sturdy athletic shoes on her feet instead of the sandals she’d also brought. Thank goodness she’d thrown on a sweatshirt over her tee.
The idea of driving at breakneck speed down the steep gravel road running high above the river scared her almost as much as those men did, but given a chance, she’d do it. If she got any kind of head start, she might be able to reach the paved stretch. Along there, she could look for a place to pull the car off the road and hide.
The hand still flattened on her stomach trembled. Great plan. If, if, if. Starting with, if she could get out of this room. If she could escape the lodge. If...
No, at least she knew she could escape the room. For what good that would do, given that she’d still have to pop out in the hall where a guard would presumably be stationed.
Footsteps followed by voices came from right outside her door. Her head shot up.
* * *
AT WAR WITH HIMSELF, Spencer sat at the long table with a cup of coffee. Other men came and went, buzzing with excitement. They liked the idea of a captive, particularly a female. They were eager to see her. Only four of the guys had brought women with them, and they weren’t sharing. Wasn’t like the single guys could go into town one evening and pick up a woman at a bar. For one thing, Spencer hadn’t noticed any bars or taverns any closer than Bellingham. The only exception, in Maple Falls, had obviously gone out of business. Higgs didn’t let them leave the “base” anyway.
Their great leader had gone upstairs a minute ago. If he didn’t reappear soon, Spencer would follow him. He thought Higgs intended to bring Leah Keaton downstairs. Let her have a bite to eat, try to soothe her into staying passive. The way she’d sunk her teeth into Larson’s flesh, Spencer wasn’t optimistic that passive was in her nature, but maybe she’d be smart enough to pretend. He was screwed if she didn’t—unless he kept his eye on the goal and accepted that there were frequently collateral losses—and this time, she’d be one of them. Except, he wasn’t sure he could accept that.
Footsteps.
He took a long swallow of coffee and looked as if idly toward the woman Higgs led into the big open space.
She’d come along under her own power, without Higgs having to drag or shove her. If she had any brains, she was scared to death, but her face didn’t show that. Instead, it was set, pale...and viciously bruised.
Spencer’s temper stirred, but he stamped down on it.
“Have a seat.” Higgs sounded almost genial.
Leah Keaton’s gaze latched longingly on to her purse, sitting at one end of the table. Wouldn’t make a difference for her to grab it; Higgs had taken the keys and probably her phone, which wouldn’t do her any good anyway, not here.
“Dinner close to ready?” Higgs asked.
The wives and girlfriends were required to do the cooking and KP. Spencer had heard a couple of them come in the back door a while ago. Soon after, good smells had reached him.
Tim Fuller leaned against the wall right outside the kitchen to keep an eye on his wife, who was the best cook of the lot. Now he wordlessly stepped into the kitchen and came out to say, “Ten minutes. Spaghetti tonight.”
Higgs smiled. “Sounds good. That’ll give us all a chance to settle down, talk this over.”
Leah sat with her back straight, her head bent so she could gaze down at her hands, clasped in front of her on the plank tabletop. Her expression didn’t change an iota. Higgs’s eyes lingered on her face, but he didn’t comment.
Spencer continued to sip his coffee and hold his silence.
Eventually, Shelley Galt, thirty-two though she looked a decade older, brought out silverware and plates, then pitchers of beer and glasses. She kept her gaze down and her shoulders hunched as though she expected a blow at any moment. Spencer wanted to tell Shelley to steal her husband’s car keys and run for it the next chance she had, but he knew better than to waste his breath even if that wouldn’t have been stepping unacceptably out of his role. Shelley had married TJ Galt when she was seventeen. She probably didn’t know any different or better.
Spencer had read and memorized her background, just as he had that of every single person expected to join them up here. He wasn’t a trusting man.
The food came out on big platters, some carried by Jennifer Fuller, and the remaining members of the group filtered in, the men almost without exception eyeing Leah lasciviously. The four women were careful not to make eye contact with her.
Leah shook her head at the beer but took a can of soda—one, he suspected, from her own ice chest—and allowed Ed Higgs to dish up for her.
You can lead a horse to water, Spencer thought...but this one was smart enough to drink. And eat. She understood that starving herself wouldn’t accomplish a damn thing.
Higgs tried to start a few conversations, earning him startled looks from his crew. He didn’t do any better with Leah, who didn’t react to any comments directed her way. What did he think she’d say to gems like, “Spectacular country here. Your uncle was smart to hold on to the land.”
She blinked at that one but didn’t look up.
Only when they were done and he said, “I need to talk to Ms. Keaton,” did Spencer see her shoulders get
even stiffer. “Wyatt,” Higgs said, “you stay. You, too, Metz.”
Rick Metz was an automaton, following orders without question, whatever they were. He carried the anger they all shared, but kept a lid on it. He rarely reacted even to jibes from the other guys. Spencer didn’t see him raping a woman just because he could, which allowed him to relax infinitesimally.
Grumbles carried to Spencer, but none were made until the men stepped out onto the porch. If Higgs heard them, he offered no indication. Among this bunch, rebellion brewed constantly. Metz might be the only one who wanted to be given orders to carry out. The others accepted them, maybe seeing dimly that Ed Higgs, a former US Air Force colonel, was smarter than they were, his leadership essential to their accomplishing their hair-raising intentions. He reminded them constantly of his military service, happiest when the men called him Colonel. Compliance didn’t mean they didn’t seethe at the necessity and bitterly resent the inner knowledge that they were lesser in some way than Higgs. Spencer took advantage of that ever-brewing resentment when he could, giving a nudge here and there, inciting outbursts that had helped him climb to second-or third-in-command.
Once the other men were gone, Higgs said into the silence, “No reason for you to be afraid.”
Leah did raise her head at that, not hiding her disbelief.
“We only need a couple more months. You’ll have to stay with us that long. Once we’re ready to move, you can go on your way.”
A couple more months? Did Higgs really think he’d have this bunch whipped into shape that soon? Although maybe it didn’t matter to him; he wanted to make a statement, truly believing that somehow an ugly display of domestic terrorism and some serious bloodshed would inspire a revolution. The men who shared his exclusionary, racist, misogynistic views were supposed to join the fight to restore America to some imaginary time when white men ruled, women bowed to their lords and masters, and people of color—if there were any left—served their betters. How a man of his education had come by his beliefs, Spencer hadn’t figured out.
The Last Resort Page 2