Master of Solitude (Mountain Masters & Dark Haven Book 8)

by Cherise Sinclair

  Mallory heard Sawyer mutter, “This is going to be a clusterfuck.” He turned to the people on his left. “The rest of you, you’re with me. We’re the Pay Dirt Team, and we’re heading for Pay Dirt. Same directions. We’ll gather on the street, make our way through the backyards approaching Riffle, and assess the situation. If needed, we’ll open fire together. No shooting until my command. Clear?”

  Same chorus of agreement.

  “Move out.”

  He looked at Mallory. “You stay put, nymph. Stay safe.”

  Jake was giving Kallie the same orders—and Kallie nodded obediently.

  Mallory put her hand on Sawyer’s arm. “The Colt is under the seat in the pickup. Take it with you.”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “I will. Thanks.”

  Reaching up, she kissed him quickly. “I love you—you be careful.”

  Bracketed by Morgan and Jake, Sawyer jogged out of the tavern. She heard Sawyer ask Morgan, “Your baby in the truck?”

  “Yeah. Let’s take my ride.”

  As they disappeared, Mallory felt fear rising inside her. A trap. Her friends—and Sawyer—were walking into danger. Could be shot.

  She stiffened. “The firefighters are also the paramedics, and there aren’t many in town this weekend. Not enough for…for…”—if things went badly.

  Gin stared at her for a second and rose. “I’m going to wake up Doc Vickers. We’ll get the clinic ready, just in case.”

  “Good.” Mallory met Kallie’s gaze. “I’ve had first aid training.” And a lot of experience on construction sites. “There’s a big first aid box in the pickup.”

  “Training I’ve got.” Wilderness guides would. Kallie nodded. “Let’s go.”

  Gin was grabbing her purse. “You two be careful.”

  Most of the cars were already gone from the parking lot as they turned the corner. Mallory jumped into the pickup as Kallie got in the passenger side. Sawyer’s hat was in the back seat—and the space under the driver’s seat was empty. He’d taken the Colt. Good.

  As they turned the corner onto Pay Dirt, Mallory switched off the headlights and parked behind a line of other vehicles.

  There was sporadic gunfire coming from the west. Sporadic would indicate the gang was shooting at someone, right? Mallory’s stomach clenched. As the noise roused people, lights in the neighborhood houses were flickering on.

  With Kallie beside her, Mallory jogged through the darkness between two rental houses, across a backyard, stepped over a low fence, and into the next backyard. They moved alongside a small house surrounded by Douglas firs. Smoke was thick in the air, scratching her throat with each breath.

  Ahead of them, through the trees in the front yard was Riffle Avenue, which dead-ended into forest.

  Firelight flickered through the trees.

  “The house really is on fire,” Kallie whispered.

  Anger flooded through Mallory’s veins, driving back the fear. Those evil people had set fire to a house with children in it.

  Ahead of them, Sawyer’s group was flitting from tree to tree in the forested front yard. Kallie beside her, Mallory followed, staying well back. She stopped when she could see Simmons’s house across the street.

  It was madness.

  The downstairs windows had been broken out, and flames raged in the living room. Burning trash was piled in front of the doors and windows like giant bonfires. The family was trapped inside. Even if they got through the flaming barricades, the gang waited outside.

  Her mouth tasted like metal.

  Was this what a war zone was like?

  The gang’s vehicles, a black SUV, a battered Ford four-door, and a red Dodge Charger, lined the curb directly in front of Simmons’s house.

  Near the center of the street, a black and white patrol car was stopped, lights still flashing. At its bumper was the volunteer fire truck, headlights still on. Angled behind it, not quite to Simmons’s house, Atticus’s Chevy Tahoe had obviously skidded to a stop.

  At least two, maybe more, Hammers had taken cover between the vehicles and the burning house. Another was behind a big maple, the sole tree in the front yard. A crash of glass—and a shout of glee—indicated more gangbangers around the sides of the house.

  Roger’s workshop, close to the edge of the forest, wasn’t on fire, but Mallory could see figures running between it and the house. One turned, and she saw the muzzle flash as the handgun fired.

  Heart galloping wildly in her chest, Mallory ducked behind her tree. The Hammers were still shooting. She pulled in a breath and tried to push the fear away.

  “Mal.” Kallie was crouched low, staring toward the street. “Levi and William are hurt.”

  Mallory edged out.

  Behind the black-and-white, illumined by the fire truck lights, one police officer was sprawled face down on the pavement. Pale blond hair—William.

  Next to him, Levi was slumped against the front tire, his hand against his chest. Blood blackened the gray pavement. Atticus crouched beside him, helping put pressure on the wound while occasionally firing toward the Hammers.

  His shooting was all that kept the gangbangers from rushing the car, Mallory realized.

  Sawyer had been right—it was a trap.

  Levi and William, the two patrol officers, were young. They’d have fearlessly driven down the street, piled out, and been sitting ducks. The gang would have shot at the fire truck—and the firefighters had probably dived under the dash.

  Atticus would have arrived—and had no choice but to rescue his men.

  The Aryan Hammers were still at the house…because they wanted to kill Atticus and everyone else and return to L.A. with a victory. Their yelled curses and taunts came from the wooded areas adjacent to the house. There were an awful lot of them.

  Mallory turned to look at Sawyer.

  The Pay Dirt Team—hers and Sawyer’s team—was across the street from Simmons’s house. Sawyer stood behind the tree closest to the police car. Jake Hunt was behind another tree. Morgan wasn’t in sight. Behind the other trees were Sawyer’s volunteers. And, Mallory realized, with the fire so bright, neither the gang nor the police realized the townspeople were there.

  Sawyer’s voice rang out, “Pay Dirt team, take cover!”

  At the police car, Atticus spun around. Unable to see anything, he yanked Levi down and flattened himself on top of both officers, covering them.

  As Sawyer’s men stepped behind trees, he yelled, “Gold Dust team. Fire!”

  Mallory tucked herself tightly behind her tree. Kallie was hunched behind hers.

  In a horrendous blast of sound, Terry’s entire team fired from the sides of Simmons’s house. Mallory cringed at the screams and yells of pain. Moving silently from the rear, Terry’s group had taken the gang by surprise.

  The wave of firing stopped. Random gunfire—much less—came from one side of the house. A man’s hoarse screams came from the other side.

  Edging out, Mallory saw bodies lying next to the Charger. The gangbangers using their vehicles for cover had been totally unprotected from the gunfire behind them.

  “Gold Dust, take cover,” Sawyer yelled.

  Five of the Hammers were dashing toward their vehicles, firing at Terry’s group in the woods around the house.

  Sawyer yelled, “Pay Dirt, fire.”

  The Hammers fell.

  With Mallory’s Colt in his hand, Sawyer crossed the street. Despite the bitingly cold air, sweat trickled down his back. He quickly checked his men. All moving, thank fuck.

  And his brother was alive.

  With a grim smile, Att looked up at Sawyer, nodded, and returned to caring for the downed men. From the skidded car at the rear, Att had arrived too late and had charged in to keep his boys from being slaughtered.

  What a goatfuck.

  Sawyer called to the four men closest to him, “See if you can clear the fire away from the door.”

  Raising his voice, he shouted to the rest of his team. “In teams of two, sear
ch the grounds. Remember the bastards are armed. Capture them and take them to the cops. Take injured gangbangers to the fire trucks with a guard. Gold Dust team is near the back, so be careful.”

  As the men went to work, the firefighters jumped out of their truck. One ran to assist Atticus with the injured patrol officers.

  Sawyer’s men had cleared a gap in the trash fire at the front door, and two firefighters headed into the house.

  A pumper truck pulled up.

  In the wavering light from the fire, Sawyer checked the front yard. A glance established three Hammers were dead. How many were left?

  He considered and didn’t call Morgan in. Instead, he turned to Jake Hunt, who’d taken up a position at his side. “Can you take charge of the group searching the left of the house? I’ll check the right.”

  “Will do.”

  As Jake moved away, someone else took his place—a huge logger whose hands made his 30-aught shotgun seem like a toy. Hadn’t this guy plowed into him at the ClaimJumper months ago? With a grim nod, the man waited for Sawyer to continue.

  Sawyer moved on.

  And stopped dead at the sound of a voice that should not have been anywhere near a bloody action.

  “Leroy, I’ve got this bleeding stopped, but he needs stitches. Take him to the clinic.” It was Mallory, using what she called her band saw voice, giving orders as coolly as if she were in the middle of a construction site. “Francis, that Hammer is dead. Leave him and help put out the trash fire.”

  Despite his fear—and anger at her risking her neck—he felt a surge of pride. That was his woman, bringing order out of chaos. And she thought she was quiet? My ass.

  He returned to his own task.

  One body was being hauled to the front by two men. Another gangbanger, cursing and struggling, was pinned to the ground by a cluster of Terry’s men.

  No one else. Looked like the teams had cleared the area nicely. Any gang member who’d made it out of the area was probably still running.

  “Looks good,” Sawyer told the silent logger beside him and headed back toward the front.

  The trash piles had been shoved away from the house or put out, and the flames inside were dying down. The firefighters might be able to save the frame—but the building was a fucking mess.

  Simmons and his wife stood near the patrol car along with a teenaged girl. Sawyer frowned. Hadn’t Mallory said there was a little boy?

  Followed by his logger escort, Sawyer walked into the front yard.

  A firefighter was helping a kid out of the house. “Heath, next time, you leave when your parents say leave. It’s our job to get your pets out.”

  Sawyer couldn’t keep from smiling as the scolding continued. Heath had apparently gone back into the fire to save his cat. Brave kid.

  Clad in pajamas, the boy needed support to walk—but the cat was in his arms.

  “Sawyer, down!” Mallory’s scream was unmistakable, and Sawyer dove for the ground. The logger followed—and the crack of a handgun sounded through the night.

  A man dropped out of the maple tree, knocking the firefighter away from the boy. The skinhead hauled the shrieking boy up in front of him and shoved his semi-automatic against Heath’s head. “Move away from my car, or he’s dead!”

  It was Animal. Fuck.

  “Teams, hold fire,” Sawyer shouted. Even if someone killed Animal, the bastard’s dying twitch would blow the kid’s head off.

  From the ground, Sawyer eyed the line of fire from Animal to the workshop roof. There was a chance, but only if the bastard didn’t have his weapon against the boy’s head.

  Make him move it, then.

  Sawyer shoved to his feet.

  The skinhead was almost to his Charger.

  Revolver pointing toward the ground, Sawyer shouted, “Look at the animal running away with his little tail tucked between his legs. What a fucking pussy.”

  The skinhead spun around, gun still pressed to the boy’s temple. He saw Sawyer and his face darkened. “You cocksucker.”

  Sawyer laughed. “All of L.A.’s gonna hear how you abandoned your gang. Didn’t avenge shit. Just ran like a yellow dog. Ooo-ooo-ooo.” Sawyer imitated Achilles’s yelps of fear.

  “Fuck you!” Animal turned his pistol toward Sawyer. Even as he fired, Sawyer dove for the ground.

  Pain ripped through Sawyer’s arm.

  A split second later, the crack of a high-powered rifle split the night.

  Rolling over, Sawyer jumped up. Dammit, he shouldn’t have gotten hit. Getting slow, Ware.

  Animal was down. One head shot.

  The youngster was alive and was snatched up by his hysterical mother and father.

  Taking his first good breath in minutes, Sawyer turned—and Mallory slammed into him so hard, he lost the last remnant of oxygen in his lungs. Trembling like a leaf, she hugged him until he couldn’t restock his lungs.

  She shook him, actually shook him. “Don’t you ever do that again.”

  He took himself a long hard hug, breathing in her fresh, clean scent. Peace in the midst of chaos.

  “Jesus, Sawyer.” Atticus appeared, face tight. “You scared the fuck out of me.”

  “Me, too,” Mallory’s voice was muffled against Sawyer’s chest.

  Att ripped off Sawyer’s sleeve and examined the bleeding graze across his deltoid. “Not too bad.”

  After pulling in a shuddering breath, Mallory stepped back—and bandaged him up using gauze dressings she was carrying in her pockets. Damn, she was something.

  “Who took the shot?” Att asked.

  “Hold on.” Sawyer checked the area, turned toward the workshop, and yelled, “All clear, Masterson.”

  A minute later, Morgan appeared, his Gladius in one hand. Silently, he walked over to look at Animal’s body. His chest rose and fell. After a long minute, he approached Sawyer, saw the rough bandage, and dismay appeared in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t risk a shot with the asshole’s barrel to Heath’s head.”

  “No, you couldn’t. You did everything exactly right.” Sawyer released Mallory to give Morgan a one-armed hug. Poor bastard was shaking with the release of adrenaline.

  So was Sawyer.

  When Sawyer stepped back, Mallory wrapped her arms around Morgan and gave him a hug that, from experience, Sawyer knew would make Masterson’s world feel like it had spun right again.

  Morgan’s arms tightened until Sawyer could hear the little contractor’s ribs creak.

  Giving the man time to get his emotions back under control, Sawyer turned to check the field of battle.

  The giant logger was still guarding the flank, and Sawyer released him with a nod and smile of thanks.

  Simmons stood near the police car in front of his family. His gaze met Sawyer’s, and the gratitude in his eyes said everything. War was over.

  Behind Simmons, his son was on his mother’s lap. When his sister knelt and put his pet in his arms, the boy pulled the cat close—and cried.

  Feeling his own eyes burning, Sawyer turned away.

  “Nice shot, cuz.” Kallie ran over to hug her cousin.

  Returning to Sawyer, Mallory put an arm around him. “Well-executed rescue job, Captain Ware. I suppose you need to check your troops before we can leave?”

  “I do.” Sawyer pulled her closer before scowling. “What the fuck are you doing here anyway?”

  Although the darkness of violence and death lingered in her eyes, she smiled at him. “They may be your troops; however, I recruited them—and thought there might be too many injuries. Kallie and I had to help.”

  He sighed. Yes, she would see it that way.

  She was tensing for a fight. A fight that wouldn’t happen. Her sense of honor was just one of the things he loved about her. He smiled. “I understand. For my peace of mind, stay close now, soldier.”

  She grinned and touched her index finger to her forehead in a mock salute. “Yes, Sir.”

  Brat. He pulled her in for a firm kiss and whispered, “Yo
u’d better figure on saying ‘Yes, Sir’ over and over tonight, nymph, right along with ‘Please, Sir, please.’”

  When she melted against him, he took her mouth again, feeling the zing of adrenaline that said he was alive, she was alive, and they needed to celebrate in the best way possible. The house fire felt like a warm day compared to the lust heating his blood.

  As he lifted his head, he heard shouting behind him. “Go, Captain.” “Attaboy, Ware!”

  What the fuck?

  Keeping one hand on his woman, Sawyer turned and…froze.

  His “troops” were waiting on the street, grinning at him, and when he looked at them, damned if they didn’t all salute, and then raise a cheer loud enough to wake the entire town.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

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  Spring had come to Bear Flat.

  Although the higher elevations were still snow-covered, in Mallory’s valley, poppies and lupines brightened the meadow. Near Sawyer’s cabin, Mallory breathed in the sun-warmed air and glanced at the text that had just come through on her phone. “Almost there. What’s with all the cars?”

  Almost there. Yes!

  She tilted her head, hoping to hear horses, but the rushing creek was filled with spring run-off and drowned out any noise from hooves. Shielding her eyes from the bright sun, she looked toward the south where the winding trail there met up with another coming from the west.

  Last winter, Sawyer and the Mastersons had worked out a route from Sawyer’s mountain ranch down to Hector Ware’s new spread in the foothills where the horses had wintered.

  There. She saw movement. A flash of metal. Finally, a long string of horses and riders emerged through the blooming white dogwoods at the forest’s edge.

  She shouted, “Here they come!”

  As everyone turned to look, the horses splashed through the shallowest part of the creek. The cluster of children playing there yelled in welcome and held open the gate to the pasture.

  Mallory could see the surprise on Sawyer’s face. Halfway back in the line of riders, Kallie and Jake gave loud whoops. The rest of the riders—guests and hands—were perking up and beaming. Riding drag, Morgan pulled off his hat and waved it.