What You See: Sons of the Survivalist: 3

by Cherise Sinclair

  Bull and Frankie appeared in the doorway—and Frankie stared at the child in Hawk’s arms. “You found him.”

  Hawk nodded.

  Caz turned to Bull and motioned to the unconscious woman. “’Mano, you carry her. We’ll take guard.”

  “On it.” Bull lifted Kit gently.

  “I can take the boy,” Caz said to Hawk.

  Hawk tried to hand him over, but the kid had a death grip on his vest, and his little mouth was compressed with determination.

  He didn’t make a sound, though—a lesson often learned from catching a backhand to the mouth for speaking. That’s how Hawk had learned.

  “We’re good,” Hawk muttered.

  Caz blinked in surprise before smiling in agreement. “Then I’ll guard your six, ’mano.”

  “We. We’ll guard.” Frankie swept up her staff and gave Hawk a firm nod.

  As he walked past her with the boy, she followed, ready to defend them with everything she had.

  Hawk snorted softly. Bull had found himself a stand-up woman.

  * * *

  The PZ women had already disappeared into the night when Frankie followed the others out of the building with Caz bringing up the rear.

  Shivering, she pulled in a long breath of the cold, clean night air, free of the stink of blood and fear. Somewhere closer to the center of the compound, men were talking quietly. Off in the forest, an owl hooted.

  Her gait faltered. The noise at the front gate had stopped. Their diversion was gone.

  Merda. Everything inside her wanted to run…run out the fence to the shelter of the forest. She mustn’t.

  Gabe led the way at a measured pace—because running would instantly draw attention. The fence seemed so far away. The tension in her muscles made it difficult to even move. Please, don’t let us be discovered now.

  Trying to saunter, she followed the others into the shadows between the two buildings. Gabe thumped on the side of the children’s barracks, and at the rear, Chevy came out the back door.

  At last, they reached the opening in the fence where JJ kept watch. Almost to safety. Almost. Chevy edged out, then held the cut chain-link section open for the rest of them.

  Bull went next. Kit lay unconscious in his arms, her breathing labored. Frankie’s hands fisted. Caz said her ribs were cracked and broken. If Obadiah’s kick had hit her, she would’ve died.

  Bless you, Hawk.

  Bull passed Kit to Chevy. “Move fast—and carefully.” The muscular woodworker headed for the forest at a quick, smooth pace.

  Get her out, Chevy. Please.

  Frankie slipped through the fence and held it as Hawk went through with Aric, clinging like a little monkey, in his arms. She felt a pang, wanting to reassure the child, but it wouldn’t help. He was so young he probably didn’t even remember her.

  JJ and Gabe came through, and Gabe leaned forward to tell Hawk, “Move out and catch up with Chevy. Precious cargo.”

  “Yeah.” Hawk took off, sliding from shadow to shadow.

  Meanwhile, Caz snapped on two padlocks to pull the cut fencing edges together at knee height.

  As they all headed for the open area, Frankie took up position just behind Bull.

  “Intruders!” A shout shattered the quiet. “Back of the women’s barracks!”

  The alarm spread. Men yelled. Ran toward the fence.

  “Spread out and get to the forest!” Gabe pushed JJ after Frankie.

  Gripping her staff, Frankie tore across the open area, arms pumping, shoulders hunched as if she could make herself a smaller target.

  Loud swearing filled the air as the PZs were forced to squirm through the fence opening that’d been constricted by the padlocks.

  The crack of gunfire sounded, and terror made Frankie almost drop to the ground.

  “Zigzag,” Bull yelled.

  She veered right, then left. Bullets hit the ground near her, and dirt sprayed up. Zig. A tree in the forest splintered. Zag. Don’t be predictable. She lunged left again. A sharp sound came from her right as a bullet hit a rock.

  On one side, Gabe cursed, staggered, and ran again. Ahead of them, JJ reached the forest. Off to the left, Caz disappeared into the undergrowth.

  Even as Frankie picked a possible opening, it felt as if a staff had whipped across her back flank. Staggering, she plunged into the foliage, arms up to protect her eyes as branches whipped against her clothing. A second later, someone followed almost on her heels.

  She spun, jo rising.

  “Run,” Bull snapped.

  Oh, thank God.

  She ran again.

  From the forest across from the watchtower—where none of the rescuers were—the recording of Gabe’s warning boomed out over the gunfire.

  The PZs stopped shooting to listen.

  “Patriot Zealots, we broke into your compound to free a woman who was held against her will. The women with us requested to leave. Be warned, you are now off your property and on public land. If you attack, we will defend ourselves—and then press charges with the law.”

  Frankie glanced back long enough to see some PZs break off and head for what they’d think was a person rather than a recording. Hah!

  A couple more slowed as if unsure whether to continue. Good!

  Unfortunately, the rest kept on at a full run.

  “Veer right” came Bull’s instructions.

  Thank heaven he knew where he was going. She angled that direction, tripping over the roots and stubby bushes. She dodged a low branch and…oh, no. She’d actually seen the branch. Could make out the trees in the shadowy forest gloom. The skies were lightening, and dawn would arrive in an hour or so. The rescue had taken longer than they’d planned.

  Bull turned, heading another direction. From the myriad of boot marks in the dirt, she knew they’d reached the trail used on the way in. A minute later, Gabe limped out of the forest onto the trail. Two other dark forms resolved into Caz with JJ, who had her left hand clamped over her right upper arm.

  “Caz, set the trip line,” Gabe said quietly. “Everyone else, keep going.”

  Frankie glanced back, seeing Caz at a tree, pulling the pre-attached wire tight. Anyone moving fast would hit the taut, shin-high wire and fall.

  The PZs were approaching fast. She could hear branches breaking, angry yells and curses.

  Frankie sped up, running right on Bull’s heels.

  Behind them, someone yelled in pain, then there were a bunch of yelps and curses. A gun fired. More moans.

  A man shouted, “Holster your weapons when you’re running, assholes!”

  Frankie heard Bull snort a laugh. She kept moving.

  “JJ, when we get around the next corner, throw a flashbang back at them,” Gabe ordered. Knowing the trail better than any of them, he was in the lead.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cops and their flashbangs.

  The yelling of their pursuers grew louder.

  Frankie tried to find more air, to move faster, but the damp track was slippery. She fell onto her knees. “Merda.” What she’d give for a city sidewalk…

  Bull yanked her up onto her feet. “Okay?”

  “I’m good. Go.” She shoved her staff into the dirt and waved him on. This was like following an unstoppable tank. Panting, she lurched into a run again. They sped around a corner.

  At a hoot from behind, Gabe stopped, as did Bull.

  Catching Frankie, Bull tucked her against his side. “Cover your ears; close your eyes.”

  In the dim light, she saw him put his thumbs in his ears, fingers over his eyes. She tucked her staff under her arm and imitated him.

  Bang! Even with her eyes covered, her ears plugged, the world went white. And the sound was like being in a room with a giant firecracker.

  Trying to blink away the glowing after-images, she felt Bull take her hand. Gripping her staff, she jogged forward. Behind them were shouts and curses, a couple of screams of pain.

  Caz and JJ caught up quickly.

 
Ahead on the trail, there was movement, and Frankie gasped. No, not the PZs. Worse. They’d caught up to the slow-moving line of women with the guide crew.

  The sounds of the PZs grew closer.

  Gabe held up his hand, and the assault team stopped.

  “Persistent bastards.” He ran an assessing gaze over them. “You up to an ambush?”

  Oh, Madonna, no. Frankie nodded with the rest.

  Gabe pointed toward the rear. “Bull, take the rearmost enemy from the left. Frankie—stand there”—he pointed to a dark patch of brush on the left—“and attack when the middle reaches you.”

  “Got it,” came Bull’s rumbled acknowledgment.

  She added her whispered, “Yes, sir.”

  “Caz, rear on the right. JJ, middle right. Take them down hard. I’ll play bait and deal with the front.”

  As Frankie edged into the shadows, Bull moved farther down and disappeared into the brush.

  Flickering lights showed through the trees, approaching fast. The PZs were using flashlights—no wonder they’d caught up.

  Rounding the bend, the beams flashed across Gabe.

  So many PZs. A dozen, at least. A whimper edged into Frankie’s throat. Too many.

  But on the trail ahead was Kit, unconscious in Chevy’s arms, little Aric with Hawk, and all the Rescue people who’d risked their lives.

  Mouth flattening as determination filled her, she gripped her staff harder.

  Lit up by the flashlights, Gabe glanced over his shoulder at the PZ horde and broke into a limping flight.

  Like a pack of wolves, the bastardi howled and chased, blind to everything else.

  To her left, Frankie saw a glint of steel in the air. Another. Two men in the rear fell. Caz stepped out of the undergrowth, holding another throwing knife.

  Fight, Frankie. Her heart had crammed into her throat so tightly she could barely breathe. She crouched. Now.

  Her feet wouldn’t move.

  Now!

  A man pulled his pistol out and aimed at Gabe. With a frenzied scream, Frankie charged out of the brush and slammed her staff down onto his forearm. Bones cracked. Screeching, he dropped the gun and hunched over his arm.

  The guy behind him lunged at Frankie, and her body took over. Spinning, she roundhouse-kicked him upside the temple, knocking him into another man. She drove her staff into the belly of a third.

  No time to think. It was all yelling and blocking and striking, reacting instinctively with hard-won muscle memory. Lean back, pull opponent off balance and twist to throw him into another. Regain balance, spin, and leg straightens into a side kick to another man’s belly. Foot touches the dirt; weight shifts forward enabling a rear kick into the PZ behind her. Lean away from a knife and swing jo into his head. Move with the rebound to swing at another. Sway with his block and snap kick into his belly.

  A firearm cracked. A PZ yelled in pain.

  Shooting in this tangle of people? They could hit their own men.

  Moonlight gleamed along a pistol…that was aimed at Bull.

  “No!” She dove at the man. Her shoulder hit his chest, knocking him back, their fall halted by a tree. With an ear-deafening bang, the weapon fired.

  Pain burned down her calf, and she yelped.

  The man backhanded her to the ground. His boot caught her in the belly, knocking her sideways. On his feet, he aimed the pistol at her.

  Gryff sprang from nowhere and latched onto his arm. Murderous growls filled the air as the dog shook the man’s arm as if it was a rodent.

  Gasping for air, almost crying, Frankie scrambled away on hands and knees.

  “Cunt!” A PZ swung a baton at her head. On her knees, she swayed sideways and slapped his arm to one side. Turning her hand over, she gripped his forearm and yanked him toward her. Then drove her knuckles into his throat. He fell.

  Scrambling to her feet, she caught a kick to her ribs that sent her backpedaling until she could regain her balance. Eyes wild, the bastardo swung his knife in a move that would’ve cut her face open. Sidestepping the blade, she captured his wrist, twisted, and threw him headfirst into a tree.

  Another man bent to pick up the fallen pistol. She snap-kicked him in the face, and her stomach lurched at the crunch of a bone. As he fell, she punted the handgun into the underbrush.

  A knife swung at her, and she raised her arm to—

  Bull grabbed the man’s wrist, broke it, and elbowed him in the face. The man landed on his back, out cold.

  Turning, Frankie braced for the next PZ.

  They were all down. Groaning. Whimpering. Crying. Some holding broken arms and legs. One was throwing up. A few lay too still, either out cold or…

  Her mind fled the alternative.

  Holding her arm again, JJ leaned against a tree as Gabe, Caz, and Bull walked through the downed fanatics, tossing firearms and knives into the underbrush.

  Whining, Gryff ran to Bull, obviously worried he’d be in trouble for fighting.

  “You did good, buddy.” Bull ruffled the dog’s fur. “Good dog.”

  “You were amazing, Gryff.” Frankie joined them, bending to give the dog a hug and whisper in his furry ear, “You saved me.”

  When she straightened, the dog’s ears were up, the tail waving proudly.

  “How bad are you hurt, Frankie?” Bull swept her with a quick gaze, then pulled her against him and rested his cheek on the top of her head. “Fuck, you scared me—saved me from getting shot, thank you—but fuck. How badly are you hurt?”

  “Not bad. Mostly my calf.” Her voice cracked. She’d never felt anything as reassuring as his arms around her. She was starting to shake.

  “Let’s see. Yeah, you’re bleeding.” He pulled a bandana out of one of the pockets on his personal armor and wrapped her leg tightly enough to make her squeak.

  When he straightened, she gripped his arm so she could give him a quick survey. Nothing pouring blood, nothing obviously broken. She went up on tiptoes and kissed his jaw. “Thanks.”

  “Always.” He turned at a call from Gabe.

  Frankie took a step and realized something was missing. Her jo. Wiping sweat and blood from her face, she spotted it off to one side. Dark, wet streaks smeared the wood. Breathing through her nose, she picked it up.

  “Done, mamita.” Caz had finished tying a bandage around JJ’s arm. They headed toward Gabe.

  “Fucking bitch.” A PZ on the ground grabbed JJ’s ankle.

  Yanking her leg out of his grip, JJ kicked him in the gut.

  “Güey.” Caz shook his head reprovingly at the puking man. “Such poor life choices.”

  It wasn’t funny, but Frankie started to laugh, half-hysterically, and had to grit her teeth to stop.

  “Move out.” Gabe signaled something to Bull, then took the lead at a fast walk, limping worse than before.

  Caz and JJ followed Gabe.

  Gryff at his side, Bull watched them move out, then motioned to her. “I’ve got rear guard. Go in front of me, sweetheart.”

  Frankie kept her mind on moving forward. Her injured leg was on fire, and…cazzo, more and more aches kept rising. Shivers coursed across her body until it was hard to hold her staff.

  She’d never wanted to be safe and snuggled down in her New York condo so much in her whole life.

  Yet…

  She heard Bull’s soft footsteps behind her. Guarding from the rear. The man who’d risked his life for Kit and Aric, for the PZ’s victims.

  For her.

  And she knew there was nowhere she’d rather be than with him.

  It had been a fucking long walk back to Chevy’s place, Bull thought.

  In the back of Hawk’s helicopter, he helped Caz strap Frankie’s friend down on the cushioned stretcher. The trip out hadn’t done her any good, and she was still unconscious, dammit.

  What would Frankie do if her friend died?

  “Hang in there, Kit,” Bull murmured.

  “Sí,” Caz agreed. He turned to Hawk in the pilot’s chair. “G
et her there quickly. She’s bleeding inside.”

  Already doing the preflight, Hawk simply showed a thumbs-up.

  After a last glance at the IV he’d started, Caz slapped Bull’s shoulder. “Later, ’mano. JJ and I’ll make sure Gryff gets back safe.” He jumped out to deal with the minor injuries incurred during the retreat through the forest.

  In the passenger seats, Frankie had Aric buckled in beside her. Neither she nor Aric would leave Kit. Although the kid had been cooperative enough until Hawk had set him down.

  Bull eased down on the seat beside them and strapped in. A couple of the bullets had hit his vest in the back. Nothing penetrated, but Jesus, he hurt. Then again, the sarge used to tell them if you’re hurting, you know you’re alive, and it sure as hell beats being dead.

  After donning headphones, Bull put a set on Frankie. It was the only way to hear anything in a noisy copter.

  “Good to go back here,” he told Hawk who already had the rotors spinning.

  He got a typical Hawk answer—a grunt.

  Bull put protective earmuffs on Aric. Half-asleep, the boy had snuggled as close as possible to Frankie who had her arm around him.

  As the helicopter lifted off, Bull saw Dante matching up the rescued with transportation. Clipboard in hand, Lillian was designating escorts, ensuring that each woman and child would be accompanied until the proper authority took charge of them.

  Cars were slowly moving down the dirt road, and yes, more of them were on Dall Road, heading for Rescue’s municipal building. By now, the municipal building would be swarming with health professionals as well as the FBI and Alaska State Troopers.

  Yeah, the survivors would be handled. For the moment, Bull could focus on Kit, Aric, and Frankie.

  “You all right?” Bull stroked his hand over Frankie’s hair. He’d have to make sure someone checked her leg—all of her—while they were in the hospital.

  “Sure.” She looked up at him. “You’re moving funny. How about you?”

  “Just bruises.” He half smiled. “You did good, woman. And you were right to insist on coming with us.”

  “I know. But it helps to hear it from you.” She rubbed her head against his shoulder with a sigh. “Thanks.”

  He kissed the top of her head. She was pale, scratched, shot, battered, but still upright. Still watching out for her godson and her friend.