Running Bear (Wounded Warriors Book 1)

by Tunstall,Kit

  Instead, his focus was on Gillian and the future they could have had if he had made a different choice years ago, deciding to do anything but serve his country, or deciding not to volunteer for the enhancement program that would supposedly make him a better soldier. All the different paths he could have taken stretched out before him, and all of them led to Gillian, except this one.

  It was a bitter pill to swallow, and he regretted fiercely what had brought them to this point. In spite of all that, he couldn’t regret the brief time he’d had her in his arms again, and he finally drifted off to sleep as he imagined her in Mexico, wind in her hair as she played in the sand with a little boy who looked a lot like Wyatt.

  It was the best future he could hope for, at least for Gillian. He doubted he had made her pregnant, though they hadn’t bothered with protection, since they’d had none—or even thought about it at the time—but he liked the idea of his legacy continuing, and of Gillian having at least a small piece of him as a consolation prize. She’d be a good mother, and she would raise their child well. It was a comforting fantasy that turned into a vivid dream as he finally fell into a fitful sleep.

  Chapter Seven

  As soon as Gillian awoke, she knew she was alone. There was a complete absence of Wyatt’s presence, telling her he was nowhere in the vicinity and hadn’t simply slipped from the truck. She wasn’t sure how she knew, except she responded to him on a fundamental level, and that response was absent. With a small sigh, she stretched as she sat up, hugging his jacket to her for a moment before finding her clothing. She dressed hastily before looking around the barn from the cab of the truck. Though she knew it was futile, she slipped from the driver’s side and examined the entire barn to ensure he wasn’t inside.

  With no sign of him in the interior, she stepped out and scanned the field around her, along with the gravel road. The heavy rain had stirred up the rocks to reveal mud underneath, and she could make out a line of footprints leading away from the truck. She didn’t have to follow them long to realize he had walked down the road they had taken to get to the barn, likely to connect with the main road. Beyond that, his destination was a mystery.

  Feeling lost and hurt, she stepped back into the barn and closed the door behind her. With nothing else to do, she returned to the truck, and when she stepped into the cab again, she saw the piece of paper Wyatt had left her. She picked it up, uncertain what the numbers meant for a moment before she realized they were points of latitude and longitude.

  There was a small heart in the corner, and it devastated her to see. It was more jarring than a simple goodbye would have been. It was Wyatt’s proof that he still loved her, and he was willing to throw it away on whatever mission he had embarked upon, all without sharing the idea with her or getting any input on the matter.

  She summoned a small shred of hope when she looked at the coordinates again, along with the word Sanctuary underlined three times. Of course she recalled Malcolm calling it that, so these must be the coordinates for the safe house in Mexico. Could it be Wyatt had decided to go there separately from her? Would he be waiting for her when she arrived, maybe thinking it was safer if they traveled separately?

  It seemed like a long shot, but she had nothing else to do. Her other alternative was to return to her life in Spring Hills, where she might or might not be a target of the government, but would certainly be without Wyatt. The coordinates for Sanctuary were her last, tenuous link to the man she loved. As soon as she saw him again, she was going to read him the riot act for making a decision like this without her, but then she was going to throw herself into his arms and make him promise he’d never leave her again.

  With that resolve in mind, she turned on the stolen truck and eased out of the barn, bumping the doors carefully with the vehicle to open them since she hadn’t thought to leave the exit open when she’d reentered the barn earlier. The wood creaked in protest, but the doors swung open, and she was soon back on the gravel road that led to the main highway. It didn’t take long to return to the flow of traffic, which was still sparse this early in the morning, a fact for which she was grateful.

  Even if the government wasn’t looking for her by herself, or expecting her to be traveling solo, she was still driving around in a stolen truck, taken from people they had technically assaulted. It had been self-defense, but she was likely to be arrested if she caught the attention of anyone.

  With that thought in mind, she ditched the truck in a shopping mall as soon as she came to the next large city and took a city bus to the main bus depot. There, she caught a bus to San Diego, pausing briefly to buy snacks and a burner phone from a vending machine. It had a GPS program she downloaded with the included data plan, allowing her to plot a course to Sanctuary. She could only hope Malcolm had Wyatt there with him, or knew his plan and whereabouts.

  Thinking of him had her reaching for the duffel bag beside her, where she had stowed the radio and a few of the guns. She had left the rifles behind, assuming they would be unregistered and untraceable, and would have drawn too much attention to the fact she had weapons in her bag. She had to be breaking several laws with bringing the weapons aboard the bus, especially since they weren’t registered to her, but she felt better having them nearby.

  Wyatt’s coat covered the guns and the radio, and no one had asked to inspect her bag. She still planned to keep it with her every second during the long ride, and she hoped to figure out how to use the radio at some point at one of the stops. She had seen Wyatt assemble it, but she didn’t know the coordinates or the station in which to tune. She wasn’t optimistic that she could figure it out, but she still felt better having the link to Wyatt’s teammates than she did not having it.

  She was still tired after her long night, followed by her early morning lovemaking with Wyatt, and she secured the bag on her left side, between her and the side of the bus, before trying to close her eyes for a small nap. Worry consumed her, both for herself and Wyatt, along with a strong dose of irritation at her mate for having put her in this position without talking to her. Mostly, she just felt frightened and drained, which was a strange combination. It left her feeling hyper, but drowsy. Sleep was a long time coming, and when it did, the state was restless as nightmares plagued her.

  ***

  Getting into Mexico was surprisingly easy, as she discovered two days later. She hadn’t seen further signs or TV warnings about her being a wanted fugitive. Wyatt’s face had also disappeared from the news, and while she should have been encouraged by that, she had a sinking sensation in her belly instead. The closer she drew to Sanctuary, the more convinced she became Wyatt wouldn’t be there. She was starting to suspect he had done something noble, yet idiotic, like turning himself in to protect her.

  She still clung to the hope that she would see him, but it dimmed considerably when she was allowed to cross the border with barely more than a cursory glance at her driver’s license. She didn’t have her passport, so she would find it far harder to return to the United States if she chose to, but she’d worry about that later. First, she had to reach Malcolm’s place and discover if Wyatt waited there for her.

  The first part of the journey was relatively easy, consisting of a system of taxis, public buses, and reasonably well-paved roads. The driving scared her, so when she was riding, she tried to close her eyes and pretend like she was anywhere else. That worked fine until she arrived in a small town at the foot of the mountains called San Sadoval.

  This place was different than the other small towns and larger cities she had been through during the past two days traveling Mexico. There were very few cars, and certainly no taxis that she saw anywhere. The bus immediately turned around after dropping her and two other people at the last stop, heading back the way it had come. She looked at the two people who had gotten off the bus with her, and though they avoided making eye contact, she stepped closer. “Is there somewhere to get transportation from here?”

  The man of the pair gave her look of incomprehe
nsion, and she assumed they didn’t speak English. Her Spanish was limited, but she made a stab at trying. “Autobuses?” She hoped she had pronounced it correctly, and that asking about the bus would at least give them an idea of what she wanted.

  Again, they exchanged a look and shrugged before the woman turned away. The man met her gaze just briefly, saying, “El gato amarillo.”

  She frowned at him, but when she would have asked for clarification, he turned and followed his companion.

  With no alternative and no ideas, she shouldered the duffel bag and started walking through the sleepy streets. There were people visible doing chores or moving about their business, but none of them made eye contact with the strange foreign woman. She probably did stick out visibly in her Western wear. The few people she spotted here wore a mix of Western attire and traditional Mexican clothing. Many of the women wore vibrant scarves and brightly patterned dresses.

  Feeling out of her element, she carefully studied the town as she walked, her heart skipping a beat when she neared an adobe house at the end of the street. Upon closer inspection, she realized it wasn’t a house, but some type of business.

  As she got nearer, she saw the most signs of life she’d seen thus far, and her heart skipped another beat when she rounded the side of the building to find a large mural of a yellow cat with vibrant green eyes painted into a desert scene. The cat wore a sombrero and danced on his hind feet. She looked up at the sign above the building and recognized the words El Gato Amarillo. The yellow cat? That was a rough translation. She doubted she was going to find a bus inside, but perhaps it was a place she could obtain transportation. It was the only lead she had, based solely on information from the man at the bus stop.

  Clutching the handle of the duffel bag with the strap over her shoulder, she pushed through the swinging double doors, which made her feel like she was stepping into an old West saloon. Aside from the swinging doors, the interior bore little resemblance to a western-style club that she had expected. The walls were sandstone, hung with colorful Mexican blankets, and all the tables looked sturdy, as did the chairs. Some of the furnishings were clearly older, but well-maintained, and it didn’t look like the kind of place where a random fistfight might break out over an accusation of cheating during a game of cards.

  It was late in the afternoon, but the place was already half-filled with occupants. It seemed like every eye in the place turned to stare at her as she made her way to the long teak bar, which had the smooth patina of age and the same general air of care as the rest of the furnishings.

  Cautiously, she chose a corner barstool and slid onto it, keeping the duffel bag securely on her lap. She didn’t like sitting with her back to the room, though that reaction was prompted mainly by paranoia. Since being on the run, first with Wyatt and now by herself, she felt like she was being watched constantly, though she doubted that was the case. She raised her chin as the bartender approached, ordering a water.

  He frowned at her. “Drink or get out.” His accent was thick, but he spoke English.

  She resisted the urge to roll her eyes and ordered a shot of tequila that she had no intention of touching as she drank down the water before requesting another. At his suspicious look, she laid a ten-dollar bill on the bar. “Will that cover my tab so far?”

  He grunted before taking the money and stuffing it in his pocket. “We don’t normally take American dollars this far into the interior, but El Jefe will probably make an exception for a pretty gringa like you.”

  She didn’t like the way the bartender leered at her, but she tried to show no reaction as she drank more slowly on this glass of water. Briefly, she remembered she wasn’t supposed to drink the tap water in Mexico, but shrugged off the warning as it surfaced in her mind. In light of the other dangers she’d faced, tainted water seemed negligible.

  When the bartender moved to take care of someone else, she turned to casually survey the room, hoping to find a friendly face. She had no such luck in that department, but she did catch the eye of a man sitting in the corner.

  He looked to be in his late forties or early fifties, with coppery brown skin and a full beard that had not even a hint of gray. His thick mane of hair had strands of silver woven through it though. He wore a white button-down shirt that contrasted nicely with his darker skin, and when he lifted a hand in her direction, waving her over, she saw several rings on his fingers.

  He was obviously someone important, or considered himself important, and while she resented being summoned across the room like a dog, with only the whistle missing to direct her his way, he was the first person who had shown any hint of being willing to engage with her besides the bartender, who only wanted money and would clearly offer no help. With a small sigh of reluctance, she grabbed her water and slid off the stool, clutching the bag as she carefully approached the man who had gestured her forward. When she reached the table, she stood quietly, feeling as though she was being given an audience with the king.

  “Sit, señorita,” he said in near-perfect English, with only a slight accent.

  She did as invited, though it was really more of a silken demand, pulling out the chair and sitting down while still holding the duffel bag. She put her water on the table and waited for him to speak.

  “We don’t often have foreigners visit. What brings you to San Sadoval?”

  “I’m just passing through,” she said carefully.

  He arched a thick brow. “Passing through to where, señorita?”

  She shrugged. “Higher into the mountains.”

  He frowned. “What business have you in the mountains?”

  She paused for a moment to take a sip of water. “What business is that of yours, señor?”

  “Most people call me El Jefe, and the business is mine because I own this territory.”

  Gillian swallowed the lump in her throat, struggling not to show any fear. “I see. Well, El Jefe, I’m simply trying to reach a destination. I have a friend who lives up there.”

  He frowned. “And is your friend a cartel member?”

  She shook her head quickly. “No, of course not.” As she spoke the words, she wondered if she might be wrong about that. Was Malcolm somehow mixed up in the cartels? It seemed doubtful, but she didn’t know him that well. What she knew of him consisted of some email exchanges and a few phone calls.

  His expression changed slightly. “I see. There’s only one other reason to go up there then, but I can’t allow you to pass unless I know what you seek.”

  It was an odd way to phrase it, and she frowned in puzzlement for a moment as she struggled to tell him what she was seeking. How much to reveal to the stranger, who claimed to own the area? From his aura of power, she doubted he was lying to her or exaggerating his importance or stature among the people of San Sadoval, and the area around it. She had a feeling if he wanted to keep her in the area, restricting her travel into the mountains, he’d have no difficulty doing so. Most likely, he’d simply have to snap his fingers, and a contingent of his people would surround her to lock her away. Or do something worse.

  She gulped quietly at the thought before chugging another drink of water, finishing off the glass. “I’m looking for Sanctuary.” It was a total stab in the dark, but the way he had phrased the question had been almost like he was looking for a password.

  He nodded just once. “I know where you seek. The man who lives there came to me to seek my permission to establish himself and his residence. We share the jaguar.” As he spoke, his dark eyes flashed golden, changing slightly, and for just a moment, his face elongated to a muzzle before returning to his human features.

  Her eyes widened with comprehension, and she nodded. Malcolm had never told her what type of shifter he was, but he must be a jaguar. Perhaps that was why El Jefe had allowed him to live in his territory, or maybe Malcolm had done a favor for him. It wasn’t her business. She simply needed to get to Sanctuary to see if Wyatt was there.

  “Has anyone else come through seeking Sa
nctuary?”

  He gave her an enigmatic smile. “Those who seek don’t always find. In your case, señorita, I can help you find the place you’re looking for. It’s a long journey over difficult roads, so rest here tonight as my guest, and I’ll have someone take you up the mountain tomorrow.”

  She shifted impatiently, wanting to get underway right then. “But—”

  He lifted a hand, shaking his head just once. “I insist. It’s unsafe to travel at night, even when you are the cartel. It’s not just my people you have to worry about. There are animals and worse in the mountains. It would be most foolish of you to try to slip away and go on your own. Wait for morning, and you’ll be where you seek by tomorrow afternoon.”

  With a small sigh, trying not to show her irritation, she nodded. “Is there an inn nearby?”

  He shook his head. “San Sadoval is not set up for tourists. However, I would be pleased to offer you a room at my hacienda.”

  She was nervous about the idea, but Gillian was certain offending El Jefe would be perilous to her health. She took some comfort in the guns resting on her lap, able to feel the hard contours through the duffel bag. They were probably a gossamer security, but it was all she had. Summoning a smile of gratitude that she didn’t really feel, she nodded. “Thank you for your hospitality, El Jefe.”

  ***

  Somewhat to Gillian’s surprise, El Jefe had been a perfect gentleman, and she had felt safe in the room he had assigned her—at least once she had locked the door and shoved a heavy piece of furniture in front of it. As far as she could tell, her room had remained undisturbed all night, and she should know. She’d spent most of the night staring at the door while holding one of the pistols in her hand. She had nodded off once or twice, curled up on the chaise lounge she had positioned for the task, but never for more than a few minutes.