by Devney Perry
THE OUTPOST
Copyright © 2017 by Devney Perry
All rights reserved.
ISBN-10: 0-9983583-3-9
ISBN-13: 978-0-9983583-3-8
No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Editor: Elizabeth Nover, Razor Sharp Editing, www.razorsharpediting.com
Cover Artwork © Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations, www.okaycreations.com
Proofreader: Julie Deaton, www.facebook.com/jdproofs
Formatting: Champagne Book Design, www.champagnebookdesign.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Other Books
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
The Bitterroot Inn
About the Author
Jamison Valley Series
The Coppersmith Farmhouse
The Clover Chapel
The Lucky Heart
The Outpost
The Bitterroot Inn
“Ms. MacKenzie? They’re ready for you.”
I nodded at the woman who had come to fetch me from my dressing room, then slid off my tall director’s chair. As I followed the woman through the labyrinth of hallways in the studio, I studied her clothes. Her all-black ensemble made me jealous and even more irritated with my colorless outfit. With my stark-white blouse and beige pencil skirt, the only color I had on was the fire-engine-red soles of my patent white Louboutin heels.
My stylist was getting an email the second I was done for the day. No more light colors for public outings. Or anything, really. The bright clothing contrasted too much with my mood.
Black.
We needed to incorporate more black.
“Can I get you anything?” my escort asked over her shoulder.
“Water, please.”
She smiled before taking a sharp right turn, leading me out onto the television set where I’d be spending the next two hours taping an interview. I winced and held up a hand to shade my eyes as they adjusted to the beaming spotlights overhead. Why did they always keep these sets so hot? Ten seconds and sweat was already dripping down my sides.
My escort left me with another woman, a pretty brunette, as she went to fetch my water.
“Sabrina MacKenzie,” the brunette said. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Bryce Ryan.”
“Oh, uh, hi,” I stammered, reaching out to shake my interviewer’s hand.
She grinned. “You were expecting a man, weren’t you?”
“Guilty.” My exaggerated frown made her laugh.
She turned, and I followed her to a pair of seats staged opposite one another and sat down. “It happens all the time. I’ve grown to enjoy the shock on people’s faces when they realize I’m a woman.”
That was a bit twisted, but I just smiled and left that comment hanging. My escort returned with my water and I sipped it while Bryce thumbed through her interview cards. I was reserving judgment on Bryce’s journalistic skills until after the interview, but I had a feeling those cards contained nothing but predictable questions.
How does it feel to have taken down a criminal empire?
Were you surprised when you were nominated for the award?
Are you actually considering giving up your career as an investigative journalist to keep writing smut?
Eleven interviews and no one had bothered asking me anything unique. I’d been praised for my investigative journalism and judged for my fiction. Heaven forbid I author something that women might actually enjoy reading. And to include descriptive sex scenes? Scandalous.
“Romance novels?” Bryce asked.
Oh, boy. Here we go.
I smiled sweetly. “I do love a good romance novel. Especially if there’s a little erotica mixed in too.”
She grinned. “Sounds like I’ll be buying your novel tonight.”
Maybe being interviewed by Bryce wouldn’t be so bad after all.
“Bryce,” the producer called from behind the row of cameras. “We’re all set.”
“Thanks.” She waved over the hair and makeup team. My blond hair got fluffed and placed while her skin was dusted and blushed. With both of our lips recolored, we settled in for the interview. The cameraman gave us his countdown and then Bryce did her introduction before turning to me.
“You’ve had quite the year, Sabrina. Just a little over one year ago, you wrote an article for The Seattle Times that shut down the biggest gun-smuggling operation on the upper West Coast. Then you disappeared for six months, only to reemerge as a best-selling romance novelist. You’ve just won a Pulitzer Prize for investigative reporting and I’ve heard that there are talks of making your book into a blockbuster. How does it feel to have reached such success in your career?”
“Thank you. It’s been wonderful, albeit very busy.” I smiled and glanced at my lap to hide the flash of pain that crashed through my heart. Nothing about my successes gave me joy. Talking about my accomplishments just reminded me of how much I had lost.
“You’ve made some major achievements since you came back to Seattle,” Bryce said. “Most journalists, including this one, would kill to be in your position. How does it feel?”
I gave her my rehearsed answer. “It’s been incredible. Surreal, really. I’m still in shock at how much has happened over the last year.”
“I can imagine.” She flipped to a new note card. “Let’s talk more about the article.”
My cheerful face belied my true feelings. I was miserable on this television set. I was exhausted from talking about that damn article. I was done having people fuss over its success.
Everyone thought it was the article that had changed my life.
It wasn’t.
It had been the six months I’d spent in Montana.
It had been the six months I’d spent with him.
Thirteen months earlier . . .
Heroines and Villains
The Seattle Times
April 3
By Sabrina MacKenzie
When I was 16, my father took me with him to the DMV to get my driver’s license. I remember the heat radiating off the black parking lot as we walked inside the courthouse. I remember the caustic smell of hot tar and worrying that my flip-flops would melt if I stood still for too long. I remember my thighs burning as I jogged up the 18 stone steps that led to the imposing building’s front doors. The DMV was located on the top floor of the courthouse and Dad asked if I wanted to take the stairs or the elevator. I chose the elevator, not wanting to be sweaty or red-faced when I took my picture.
We got stuck in that elevator.
For 45 minutes, Dad and I were trapped inside that hanging box w
ith three cops. A good-guy trifecta. Sitting on the cramped elevator floor, Dad chatted with the three uniformed men about their careers while I sat in silence. For 45 minutes, I was in awe, not even slightly panicked that we were stuck in the elevator. Why? Because I was with heroes. Because I couldn’t get enough of their real-life adventures. Because their actual accounts were far more entertaining than any fictional tale I’d ever been told.
By the time the elevator jolted to life, a reporter had been born. I craved more of their stories. I craved a story of my own. I’ve long since admired the men—and women—in uniform who fight to protect us from danger. And although a career in law enforcement or the military was not part of my destined path, I have dreamed of doing my part.
This is my story. As you may have guessed, its heroine is me, and this past fall, I set out to catch a villain.
Swiping the steam off the bathroom mirror, I took a hard look at myself. The grime had been scrubbed from my hair, and my fingernails were no longer caked with dried blood, but I was still a complete mess. The angry red bruises around my throat would take weeks to disappear and the gash on my lip was likely going to scar.
“What the hell did you do, Sabrina?” I muttered, my voice scratchy and rough. The woman in the mirror didn’t answer, not that she needed to.
What had I done?
I had written an incredibly condemning article vilifying a prominent Seattle family tied to the Russian mafia. Basically, I’d waltzed right into the middle of a hornet’s nest and started poking the wasps.
It was no surprise that I’d been stung.
Gently pulling and prodding my face, I inspected my injuries. Anton Federov, my “boyfriend,” had done a number on me. Both of my eyes were red and swollen. I had a gash on one cheek and another by my hairline. My bottom lip was huge and split on one side. My face felt five times its normal size but what hurt the worst were my ribs. Anton had landed one good kick to my right side, and even the smallest movement sent sharp, stabbing pains through my torso.
The fact that I’d been able to escape before Anton had been able to rape me was nothing short of a miracle. That I’d made it out of my apartment before he could beat me to death could only be credited to divine intervention.
I just hoped that my lucky streak would continue and the evidence I’d sent to the FBI this morning would be enough to keep Anton behind bars for the rest of his miserable life. Because until he was put away, I would be hiding out with my best friend, Felicity, in her small hometown of Prescott, Montana.
Shaking off thoughts of Anton, I averted my eyes from the mirror and went about blow-drying my light-blond hair. With it floating down my back, I rubbed on some lotion and dressed in a pair of black leggings and a gray hoodie. Then I took one last glance in the mirror, wincing again at how awful I looked, and limped out of the bathroom.
Two steps out the bathroom door, I froze. A crowd of strange faces was all aimed my way. Faces that had not been here when I’d gone into the bathroom.
Ignoring their eyes, I hobbled down the hallway, keeping my eyes pinned to Felicity’s as the five people in the kitchen watched my labored steps.
Felicity’s ice-blue gaze was full of worry and concern. Her hair was all puffed up, likely from running her hands through her long blond tresses. I hated that I’d caused her stress by coming here but I hadn’t had anywhere else to run. Montana had seemed like the best place to hide out from the Federovs, and even though it was the middle of the night and I’d just met her boyfriend, Silas, I felt safe in his home.
That was, until three strangers showed up.
I was trying to stay under the radar here. The fewer people that knew I was hiding out here, the better. What were Silas and Felicity thinking, bringing others into this mess?
Before I could ask, Felicity started introductions. “Sabrina, this is my brother, Jess. Remember I told you he’s also the Jamison County sheriff?”
What the hell! She’d called in a cop?
“Hi.” I dismissed the sheriff and frowned at Felicity. “Did you forget I was in hiding? Who are these people? And you brought in a cop? We can’t report any of this.”
“Don’t worry,” Jess said, stopping my rant. “I’m off the record.”
I gave him a wary glance, then relaxed at his obvious sincerity. Jess would keep my whereabouts a secret. I took a brief moment to study my best friend’s brother. I’d seen a picture of Jess once, years ago when Felicity and I had been in college, but he was all grown now, not the teen from the photograph. Jess’s light-blue eyes were honest and matched Felicity’s, but that was where their similarities ended. Though, he was just as attractive as his sister was beautiful.
“This is Maisy Holt,” Felicity said, directing my attention to the woman standing between Jess and Silas. “She used to be a nurse, so she’s going to take a look at your injuries.”
“Thanks,” I told Maisy. “I’d appreciate that.” When I’d gotten to Silas’s ranch, Felicity had insisted I go to the hospital, but I’d refused. Hospitals asked questions and made records. I couldn’t take that chance, but I needed someone with medical experience to look me over. I knew my face would heal but my ribs and ankle were a concern. The last thing I needed was a broken bone.
Maisy gave me a tiny wave and a gentle smile that lit up her face. Her big doe eyes were a beautiful mixture of gray and blue that complemented her white-blond bob perfectly.
“And this is Beau Holt, Maisy’s brother,” Felicity continued. “We were in high school together.”
My eyes raked over the other man in the room. He stepped away from the counter he had been slouched against and stood to his full height of seriously tall. My eyes traveled up and up, finally finding his, and once they did, I couldn’t tear them away.
Beau’s eyes were like the color of the ocean during a storm. My face flushed and my heart beat like a bass drum as I stared into his blue-gray gaze. Attraction mixed with fear and pain and stress. I had so many emotions whirling that I stood frozen. Brain-blanked. Mesmerized.
Those eyes were a beautiful distraction from the mess that was my life.
He took another step, his mass looming closer, and I flinched. The trauma from this morning’s attack was too fresh to stop my knee-jerk reaction. Beau’s dark lashes narrowed and his stern look hardened to a scowl as I snapped out of my trance.
Forcing my eyes away from his, I took in the rest of his face and enormous body. He had dark-brown hair, messy and a little too long on top. His angular jaw was covered in a thick beard. He had a straight nose that sat dead center between his high cheekbones. How tall is he? I was five seven and he looked to be almost a foot taller.
Beau’s features reminded me of a Spartan warrior. Long, long legs with beefy thighs. Broad shoulders and bulging arms made of muscles layered upon muscles. I’d bet my life’s savings that underneath his faded jeans and simple black thermal he resembled King Leonidas himself.
Scowl and all, Beau Holt was gorgeous.
The flame in my face burned hotter and I swallowed hard, pulling myself out of momentary lust to find my voice. “Nice to meet you.” His face didn’t soften and he didn’t respond so I assumed my own scowl. “I get why the cop and the nurse are here but what’s your role in all of this, Goliath?”
“Sabrina,” Felicity hissed.
“What?” I pretended I didn’t know how much my tendency to nickname everyone embarrassed my friend.
She opened her mouth, likely to scold me, but Silas interrupted. “Beau’s here to help figure out where we can stash you for a while.”
“Stash me? I thought I could just hide out at Felicity’s place for a while.”
Jess and Beau declared “No” at the same time Silas scoffed “Not happening.”
Before I could ask why not, Felicity pulled me further into the kitchen and slid out a stool from underneath the granite island. “Come sit down. Maisy can get to work on you while we all brainstorm what to do.”
I wasn’t sure why we needed to
brainstorm. What was so complicated about me camping out in front of her television for the foreseeable future?
“How about we get the full story first?” Jess asked. “I’d like to hear this from the beginning.”
I took my seat, glad to have the weight off my ankle. I’d already given Silas and Felicity the whole story but Jess’s tone was firm. I’d be telling my tale again. So I filled my lungs as best I could with aching ribs and wasted no time summing up the mess I’d made of my life.
“I’m an investigative reporter for The Seattle Times. Last fall, I took an assignment to dig into a well-off family suspected of smuggling weapons into the U.S. through their shipping company for the Russian mafia.”
“You’re messed up with the Russian mob?” Jess asked.
I nodded and waited for his inevitable mutter of “Fuck me.” I’d gotten that a lot tonight.
At the time I’d taken the Federov story, it had seemed like such a brilliant idea. I’d thought it would be my one big chance to make a difference. To make the world safer by uncoupling a link in a chain of organized crime. I’d have the chance to keep guns out of the hands of innocent children.
For months, I’d never once regretted my decision or my actions. Today, I’d learned that old adage was true: What a difference a day makes. Now that I’d been beaten and forced to run away from my home, regret was settling in my stomach like day-old Chinese food.
“Keep talking,” Beau rumbled in his rich baritone.
I took another semi-deep breath, flinching when my ribs stung. “Long story short, I went undercover and started dating a man named Anton Federov. His family owns the shipping company I was investigating. His father, Viktor, is the CEO. Anton and his brother, Ivan, run all of the operations. I had seen Anton casually a few times before I started on the story, so I decided to use my connection in hopes of getting inside information.”
Grumbles from the men filled the air.
“Does this hurt?” Maisy asked, pausing my story. She was palpating my ribs but even her slight touch caused me to wince.
