Master of Freedom: A Mountain Masters Novella

by Cherise Sinclair

  “Oh heavens.” She touched his cheek and drew him back from seeing his brother’s body on the floor.

  “He was drunk.” Atticus had staggered to his feet. Dizzy, sick. Didn’t matter. He’d put his head down and charged. “I was fast. Mom and Hector threw things. We kept him going.” For a while.

  She must have seen the expression in his face. Her question was right on target. “You were only twelve. Did he get his hands on you?”

  “When the cops came, he was whipping me with his belt—buckle and all. They heard my mother’s screams and busted in the door.” Sawyer had been unconscious. Broken. His mother unable to rise. Hector curled in a pain-ridden ball. Atticus covered in blood. “Got my fondness for law enforcement right then, I think. Even more, when he got shipped to prison.”

  Her brows drew together. “First conviction. He wouldn’t get too long.”

  “He was out before I enlisted. Moved back to town and behaved while on probation.”

  “And when he got off probation?”

  “I was in the service when Mom reported he’d visited her and was aggressive.” Atticus eyed Gin. She should know the truth about him because, if needed, he’d do the same thing all over again. “I took leave and paid him a…persuasive…visit.”

  Her eyes widened and then she gave him her quirky smile. “Good for you. And?”

  “He decided the weather was nicer in Arizona. Never returned.”

  She patted Atticus on the chest as she might one of her clients. “For some reason, I have a very primitive delight in knowing how protective you can be.”

  “Jesus, you’re something.”

  “We’re something. I worry about giving too much. You’re concerned that asking might be abuse. Can this relationship be saved?”

  “You finally admit we have a relationship?”

  “I—no. I mean, that’s the title of a column in a women’s magazine.” Her face had turned the delightful color of a summer-ripe tomato.

  Unable to resist, he said, “But, sweetheart, if we don’t have a relationship, then why are we talking like this? Fuck-buddies don’t need to talk, do they?”

  “We’re more than…” She glared. “You’re baiting me.”

  “Hell, yeah.” He tugged on her hair. “Babe. Haven’t you noticed we’re in a serious relationship—a monogamous, we’re-dumping-the-condoms relationship?”

  Her face paled.

  Stubborn female. Any other woman would be badgering him for a declaration.

  After a second, he ordered his thoughts. “Back to the subject.” He manned up, though this was like stepping into a firefight without body armor. “As your Dom, I’ll up my demands. In turn, I expect you to tell me if you need more. Or if I ask for something you’re unwilling to give.”

  “Huh, I should have complained this afternoon,” she grumbled. “I had an entirely different kind of blowjob planned for you.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, pet. You loved it.” He’d been a Dom a hell of a long time, ever since his Captain had taken him to a BDSM party and then mentored him in the lifestyle as well. Atticus ran his knuckles down her cheek. Yeah, he knew when a submissive hit her happy space from being controlled, being taken, being pushed into serving.

  Her attempt at a pout was spoiled by her smile. “I did.” And then she showed the courage he adored and took the next step. “We’re in a relationship. Yes. Dump the condoms.”

  He kissed her soft lips, tucked her head against his shoulder, and relaxed. They really were a pair. Both of them scarred up from the past, wary as jackrabbits when the coyotes were yapping.

  But it didn’t matter what battles they’d run into in the future. For now, all he needed was right here in his arms. Mine.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The rain had finally eased off, and the flowerbeds were bright with colorful blooms. As Sawyer walked beside his new shrink outside the admin building, he savored the feeling of sunlight on his skin.

  Under a CO’s watchful eye, an inmate crew was raking the grass of the debris that had blown in. Pit with his colorless eyes, tall and skinny Crack, short and wide Stub, Lick—into perversions, and Bomb, ex-military. The leader, Slash, was a power-lifter and the biggest at six-two, about two-thirty pounds. A swastika tat decorated his scalp.

  They were all nasty, fanatical bastards. How the hell had they received work assignments outside the building walls, let alone together?

  Closer to the chain link fence, Ms. Virginia and another counselor sat at a picnic table. Most prison staff on break avoided areas with inmate workers, but Ms. Karen was surreptitiously smoking a cigarette—not something she’d get away with in normal staff areas.

  Ms. Virginia had smiled at Sawyer but left him and his counselor to their privacy. He had to say, despite her loose fitting, unfeminine clothing and pulled-back hair, she was a pretty woman—and he’d recovered enough to notice.

  It was interesting how different counselors could be. Where Ms. Virginia tried to look unattractive, the therapist named Penelope acted more like a mare in heat. The woman had an obsession with inmates, the more violent the better, and from rumors floating through the cells, she liked to fuck to stories of murder.

  But Ms. Virginia was a good woman—and she belonged to Atticus. Competition for her attention wasn’t on the books, even if he’d been interested…which he wasn’t. He didn’t want a woman who’d examined his soul the way a pathologist might examine a man’s guts.

  “Time we were heading in,” Wheeler said. So far, Jacob Wheeler seemed like a damn good counselor, even being the one to suggest an outside session.

  Felt damn good to be outside a building and the enclosed yard spaces, even if still inside the perimeter fence.

  Sawyer was getting better. No nightmares for a week, aside from the normal ones experienced by most prisoners. His depression—fucking pansy word—had lifted. Frustration still remained. The way each day disappeared with nothing to show for it could make a man crazy.

  And he still felt as if he didn’t deserve any better.

  “By the way, I have some exercises I want you to do this week,” Wheeler said. “I’ll print them off for you.”

  “What kind of ex—”

  A high-pitched sound interrupted him. Screams? He tilted his head. Although the minimum-security “park” was at the back corner of the prison grounds, noise always made its way through the heavy walls. This didn’t sound like the normal mass movement rumble of prisoners during mess times.

  “Is there a fight?” Virginia called, rising from the table where she’d been sitting.

  Sawyer exchanged glances with Wheeler.

  “Sounds more like a riot in Yard A,” Wheeler said.

  Sawyer frowned at the women. “Ms. Virginia, you should—

  “Karen, stay put,” Wheeler said at the same time. Even as the lockdown alarm clanged, a dull noise came from outside the fence.

  What the fuck?

  A H1 Hummer topped a small hill and roared down the grassy slope, full-tilt toward the fence. Jesus. No one was in the driver’s seat.

  A grunt, then ugly hoots made Sawyer turn. The yard workers were cheering. The CO lay on the ground, neck obviously broken. A moment’s inattention had turned deadly. One inmate brought his rake handle down on the CO again—although the guy was already dead.

  A montage of gory images swam through Sawyer’s mind, blood everywhere, turned over vehicles, body parts of his teammates. He shook his head hard, forcing himself to stay in the present. Bitterness coated his tongue.

  The heavy all-terrain vehicle hit the fence with a ground-shaking crash, uprooting a cemented-in post. Links snapped, another post tilted and toppled. Wrapped in chain link and razor wire, motor roaring, the vehicle fought the fence.

  A gap appeared. More cheers came from the inmates. They tossed down their rakes.

  Shit. The women were between the inmates and the fence. Sawyer backed toward them, Wheeler at his shoulder.

  The inmates trotted closer.
<
br />   Bomb spotted the women. “We got pussy here!” The inmate veered toward the women.

  Rage seared Sawyer’s veins. He stepped into the bastard’s path. No way would Sawyer let Att’s woman be hurt. No fucking way. “Bomb, you got no time for women—or fighting. Just move on.”

  Bomb lunged.

  Sawyer threw a punch to his jaw and then blocked Stub’s incoming fist from the side. With the adrenaline rush, time slowed—but not enough. Six to one. Sucked.

  Wheeler put a hard kick into Pit’s breadbasket. Good man—but it was still six to two.

  The leader was hanging back, letting his boys do the fighting.

  Oh, no. Punching her body alarm button over and over, Gin backed away, even as the inmates surrounded the table where she and Karen were.

  The first one Sawyer had punched, Bomb, dodged past him. His jaw was bleeding profusely. “C’mon, cunt.” He seized her arm.

  She slapped his hand away, kicked his shin, tried to kick higher to his privates. He blocked her with his thigh.

  “Bitch.” He backhanded her so hard she fell to her knees. Pain shot through her cheek.

  Grabbing her hair, Bomb yanked her to her feet, and she bit down on a scream. Tears blurred her vision.

  “Prime pussy, eh, Slash,” he yelled.

  Slash. Gin’s heart sank even as she continued to fight. That was the inmate who’d slammed her arm into the desk. She hadn’t noticed he was with the group. No. Please no.

  His lips turned up, the effect ugly in a face scarred with tattoos and holes from piercings. His eyes were cruel as he stared at her. “The redheaded bitch is mine to rip up, Bomb. Bring her. For me.”

  The words hit Gin like blows. No. Her heart felt as if it would explode inside her chest.

  “Selfish bastard,” Gin’s captor muttered, then yelled, “Stub, grab the other one for us.”

  The skinny, shortest inmate with broken-off teeth circled where Wheeler and Sawyer were fighting with the rest. He grabbed Karen as she tried to escape past him—and hit her over and over, battering her to the ground.

  Gin tried to go help. Bomb kicked her legs out from under her. As she struggled to her hands and knees, grunts and shouts came from close. Farther away, the noise of the riot in Yard A was muffled but filled with fury, out of control. Alarms were going off…finally. So long. She got to her feet.

  Holding his ribs, Wheeler was on one knee. A convict kicked him in the head, felling him. Sawyer was fighting with the inmate who had tats covering every inch of his skin.

  “Move it, assholes,” Slash yelled and pointed to the fence. “Through the hole.”

  Bomb grabbed Gin’s hair, dragging her after the group.

  No. If the prisoners took her with them, she’d die. Die horribly. As they passed the still running Hummer, Gin grabbed the hand in her hair, spun, and kicked his testicles.

  “Aaagh!” He fell to his knees, wheezing horribly.

  She turned to run.

  From the side, the tallest one shoved her straight into the Hummer. The impact stunned her, and she sagged, trying not to fall, blinking away blackness.

  “Cunt.” Bomb was up. Enraged, he pinned her against the vehicle, hand around her throat, gripping, cutting off her air. She couldn’t breathe. Her fingernails scratched at his hand; her pulse roared in her ears.

  Suddenly he was gone. She fell to her knees, gasping for oxygen, her hands to her throat.

  She heard a sound like the snapping of sticks. Bomb’s body landed at her feet. Eyes open. Dead.

  For a second, she couldn’t—couldn’t move.

  “Run, girl!” Sawyer’s shout snapped through her, and she shoved off the Hummer. Another body—the heavily tattooed inmate—lay on the ground.

  Sawyer was between two more, fighting for all he was worth. One staggered back. Then the leader lunged at Sawyer—and he had a long shank in his hand.

  “No!” She ran at Slash, kicking at his legs, trying to scratch his eyes with her fingernails. Someone ripped her off and landed on top of her so hard her breath exploded from her lungs. Her ribcage bent painfully as he rested his weight on her. He ground his groin into her. “Slash’s got plans for you.”

  He yanked her up, punched her in the gut, and dragged her to the fence.

  Past Sawyer, who was on the ground, head turned toward her. Blood was pooling around him, red against the green grass. His eyes were open. Unblinking.

  No. Grief hitched her breathing, despair filling her, as they dragged her through the gap in the fence.

  * * * *

  “Who’s a pretty lady?” Atticus crooned to the mare, stroking her pregnant belly. “Won’t be long now, will it?”

  In the next stall over, Wyatt Masterson was grooming a bay gelding. “I figure a couple of weeks. Appreciate you taking a look at her hoof.”

  “No problem. Vets are always overloaded in the spring.” Once the snow melted, every domestic and farm animal was either in heat or dropping babies. Atticus had to wonder if the warmth affected human females the same way. He’d have to tell Gin, so he could enjoy her cute giggle again.

  Wyatt bent to check the gelding’s hooves. “I’m glad we have you to call on now and then. Your folks must miss your know-how back in Idaho.”

  Families were strange things, weren’t they? Wyatt was an inch shorter and an inch narrower in the shoulders than his oversized brother Virgil was. He, his brother Morgan, and Kallie had inherited and now ran the Masterson Wilderness Guides. And they teased Virgil about abandoning the family business to be a cop.

  Sounded familiar. “My parents are dead.” He nodded at Wyatt’s muttered “Sorry, man,” and added, “My youngest brother took over the ranch. He’s even better with animals than I am. Got a gift.”

  “Your other brother comes up for parole next year, right. You figure on staying in Bear Flat after he’s out?” Wyatt opened the door to the back corral and shooed the horse out.

  “Not sure.” The mountain town had become home. The sense of community was strong, and the townspeople were a tad more liberal than his Idaho hometown. Trouble was, he hated seeing Gin at that damned prison. But options around here were limited for a counselor. They might need a city.

  A door slammed before the grating sound of boots on gravel. Morgan appeared in the door moving so fast he almost skidded into Trigger.

  The dog scrambled out of the way.

  “Got a bug up your ass, bro?” Wyatt asked.

  Morgan shoved his brown hair out of his eyes. “Virg called. There’s a prison riot in Yard A. But while that happened, a Hummer took out the fence in the minimum-security section. Several racist gang members—skinheads—were on yard work. Four grabbed a couple of the female staff and escaped.”

  When Atticus’s hand stopped in midstroke, the mare nudged him chidingly. “What about Gin? Is she all right? Has anyone seen her?”

  “Buddy,” Morgan’s gaze was stark. “She was kidnapped.”

  “No.” The word came from his gut. Then he moved. Left the stall. Shut in the mare. “Lend me a car.” He could—

  Morgan grabbed his shoulder and ducked the reflexive punch. “Hold, man. They had a Jeep. Abandoned it up around Banner Mountain. The trailhead there breaks into a shitload of small paths. Virgil wants us to mount up, take the Flint trail, and see if we can cut their tracks.”

  Smelling trouble, Trigger came to sit at Atticus’s feet.

  Despite the fear for Gin tearing through him, Atticus forced himself to pause. Think. Hummer for the fence. Must have had the Jeep waiting. All on yard work. That shouldn’t have been allowed. Had they planned the riot as a diversion? They probably had gun or drug money to blow on bribes. Everything pointed to a coordinated plan.

  Well thought out. So they’d know roadblocks would be set up. “They’ll have gear from the car. And maps. Are probably making for a point where they can be picked up by car.”

  Wyatt had swung into action. When home, the Mastersons assisted Search and Rescue; they kept packs ready to go.


  “Ware, catch.” Saddlebags flew through the air.

  Atticus caught the load. Yard A. Sawyer wasn’t in that one. Still… “Any word on my brother?”

  “Virgil didn’t say anything.” Morgan was saddling his horse.

  Stay safe, bro. Keep your head down. Atticus saddled Festus and turned his mind to the task. The fucking inmates were canny enough to set up a prison break. They had hostages. And they’d react like cornered rats if found.

  Gin, hold on, sweetling.

  Atticus only had his service weapon. We need more firepower. “Wyatt, we’re going to need rifles. Accurate ones.”

  “On it, buddy.” Morgan ran for the house.

  Time to go hunting.

  * * * *

  The sun went behind a cloud, dimming the forest to a twilight green. In the center of the trail, Gin bent with both hands on one knee and attempted to regain her strength. Sweat stung her branch-scraped face. Her limbs trembled incessantly from exhaustion—and fear. Her wrists were lashed together in front of her, and Crack held the other end of the rope. He’d finally tired of yanking her off-balance after Slash yelled he was slowing them down.

  Unused to the wilderness, the four convicts had stopped to argue. With each new branching of the trail, they checked a map. Someone had obviously preplanned the route. What would happen when they reached the end?

  A steep cliff lay to the right of the trail. Yank the rope from Crack and dive down it? She grimaced. She’d smash her head or fracture her back when she slammed into something. Or the inmates would open fire and kill her.

  Because they were now armed.

  Hours ago, they’d abandoned the Jeep and changed into regular clothing. Whoever had left the car had stocked it with light packs, a rifle, pistols, and enough ammunition to slaughter an army.

  Despair had filled Gin. She’d seen the same understanding in Karen’s gaze. Their chance of escape had diminished to almost nothing.