by Debra Kayn
"I wasn't sure where the property line starts and ends but thought you'd like to know."
"I appreciate you keeping your eyes open. I'll check it out." Quint looked at the clipboard for Jared's assignment and decided to switch things around. "Go ahead and take over in the office. I'll be back by lunchtime to relieve you."
Going into headquarters, he put the chart on his desk, picked up the shotgun from the wall mount and headed back outside. He carried a pistol on his hip, but the big gun made more of an impression when confronting someone face to face. It wasn't the first-time trespassers had tried to camp on his land to get out of paying a fee.
He slid onto an ATV. Taking the outer loop around the grounds, he kept the rifle balanced on his lap. He never worried about campers viewing a weapon in plain sight. It was Idaho and open-carry came with the territory.
Wild animals had a tendency to get curious and invade people's food supplies they left unsecured. Drunken guests would often fight around the campfire, even family members, all in the name of fun.
While he let the campers enjoy their stay, there were rules to follow so others could relax during their time away from home. He had no problem forcing others to mind the rules in an attempt to make sure everyone had a good time.
He slowed down, quieting the ATV as he rode past Katelynn Pierce's travel trailer. Glancing over, he took in the condition of her spot. She hadn't taken out any folding chairs to sit beside the empty firepit, no clothes hung on a line between trees, no fishing poles leaned against the truck, and the curtains of the trailer remained closed.
Hell, she hadn't even put the jacks under the trailer to stabilize the RV.
Maybe she was one of those yuppie types who camped and never communed with nature, instead choosing to sleep her vacation away. He glanced at the license plate on the front of the truck. Washington. Probably came from Seattle.
Continuing to the back of the campground, he arrived at the old woodshed and parked the ATV. He preferred to walk up to visitors and not give them any warning.
He packed the rifle in his left hand and trudged through the underbrush, skirting around the pine trees, making sure to avoid the sticks littered on the ground and adding any extra noise.
The woods, both familiar and comforting to him, also became the perfect hiding place if someone wanted to stay hidden.
Fifty yards in, he spotted the tent.
Keeping his gaze up, he scanned the area around him. The occupants had worn a path in the thick bed of pine needles on the floor of the forest to his left. He swung the butt of the rifle to his right side and caught it with his other hand, slipping his finger into position against the trigger. His unwelcomed visitors had at least been here a few days to leave evidence on the mountain.
He'd let his guard down during the chaos of the days leading up to fully opening the campground because he knew damn well nobody was on his land prior to camping season.
On the outskirts of the clearing, he stopped and tilted his head, straining to hear anything that would alert him to someone inside the tent. When no movement or noise came, he said, "Hello, the camp."
Several minutes passed. Without any sign of the trespassers, he stepped into the clearing and approached the makeshift campsite. He kept the shotgun at his hip, finger on the trigger.
Close to the tent, a rancid odor permeated the air tinged with a sick sweetness. He held his breath and lowered the barrel of the rifle. Whoever was inside the cheap nylon material was dead.
He unzipped the opening and bent over peering inside. His throat closed and he turned, staggering away from the sight. The nightmare inside the enclosure remained in his head, and he gagged.
Bending over, he lost the contents of his stomach. Once he started gasping for breath, he couldn't stop. Dry heaves constricted his body until tears rolled down into his beard. His inability to swallow hampered by the memory of the dogs snapping, biting, thrashing while their jaws locked on to his leg and his arms.
There were too many dogs.
He shook his head, clearing his memories. Damn them.
His past triggered by the present. He could never outrun his enemies.
There were two men out of the six responsible for stealing him and the other five boys out of state care when they were fifteen years old that were still alive. Still after him and the others.
Two men who were responsible for the years he was held hostage in Mexico and forced to train dogs for the fighting ring.
Two men who wanted to kill him and the three others who'd survived. Two men who wanted retribution for the man they'd killed when escaping. And, later, for the bodies of the men they'd murdered on the mountain. The two men remaining wanted their secrets kept hidden surrounding the crimes they committed with the dogfighting ring and the only way they could guarantee their freedom was to kill him, Will, Anders, and Mark.
They'd already let the dogs kill Joney back in Mexico the day Quint had escaped, and last winter, they killed Two-crow.
He wanted the fuckers dead.
He and the others would never be able to live their life without looking over their shoulders if Michael Jaster and Sam McCloud remained alive.
He stared at the tent, knowing he had to take care of the problem before one of the summer campers or an employee decided to check out the private campsite. Turning away, he walked a few paces and gained control over his stomach.
Pulling out his cell phone, he called Mark. Everyone would need to know what he'd found.
"Yeah?" answered Mark.
"We've got a problem." He looked around the area making sure he was alone.
"Shit," muttered Mark. "What now?"
"I'm standing by a tent erected on my property about a hundred yards from the campground." He breathed through his mouth, but the smell of death permeated his body. "They left something behind."
"Not another—"
"No." Quint jaw hardened. Last summer, they'd killed one of his employees and left a dead dog behind outside headquarters. Considering his employee had the same hair color and build as him, he suspected he was the intended target. "Only a dog."
Both of them knew it wasn't only a dog. The dead animal signified their biggest fear. They'd been pushed up against canines inside a ring with only one winner walking away. Nobody could understand what he'd lived through, except the others who'd lived through the experience.
"I'll call the others and head over there," said Mark.
"I'm going to take care of this mess." He looked back through the woods toward his ATV where there was a shovel waiting to finish the job he never started. "Things are going to get busy around here. Why don't you drop by after eight when the gate closes?"
"You sure?"
He looked down at the rifle in his hand. "Yeah, I've got this."
He disconnected the call and walked back through the woods. Living in the Bitterroot Mountains, nobody called the police unless they failed to take care of the problem themselves. Used to taking care of business on his own, he'd bury the dog and the tent. He and the others had their own crimes they covered, and he wanted to make sure nobody suspected a thing.
As long as he kept his activities to himself, covered his tracks, and ran a reputable campground, he would remain free long enough to kill and bury the last two men after him and the others.
Running short on time, he dug a hole and buried the mutilated dead dog wrapped in the tent. The burial site deep enough a wild animal wouldn't get a whiff and dig up the carcass.
He headed back to the ATV sweatier and more tired than he should be. His stomach continued to churn. Dealing with the dog, a message only McCloud and Jaster could be responsible for, pushed him too far. He needed a drink.
Riding back, he noticed Katelynn Pierce still hadn't taken advantage of the camping spot. He revved the quad and headed straight to headquarters. She wasn't his problem.
Sure, she was a sexy woman. But she appeared to have as many problems as he had at the moment. He had no spare time to help her set up the camp
and show her the ropes when he had to save his own ass.
Besides, one more night, and she'd be gone.
Chapter 4
Music blared from the campsite nearest the trail to the outhouse. Katelynn sat inside the trailer beside the window with the glass opened two inches. After suffering inside a stuffy, overheated trailer all day, she'd decided being cold at night was easier to handle.
Loud laughter broke through the country music. She squinted. People moved around the roaring fire. She envied their fun.
If she could erase the last six months, the old her would've jumped at meeting new people and having a good time if invited to share their campfire. But, throwing caution to the wind to explore what she'd always deemed as the purpose in her life, trusting people was a thing of the past.
Not that the old her would've gone camping. There was nothing about the birds chirping, the trees surrounding her, and dirt all over the ground that appealed to her. She would've loved to stay home and hang out on Facebook or Snapchat with her many online friends.
With no phone to connect to the outside world, she was thankful for the people across the way. They had no idea she used them for entertainment to stay awake. She propped her elbow on the table and cupped her chin. Soon, the fire would be gone. The people would retreat to their campers. And, the dark would invade her trailer once again.
She'd be alone.
Between now and in the morning, she would have to decide what to do.
She'd used the money for the campsite. There was less than a quarter of a tank of gas in her truck. By now, the trailer she stole had been reported to the police. If she tried to pull it onto public roads, she'd get arrested.
A hollowness filled her. She hadn't thought things through during her panic to leave. Her best option turned out to be the worst decision she'd ever made.
She sighed. Not the worst.
Her previous living situation was the worst. She stared at the orange glow of the fire. Anything was better than what she'd been doing.
The trailer door rattled. The whole RV tilted. She grabbed the knife off the table as the door swung open.
Cord Miller filled the small space.
She pressed her back against the cushion and slid the weapon underneath the table. The space closed in on her. She panted for breath, and her stomach turned as the yeasty aroma she associated with Cord wafted into the trailer.
Cord's nostrils flared, and he swayed, holding a set of keys in his hand. "You thought you could leave me?"
Repulsed, she was once again knocked off balance by how she ever found Cord attractive. She tightened her grip on the knife.
"Take your trailer. Take my truck. I don't care." She pulled her shoulders back and stood. "I am not going back with you."
Cord tossed the keys on the counter and stepped toward her, bumping into the cabinet. "No bitch is going to tell me what I can and can't do. You're going to get in the truck and take my trailer home, and then I'm going to make sure you never step out of my house again."
Unable to get past him, she half-turned, ready to kick out if he tried to touch her. She was not going back with him.
She opened her mouth and screamed, "Help. Help me!"
"Shut up." Cord lunged forward.
She kicked out, tipping into the table. "Help! Someone, help me."
Cord grabbed her hair, pulling her closer. A sharp pain cut into her scalp. She screamed more in shock at someone hurting her.
"Shut your fucking mouth." He shook her by her hair, banging her hip against the edge of the table.
She kicked behind her, straining against his hold. "Stop. You can't do this to me. Let me go."
He dragged her backward. Reaching up, she fisted her hair under his hand, trying to stop the pain. "Please. Help me!"
The music from the campsite on the other side of the loop that she'd enjoyed moments ago muffled her cry. She panted, trying to fill her lungs completely, and yelled out again.
Cord threw her against the refrigerator. Her cheek hit the flat surface, and she fell to her knees. Scrambling away from him, the L-shaped kitchen blocked her exit. She pressed her back against the cabinet.
"I should've let my brother have you before now. When I get you home, I'm not going to let you have any more time, bitch." He growled and reached for her.
She kicked out, but he pushed past her feeble attempts to stop him with bare feet. "Get away from—"
Cord grabbed her neck, choking off her scream. Panic surged through her, and she swung her arms out trying to push him away and realized she still held on to the knife.
He roared in pain and stumbled backward. With the extra space between them, she coughed, trying to catch her breath.
Blood spotted Cord's upper arm. She gazed up into his sober eyes. The injury snapped him out of his drunken rage.
His face reddened, and he stepped forward. She wheezed, pressing her back against the cabinet, and tried to push to her feet.
His hand shot out and gripped her neck, lifting her off the floor. Spots entered her vision. She couldn’t breathe.
Pain radiated from her neck down both arms. She was going to die.
She lost sight. Blinded and scared, she used all her strength and thrust the knife toward Cord.
The blade came to a solid stop.
Silence filled the trailer.
The hand around her throat fell away.
Air filled her lungs and coughs tortured her body as she tried to breathe.
Perspiration coated her skin. She hung her head, drinking oxygen like a drunk guzzling his last drink.
Cord backed away from her. She slipped and fell back on her ass, shaking out of control.
A gurgle came from above her. She raised her gaze, blinking to see what was in front of her, afraid Cord would grab her again and choke the life out of her.
He staggered in the trailer, clutching the top of his chest.
She gawked in horror, finding the knife that'd been in her hand stuck to the base of his neck. Pushing to her feet, she pressed against the kitchen counter as Cord fell to his knees and toppled over at her feet.
Red blood trailed across the tilted floor and slid under her toes. She gagged at the warmth and stretched over Cord's body, escaping the corner of the trailer.
Pushing out the door, she fell to the ground on her hands and knees. She squeezed her eyes shut.
She'd stabbed him.
Needing to tell someone, she pushed to her feet and ran three steps and stopped. No, she couldn't tell anyone.
What if she'd killed him?
No, she hadn't done anything wrong. Cord attacked her. She needed to call an ambulance.
Automatically checking her back pocket for her cell, her pulse pounded. Cord had taken her phone. He'd taken everything from her.
Needing help, she looked for the orange glow of the fire on the other side of the loop. The party was over and a light shined through the front window of the motorhome.
She ran toward the recreational vehicle and changed her mind halfway there. The building where she'd checked into the campground would have a phone.
Her chest spasmed on choked sobs. Her thoughts tripped her, and it was only by a miracle she stayed upright and found the office. She banged her fists on the wooden door.
"Please, help me." She looked behind her.
The dark squeezed in on her. What if Cord was out there coming after her? What if he was already dead? What if she'd murdered him?
She raised her fists again, and the door opened. The momentum of her urgency sent her tumbling inside. Arms caught her, hauling her to her bare feet.
"You have to call 911." She gasped for breath, recognizing Quint. "I-I stabbed him. I didn't mean to—there's blood."
"Calm down." Quint lifted her by the arms and put her inside the office, kicking the door shut. "Who's hurt?"
"H-his name's Cord Miller." She clutched the front of Quint's shirt. "I think he's dead."
Chapter 5
Outside
Katelynn Pierce's travel trailer, Quint faced Mark, Will, and Anders. They'd finished their discussion on how to protect themselves knowing their enemies were around and had knocked off their last beer when Katelynn had shown up claiming she'd killed a man.
"She might not have tried to stab him in a vulnerable spot, but she got a main artery. He bled out quickly." Will looked over Quint's shoulder at the campground. "Why does the name Cord Miller sound familiar?"
"Back about eight years, Ken Powell hired him to set fire to the headquarters building." Quint ran his hand down his beard. "We let Miller go in favor of taking out Powell. Miller lives...lived up Cougar Gulch about a half mile from Lookout at the border of Idaho/Montana. He had a cabin up in the woods, kept to himself. If you believe the gossip, he was a mean drunk and paranoid. Some say he keeps his land boobytrapped. He has a brother. They're both a couple characters."
"No big loss," muttered Anders. "If he aligned himself with Powell, he's better off dead. We should've taken him out when we caught him and saved the woman the trouble. Tonight is on us."
Quint closed his eyes an extra beat, cushioning the guilt on his shoulders. He could've saved the woman's life from ruin if he would've killed Miller years ago. Now Katelynn would have to live with the fact she'd murdered someone for the rest of her life.
"Your property. Your call." Mark shrugged. "It's more important that whatever you decide to do with the body doesn't come back and bite us in the ass. Once the woman in your office comes down from the shock and gets a sense of right or wrong, and if she doesn't like the decision we've made, we'll be living life behind bars when she goes to the police and tells them what we've done."
Quint stepped back a couple of paces. He'd known something was wrong the moment Katelynn pulled up and admitted it was her first time with the travel trailer. Hundreds of campers stayed at the campground every year, and single women in an RV was a rare event. If they showed up by themselves, they usually stayed in a tent and worried about their safety against four-legged and two-legged creatures, not a travel trailer.
He looked up the road at headquarters. His decision would impact her. He could call the state police, and if he hid his past, the only inconvenience would be the presence of law enforcement hanging around him until the investigation ended. Without knowing the background on how Katelynn knew Miller, he couldn't even guess if tonight's accident was in self-defense or she murdered him on purpose.
