What You See: Sons of the Survivalist: 3

by Cherise Sinclair

  And him.

  Burned into his memory was the sight of the pistol turning toward him, and how Frankie abandoned all sense of self-preservation and slammed into the PZ. He could go an entire lifetime without seeing that again or hearing the crack of the pistol as the bastard fired. Jesus.

  However, seeing her risk her life for her friend. For him? It was as if the universe had slapped him upside the head, saying, “You think women don’t have the loyalty gene? Here, meet Frankie.”

  Who would’ve thought he’d fall for a city girl? A New Yorker, for fuck’s sake.

  But she was his city girl, and he’d do his damnedest to talk her into staying in Rescue.

  If not…?

  Well, maybe he’d like New York.

  The anti-Christ libtards had invaded their sacred soil. Stolen their women and children. Killed some of their men.

  Put their sinner hands on him.

  Fury boiled inside Nabera until he felt as if his head would explode.

  Around him, his men were loading up the trucks. Patriots, every one of them. Loyal to the Prophet. To him.

  He’d already handed out the directions to the homes of other members, of other properties where they could hunker down and hide until this test of their faith was over.

  With a roar, one vehicle started up and moved out.

  To think they’d been reduced to fleeing in the middle of the night. His lieutenants had argued with him, wanting to hold the Feds off with their guns and courage.

  Fools. The Feds had them outgunned, outnumbered. And the Patriot Zealots no longer had the women or children. The only reason the sieges at Waco and Ruby Ridge were noteworthy was because the bleeding-heart libs hadn’t been willing to sacrifice what they called the “innocent”.

  As if a woman with her foul nature and carnal thoughts could be considered innocent.

  Nabera had ordered the evacuation. With Parrish in Texas, the compound was his to command.

  They’d always been prepared for this eventuality.

  He watched as the building holding their weaponry was emptied. Carrying rucksacks, men and the very few women remaining climbed into the trucks.

  Luka walked out of the building. “Empty, sir.”

  “No one is left, sir,” Conrad called, jogging up.

  Nabera nodded. “You have done well. Go, now. I’ll be in contact after I speak to the Prophet.”

  “Yes, sir,” his subordinates chorused.

  “Keep your heads down, stay safe.” His mouth tightened as fresh anger burned him like hellfire. In one truck were the bodies of those who’d fallen in the forest. And Obadiah.

  Nabera would say prayers over them as they were flung over the cliff to the depths below. Dust to dust, as it should be.

  They’d failed him by not recovering the women and children.

  Obadiah had failed him by choosing a sinful woman. A stubborn one. She’d not confessed her crimes, not even when Nabera beat her. When he told Obadiah to kill her.

  His men waited, and he could see their faith in the Prophet was unshaken.

  “We’ll be back, and we’ll make these unbelievers regret what they did. But we’ll do it in our own time. At the best time.” Nabera gazed at the empty compound, and his teeth ground together. “And blood will flow.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  When the reptile brain takes over in battle, there’s no room for guilt. After combat is when the darkness hits. You gotta remember the faces of who you fought for. Your team, your woman, and the children. All the children. ~ First Sergeant Michael “Mako” Tyne

  * * *

  Cazzo, she hurt. In the quiet room, Frankie shifted in her chair, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt. Her face was all scraped up, her lower lip puffy from a punch. A scraped spot over her eyebrow burned where a branch had nailed her. Really, she was lucky it hadn’t put her eye out…and didn’t that sound like something Nonna would’ve said?

  Her side ached with each breath. The emergency room doctor had said one of her ribs was cracked, but the body armor had kept her torso unperforated. A shame there wasn’t body armor for legs. Her calf had a hole right through the meat. Ow, ow, ow. There was no place on her body that wasn’t bruised.

  Again, she glanced through the doorway and across the hall at the surgery department’s double doors. Somewhere in there, surgeons were doing their best to keep Kit alive and to repair the damage. Kit had been so very—

  “Ms. Bocelli?”

  Oh, oops. Someone had been talking to her… She shook her mind back to the moment and the two FBI agents who sat in front of her. A few minutes before, they’d brought her from the surgery waiting room to the adjacent “quiet” room. So, they could talk. “Sorry. I keep losing track of…” the conversation, the location, everything. She sighed.

  It was like someone had opened the faucet to her energy and drained her empty.

  “You just told us why you didn’t call us in when you got your friend’s letter or even later on.” In dark pants and a white button-up shirt, Special Agent Langford leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “You made sense.”

  His partner, Special Agent Acosta nodded, his brown eyes sympathetic.

  They’d been exceedingly kind to her, considering that they could have intimidated the heck out of her if they’d wanted. Especially since she kept dodging some of their questions.

  Like who’d helped during the rescue.

  Bull had warned her that a whole bunch of the volunteer transport crew were off-the-gridders—the kind to go ballistic if feds showed up at their doors. They deserved better than to be bothered.

  Leaning her head back, she watched the agents. She had a feeling they were friends of Gabe’s. If they wanted more information, they’d have to get it from him.

  “It would help if”—Langford frowned—“did you happen to keep that letter from your friend?

  “Certainly. It’s in New York.” With an exasperated breath, she pulled out her phone and flipped to the photo gallery. Not being an idiot, she’d taken pictures of each document Kit had sent before locking everything up in her office safe. “Here—this is the letter—with her request that I care for Aric, my godson. The other documents are there, also. When I got the letter, I knew I had to do something.”

  She shrugged. “My family is Italian and Catholic. We take that sort of commitment seriously.”

  “Understood.” He gave her a respectful nod as Langford flipped screens on her phone.

  A noise at the door had her standing before she even realized she’d moved. Still in scrubs, the surgeon walked through the doorway. The woman looked almost as exhausted as Frankie felt.

  “How is Kit? Is she all right?” Frankie clasped her hands in front of her chest. Please.

  “I think she’s going to make it, although, it was far too close. She has a concussion. Just about every rib on the left side of her body is cracked or broken. Bleeding was impacting her heart. Her spleen was lacerated. The broken arm—that was the least of her problems.”

  “What happens now?”

  “We’re not going to let her wake up for a while. After that, she’ll be here in the hospital for at least a few days. With this much damage, it’s going to take her a while to heal.” The surgeon rubbed her face. “No visitors until this afternoon, so go home and get some sleep, eh?”

  Tears prickled Frankie’s eyes at the disappointment. But she found her manners somewhere. “Thank you, doctor.”

  The surgeon nodded, smiled back, and disappeared into the surgical suite.

  Feeling as if she was ready to sack out on the floor, Frankie turned to the special agents. “Can I go now?”

  “Yes. For now.” After handing her phone back, Acosta gave her a conciliatory smile. “We might have more questions later, but you’re half asleep.”

  Thank heaven. She forced her brain to work long enough to ask her own question. “What are you guys going to do about the Patriot Zealots?”

  “We have agents a
nd police talking with the women you brought out. And the children.” Acosta’s mouth flattened. “We’re still coming up with charges. Unlawful imprisonment is a given. Kidnapping has been added. Assault, battery.”

  “And the list goes on,” Langford said. “The state troopers discovered the arsonists who burned your cabin were hired by the Patriot Zealots.”

  Sheer fatigue blunted the revelation. And really, she wasn’t all that surprised. Those bastardi.

  “It’ll take time to figure out who to charge with what,” Langford added with a sigh.

  “If you can even get to them.” Frankie scowled. “They’ll probably either hole up in a siege or disappear like cockroaches when the lights come on.”

  “They already took the cockroach approach.” Acosta growled, then smiled slightly. “However, the unfortunate Reverend Parrish with his wife and children were intercepted in a Texas airport an hour ago. He’s under arrest.”

  “Really?” Frankie realized she was smiling. Maybe the PZs had scattered, but the bastardo who’d created the fanatical cult would be doing his praying behind bars.

  Hawk was showered, dressed in sweatpants, and had pulled an aged sweatshirt over his favorite long-sleeved T-shirt. He needed the familiarity of the old clothes that were worn to softness.

  Opening the fridge, he saw the six-pack of beer and grunted. Uh-uh, that’s not what I need.

  The oblivion of alcohol was a fucking trap. Besides, the last thing a vet needed was to lose track of his surroundings. Or himself. Better to deal with the ugly memories—and yeah, those he had in plenty.

  He shut the fridge door and headed for the deck, picking up his violin on the way. Leaning against the railing, he started to play—no real song, just the music that came to him. A tune to join with the way gray-gold mist rose off the dark waters, how the mountains glowed in the dawn.

  Slowly the music changed, the strings turning to a dirge for the man he’d killed, worthless bastard that the guy had been. The dead man was another weight to carry until Hawk answered for him in the next life, whatever the fuck that would be. Guilt for the PZ wasn’t all that heavy, though. The bastard had been kicking a woman to death.

  A damn brave woman.

  Her kid had inherited her courage. The stubborn little guy hadn’t wanted to leave Kit, not until Frankie sat on the floor with him and explained how the doctors were going to fix his mom.

  Hawk’s playing faltered for a moment. The woman had taken a fucking lot of damage. What would the kid do if his mother didn’t make it?

  Guilt swept over him because that mother had told him to take care of her son. And Hawk had agreed.

  I did take care of him, dammit. He’d brought the kid home and fed him a peanut butter sandwich and everything. But when Caz came back with Gryff, Hawk had taken Aric over there. The doc knew kids, hell, he had one himself, and everyone knew JJ was great with rugrats. The two would take care of Aric far better than Hawk ever could.

  But Jesus, when he’d turned to leave, the kid looked like Hawk had tossed him into the lake instead of leaving him with someone who liked children.

  Fuck, he kept listening, worrying that he’d hear the boy crying. With a sigh, Hawk turned to go into the house and stopped dead.

  A little body sat huddled in front of his sliding glass door. Aric’s big blue eyes watched Hawk’s every move.

  “How the fuck did you get out of Caz’s house?” Hawk growled. And winced. The sound of his fucked-up voice would scare any—

  The kid wasn’t scared. He didn’t move or speak. Just watched Hawk.

  Amusement trickled in. “Snuck out, did you?” That’d teach the doc. Caz’d always figured he was best at sneaking around. “You know, the doc’s better with kids than I am.”

  “Mama said.” Aric’s mouth set in a stubborn line. And his expression conveyed that Aric’s mama had given Hawk orders, too.

  “Yeah, she did. Fine.” Hawk slid open the door and let the boy in. He’d have to call Caz and let him know about his crappy kid-watching.

  After Aric was asleep, it’d be time to call Zachary Grayson. Maybe the psychologist could figure out what should be done with a stray boy and a mother’s insane notion to hand her son over to a fucked-up asshole like Hawk.

  A light drizzle blotted out the morning sun as Bull opened his garage door and drove in. “We’re here, sweetheart.”

  Frankie’d been dozing on the way home. She was exhausted—and he was damn proud of how she’d held it together until the FBI agents were done.

  As she struggled awake, he helped her out, half holding her up as they walked inside.

  When they reached the living room, he heard a whuff. Gryff was pressing his nose against the sliding glass door, tail wagging ferociously.

  Frankie chuckled as Bull opened the door and Gryff barreled in, spinning in excited circles between his two humans. It took a fair bit of petting to calm him down.

  And then the dog helped Bull steer Frankie upstairs and into the shower. Leaving her there, he knelt in front of the pup. “You did a great job, buddy. You saved our girl. Brave dog, good dog.”

  Leaning against Bull, Gryff ate up the praise as if he could understand every word.

  “Your previous owner was an idiot. You’re no coward. You just didn’t have a good reason to fight before.” Bull hugged the furry dog. “You did good, my friend. Incredibly good.”

  Gryff licked Bull’s chin, making him laugh.

  “Okay, I’m going to go help Frankie.” Help her. Hold her. Reassure himself she was all right.

  When he stepped into the shower, she was sitting on the tile under the water, head in hands. Crying.

  His heart cracked in half.

  “Frankie.” He knelt beside her, so small. So valiant. “Are you in pain?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Bullshit.” Bull turned her face toward him. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  She was shaking despite the hot water pouring down on her. “It’s… I hit them so hard. To make them stop. I felt bones…break. And the man’s throat. I think I must have killed him, and…and…right then, I was okay with it. Wanting it. So, he—they—wouldn’t hurt me or you or anyone.”

  Combat fever, eventually, came to an end and left a soldier sick right to his soul. “Yeah, I get it. It’s part of war.”

  “I can still hear the screams and yelling, and it won’t stop, and I want to throw up and hide. That wasn’t me hurting those men. It wasn’t.”

  He ached for her. Hell, she’d chosen aikido because it was the least aggressive of the martial arts, because she didn’t like attacking anyone. “I know.”

  It’s how he felt about killing. “The aftermath still hits me hard, too. Some soldiers adapt; I never did.”

  She leaned against him, taking his hand, silently offering sympathy in return.

  After a minute, she took a deep breath. “I suppose we should wash up before the water turns cold.”

  “Let’s do that.” He lifted her to her feet. A sweetly curved bundle of competence and courage with a temper worthy of her ancestors, and a swathe of compassion wider than the ocean. “I love you, Francesca Bocelli.”

  “I love you, too,” she whispered. Turning in his arms, she pulled him down for a kiss.

  Carefully, he removed the dressing on her leg. It was stitched up and no longer bleeding. Gently, he washed her, cataloging each darkening bruise and gash, then realized as she ran her hands over his back and made sympathetic sounds that she was doing the same.

  Her fingers circled some damned painful places. “These are where bullets hit your vest, aren’t they?”

  At the odd sound in her voice, he turned.

  She’d pulled her lips in and blinked hard, obviously trying not to cry again. Because he’d been hit.

  Gently, he touched the darker blotch over her ribs where a bullet had cracked her rib. “Good thing we armored up, huh?”

  Her voice cracked as she whispered, “Uh-huh.”

  It was time t
o leave the past.

  He leaned against the wall and smiled at her. “As I recall, there’s a post-combat exercise you might enjoy. You know…because you like traditions.”

  He ran a finger over her slick shoulder, traced over her collarbone, and circled a lush breast.

  Her nipple tightened.

  Her beautiful brown eyes dropped to where his dick was lengthening.

  “It’s traditional, hmm?” Her voice had turned husky.

  “Oh, yeah.” His heart rate was increasing.

  “Well. I’m an old-fashioned girl.” She curled her hand around his erection and squeezed.

  His cock turned hard enough to break rocks.

  “But I’m new to fighting.” She pumped him once and then rubbed her thumb over the head. “Perhaps you could show me the…tradition…of which you speak?”

  He chuckled. “I can take this duty on, I suppose.”

  The rest of the shower was a blur of sensations. Her breasts, heavy in his hands. The velvety feel of her nipples. The taste of her, warm and wet on his tongue. The way her hands gripped his head, holding him to her as she cried out and came. The sweetness of her mouth closing on him—and her curse when he pulled away and lifted her…high enough to impale on his cock. Her gasp, and the tension, then reception of her body around him, welcoming him. How she wrapped arms and legs around him, enfolding him in heat—and love—as he gave her all that he was.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  In a forest, keep your focus wide. Take it all in—the sounds of birds and insects, every set of tracks, the smells, how the vegetation moves in the wind. Then, if something is wrong—if there’s an ambush set up—you’ll know. Do that same shit when you’re looking at a person. ~ First Sergeant Michael “Mako” Tyne

  * * *

  That evening, Frankie slid out of Bull’s pickup and was grateful he’d parked it right by the back door of the municipal building. Her leg hurt like someone was stabbing her calf with a knife. Maybe she should have brought her jo and used it as a cane.