by Kris Norris
He’d bet his ass the two marks closest to the house were Hank and either Ice or Kujo. That meant one of them was still in the wind—hopefully tracking down one of the snipers. It also meant Sam didn’t have a lot of backup handy until his buddies had eliminated their threats.
Bridgette palmed his shoulder, gaining his attention. “I don’t understand. If they wanted me dead, they’ve had plenty of opportunities before I came to Montana. Why wait until now? Until I have all of this protection?”
He sighed, hearing the guilt in her voice. “I don’t know, but I’d guess the fact the trial is next week and they haven’t been able to scare you off the case, yet, is a pretty big factor. Makes me think they’ve decided, if they can’t intimidate you, they’ll have to kill you before proceedings begin.”
She frowned, looking as if she had more to say, but nodded, instead. He wondered what was going through her head. Why she’d seemed off since the gunfight last night—other than the obvious—when he caught a flicker of movement way off to their right.
Sam motioned for her to shuffle behind a tree, using the one beside hers to hide his presence. He peered around the trunk, watching the area about fifty yards off. Darkness clung to every surface, that eerie glow from the snow creating large shadows across the icy surface. He waited, unmoving, until one of the shadows shifted.
Got ya.
He considered drawing his gun, but without a suppressor, he’d announce their location. And he couldn’t chance exposing Bridgette until he had backup. He had no idea how many bastards were combing the ranch, gunning for them. And he’d be damned if he’d risk her safety for an easy solution.
He reached for the Ka-Bar on his belt then signaled Bridgette to stay. Her eyes widened as her gaze landed on the knife, some of the color draining from her face. He waited until she’d nodded, then moved, slowly making his way from tree to tree as he stalked the man shuffling through the forest. He’d try to avoid killing the bastard, but if it came down to Bridg’s safety—no hesitation. No regrets.
The guy was tall, agile, and dressed in winter camo. Probably thought he was fucking invisible. Sam smiled smugly. Maybe to deer and his gang buddies, but Sam wasn’t a weekend warrior. He’d bled. Had infiltrated compounds and eliminated threats without anyone knowing he’d been there. This…this was his sandbox, and he was definitely king.
He flanked the guy. Asshole was careless. Leaving a trail anyone could follow. Relying on the wind to wipe it away. Not enough of a breeze in the trees. Not even close.
Sam waited behind a tree, breath held. The guy was making a cloud around his head with every exhalation—like a fucking cigarette trail. He walked woodenly. Probably wasn’t accustomed to the thick snow. Amateur.
The jerk walked right up to Sam and still didn’t see him. Didn’t hear Sam take the one step needed to intercept him. Even as Sam grabbed the guy’s neck, holding him tight as the chokehold rendered the creep unconscious, Sam doubted the idiot had a clue what was happening.
Sam duct-taped the man’s mouth shut, bound his hands with a set of zip straps, then made his way back to Bridgette. She hadn’t moved, her attention glued to where Sam had disappeared. She swallowed hard when he slipped back into his position, her gaze sweeping his body.
She was looking for blood. He knew it.
He gave her a nod then signaled his intentions. She trailed behind him, silent. Snow fell around them, dampening every noise. Nothing carried, as if someone had turned down the volume. He maneuvered through the brush, picking a path that afforded them the most cover while leaving the least amount of tracks. He couldn’t prevent all of them, but he’d be vigilant—make sure nothing came at them from behind.
They’d covered half the distance when he stopped, dragging her back into the snow. Two men moved along the tree line not too far in front of them, their dark silhouettes just visible between the trunks as they patrolled the area.
Shit. He’d counted three other men earlier, besides the two he suspected were Hank and Ice. That meant at least six marks. One down. Five unknown. Maybe more.
He scanned the area, leading Bridgette over to a large bush fronted by a boulder. She bit her lip when he motioned for her to stay, glancing toward the clearing.
He gave her an encouraging smile then moved off—stalking between the low branches with ease. He drew his knife. He didn’t have time to take them out separately, which meant one of them was going to bleed. Though, he’d do his best to curb his natural reflexes and not go for a neck strike. He watched the men. The one off to his right was slower. He hesitated. Moved more cautiously. Definitely the weaker of the two. Sam would take the guy’s partner out, first.
Sam readied his knife, holding the silver blade between his fingers. He waited until the stronger guy turned, then flicked his wrist. The knife glinted once, then it was wedged deep between in the man’s shoulder blades, dropping the guy to his knees. Blood washed down his white camo jacket, dripping onto the snow. His partner turned, giving Sam the chance to step out—release some of his frustrations as he pounded on the guy, watching him drop. Red drops sprayed across the white surface, a small pool next to the guy’s mouth.
Sam moved quickly, binding both then heading back to Bridgette. A voice stopped him before he’d reached her.
Fuck. She wasn’t alone.
He ducked low, inching closer. He needed to see what he was up against. How to help her without making the situation worse. Icy pellets wiped his face as a strong gust swirled through the copse.
“I know you’re behind that rock, bitch. Come out, and I might not kill everyone here.”
The guy was off to the left. Big. Meaty. With an AK47 clutched in his oversized hands. He had NVGs and a black ski mask.
Sam circled behind Bridgette’s location. He didn’t think she’d step out, but with other people’s lives on the line, he couldn’t be sure. No doubts she’d sacrifice her life for them.
The asshole fired off a few rounds, bouncing them off the boulder. One ricocheted and hit the tree next to Sam’s shoulder. Close.
Movement by the bush. Shit. She was going to do it. Step out. Give herself over to the prick in the hopes he’d spare the rest of Sam’s friends.
Sam ran to the next trunk, gun at the ready. The cold handle grounded him. Allowed him to focus on his mission instead of the icy fear beading his skin. Bridgette stepped out, revealing part of her side to the armed creep. The guy grinned and aimed.
Sam reacted. He didn’t have a clear shot, but, fuck, he was taking one. Winging the bastard. Scaring him. Maybe blinding him a bit with the muzzle flash. Anything to give Sam more time. Time to get to Bridgette. He aimed, but the guy was already reeling backwards, blood blooming on his shoulder. Sam snapped his gaze to Bridgette. Ice stood behind her, gun leveled at the masked bastard, a small tendril of smoke rising from the muzzle.
The band around Sam’s chest loosened. He picked his way over to them. “Christ. You just aged me ten years.”
Ice grinned. “If you hadn’t left the damn house, I’d have had your back ten minutes ago.”
“I couldn’t chance they’d corner us. Blow up the house to kill Bridgette.” He focused on her. “When I thought you’d actually stepped out…”
She glanced at the man lying in the snow. “I’m not stupid. People like that don’t leave survivors to testify against them. That’s why they’re so hard to convict.”
“I know you’re not stupid. But I also know you’d sacrifice yourself to save someone else.” He released a slow breath, looking at Ice. “Update?”
“We bagged four by the barn. Two wounded, two unconscious. Heard chatter through their coms. Figure there’s at least eight. I found the one you left in the snow. This one makes six.”
“Eight, actually. Two more in the clearing. One’s got a knife wound.”
Ice grinned. “You were always partial to knives, Midnight. You were heading for the Jeep, right?”
“I want Bridgette clear. We can always chase these pricks
down later. Her safety is my priority.”
“Agreed. Hank and Kujo are clearing the house and the perimeter. I’ve got your six.”
Sam gave Ice a smack on his back then reached for Bridgette’s hand. It felt small in Sam’s as he wove through the brush, avoiding where he’d downed the men. She didn’t need to see that. She’d seen enough.
He stopped at the last tree before a large expanse of land loomed out in front of him. The driveway wove through it, the rest open until they reached the road. The vehicles were off to the left—dark mounds covered in a layer of snow. Only fifty yards from here, but just as risky. And, once he started the Jeep, they’d be instant targets if there were any other men still hiding nearby.
Ice shuffled in beside him. “I can make a run for it. Bring the Jeep closer and block any possible crossfire from the other side.”
“And get caught in that crossfire. You’re the medic. You know as well as I do you’re the last one to engage in the fight. Your primary duty is keeping your ass intact so you can treat everyone else.”
“This isn’t a covert mission. We’re equals.”
“You’re still a medic. Nothing’s changed.”
Ice grunted, staring at the space between them and the vehicle. Sam knew what he was thinking—it was fifty yards’ worth of target shooting if the others hadn’t taken care of the sniper. Or snipers. No way to tell, for sure, if it was one, two or twenty.
Sam scanned the opposite side of the copse, figuring out the best nesting areas if he were the one holed up in the snow, waiting. Watching. The open space made it hard to hide without being buried beneath the surface, but there were a few places that drew his attention. If he used those to base his tactics on, he’d be better prepared.
He glanced at his buddy. “I’ll make a run for the Jeep.”
Ice drew his weapon. “Only one gunshot wound per customer, per visit, and you already claimed yours. So, you’d best keep your ass in one piece.”
Sam nodded, giving Bridgette’s hand a squeeze. He knew by the lack of color in her cheeks and the rapid pace of her breaths, she didn’t like the plan. But letting her get shot wasn’t an option.
“I’ll be fine. Just be ready when I pull up. Listen to Ice. He’ll keep you safe until you can jump into the passenger side.”
A nod. Fuck. He really hated this. Couldn’t tell if she was giving him the silent treatment because he’d somehow pissed her off—all this testosterone Army Ranger crap he was doing to keep her alive but arguably sounding like a drill sergeant who thought she wasn’t capable of figuring anything out for herself—or because she was scared shitless. The kind of scared where people shut down.
She didn’t look as if she’d shut down. She was scanning the area, pausing at the spots he’d already identified as possible hot zones. Her eyes were clear. Focused. Her muscles tensed, but in a way that suggested she was primed for battle. Not at all what he’d expect if she was merely going through the motions.
He cursed. He could worry about what was bothering her later. First, he had to ensure they had a later.
Sam took one last look then ran. Zig-zagging across the ground as best he could, punching through the top layer with every step. The snow tugged at his legs, but he forced them forward. If he slowed down, he’d be an easy target. As it was, his dark leather jacket already stood out against the dawning light and the unearthly glow of the white flakes. Amidst the trees, he’d blended. Out here—glaringly obvious.
A glint from the far side had him lunging to his right. He hit the surface when a shot exploded the spot he would have stepped in if he’d gone left. A loud report echoed behind him—Ice returning fire. Maybe trying to draw the sniper’s attention.
Shit. Even if Ice had moved away from Bridgette, she’d be at risk.
Sam pushed himself up then took off. He gave up running in a pattern, electing to head straight toward the Jeep then diving into the snow after several steps. He’d wait until Ice would fire then run, again, repeating the process until he reached the vehicle.
Another shot hit the other side, the dull impact shaking the chassis. Damn. He’d have to get her Jeep repaired. No way he wanted her looking at bullet holes every day. A constant reminder of what she’d gone through—what she might go through over and over because she’d dedicated her life to putting scum behind bars. The kind that hired a small army of thugs to hunt her down.
The thought made it hard to breathe. Hard to focus on unlocking the door. The realization that she’d have to face this, again—maybe alone—messed with his brain. Blocked the signals from getting through. All he could see was Bridgette. Alone. Dead.
Not on his watch. Fuckers were welcome to try, but they’d never lay another finger on her. Period.
He tried the key, but the lock wouldn’t budge. Most likely frozen shut. He grabbed his gun, raising the butt end of the handle above the glass, when shots echoed from the house. A second later, Hank and Kujo emerged from the sides of the home, rifles notched in their shoulders. They fired, again, then ran over to the vehicles, taking up point on his position.
Sam waited, searching for a glimpse of the sniper. Nothing moved. Nothing sounded in the early morning gray. He edged closer, looking through the windows for cover, when a distant engine growled to life.
Hank and Kujo must have heard it, too. They sprinted forward, fanning out to either side. Sam positioned himself between them, Beretta raised, half praying the sick creep would pop up out of the snow and Sam would have a justified reason to fire. To ensure Bridgette’s life wasn’t challenged, again.
They ran until they reached the road, two tracks carved in the snow their only prize. Red taillights disappeared over a hill in the distance, and Sam knew it was the bastard’s truck.
They surveyed the marks, deciding to head back. Tread prints wouldn’t do much good when they didn’t have any other deciding factors. Hank would call it in. Have forensics make casts, just in case. But, right now, the battle was over.
Sam backtracked, steering off to the right when he came upon another set of prints. They were faint. Hard to follow, but he managed to track them to a small dugout—the sniper’s nest. It was crude—definitely not military grade—but effective. It had hidden the guy well enough he’d escaped.
Sam crouched low, using the tip of his knife to lift the edges of the branches the sniper had laid across the snow for insulation. Something sparkled amidst the green. Sam snagged the object, holding it up by a silver ring with the end of his blade.
Hank knelt beside him. “What’s that?”
Sam turned it over with the knife. “Looks like a lighter, but I’m pretty damn sure it’s a key fob. For a very expensive car.” He moved it closer. “Recognize the insignia?”
“Corvette. Bet my ass it’s a Stingray. Either way, might help us get a lead on this guy.”
Sam smiled. Murder attempt avoided, and a possible lead on the guy or guys who got away. Maybe this hadn’t been the train wreck Sam feared it had been. In fact, they might have gotten their first real break.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Bridgette sat in Hank’s kitchen, coffee mug clasped between her hands, the steam distorting the couple of bubbles that floated across the brown surface. She’d been staring at it ever since Sam had given it to her after things had quieted down, and the police and paramedics had left with the men they’d apprehended. She didn’t know how long it had been, just that she couldn’t seem to focus on anything else—as if the coffee held the answers to all the questions tumbling through her head.
Eight men. Nine if she counted the one who’d gotten away. All coming for her.
If anyone had suggested Alex Stevens would send an arsenal of gang members to kill her a couple of weeks ago, she would have laughed at the idea. Hell, she would have laughed at it two days ago. It was just too…surreal.
She forced herself to swallow, biting back the gagging cough that threatened to rasp free. The last thing she needed was to have the men look at her as if she’d c
ompletely lost her mind. Lost her ability to drink a simple cup of coffee. God knew, she’d already given them plenty to question.
Bridgette cringed inwardly when she reran her actions from this morning. It was bad enough she’d been borderline catatonic last night. Had needed Sam to vanquish her demons—had begged him to make love to her. But this morning…
She’d been fine—had managed to remain calm—until the sniper had landed a slug in the wall between them. After that… She remembered following Sam outside. Weaving their way through the forest. Waiting as he eliminated one threat after another. When he’d told her to run if he got hit, she’d thought he was being overly dramatic. A way to scare her into following his orders without thought, without question.
She’d been wrong. Again.
He’d been serious. Deadly serious, it had turned out. The men had been armed—willing to kill anyone and everyone who got in their way. If Sam and the others weren’t trained soldiers—if they hadn’t faced far graver situations on the battlefield—they all could have been killed. And it would have been her fault.
The guilt. The shame over not telling Sam about the incident in her office building. The fear of having more blood on her hands. All of it had come crashing down on her as the first bullet had struck the drywall.
After that…she’d barely spoken. Barely done anything other than comply. But not because she’d tuned out due to fear. That bullet had somehow flicked a switch inside her brain, and all the memories from that night with Brock had come flooding back. She remembered it vividly, now.
The force of his knuckles against her jaw. The crushing blow of the shelf against her head. How his boot had struck the same spot on her ribs five times before he’d been satisfied she wasn’t getting up. Every detail, every second imprinted on her brain. But it wasn’t just his actions.
