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  Lethal Balance

  Sons of the Survivalist: 2

  Cherise Sinclair

  VanScoy Publishing Group

  About Lethal Balance

  Sons of the Survivalist 2

  Ms. Sinclair is a comfort read for me. She knows how to give me heroes who can take charge but in that protective, not possessive way that I love and heroines who may suffer but have that inner strength that makes them survivors. ~ After Dark Booklovers

  His name means hunter.

  Once the best assassin in black ops, Cazador is now the best at saving lives. His path has changed from seeking bloody vengeance to running a health clinic in Rescue, Alaska.

  * * *

  He will never again risk loving someone he can’t protect.

  His mother and sister were murdered in front of him, his fiancée slaughtered in a war zone. Despite his popularity with women, he’s determined to remain unattached. His heart can bear no more loss.

  * * *

  Unfortunately, the universe isn’t listening.

  First, his brother hires JJ, a fiery-haired, tough cop who lives on the edge of danger and has the biggest heart of anyone he knows. And then, his disreputable past returns in the shape of an adorable, foul-mouthed nine-year-old daughter. Now he has two loved ones to protect. An impossible task, because…

  * * *

  Life is dangerous. Especially in Alaska.

  * * *

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  Lethal Balance

  Copyright © 2019 by Cherise Sinclair

  ISBN: 978-1-947219-17-5

  Published by VanScoy Publishing Group

  Cover Art: I'm No Angel Designs

  Edited by Red Quill Editing, LLC

  Content Editor: Bianca Sommerland

  Photographer: Kruse Images & Photography

  Cover Model: Craig Gierish

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, business establishments, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this eBook only. No part of this work may be used, stored, reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without prior written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews as permitted by law.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Excerpt from Master of the Mountain

  Also by Cherise Sinclair

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  As always and ever, so many thanks go to my critique partners, Fiona Archer and Monette Michaels.

  Hugs and more hugs to my amazing beta readers: Barb Jack, Marian Shulman, Lisa White, and to my beloved psychology expert, Ruth Reid. Thank you!

  My Alaska authorities, JJ Foster and Kathleen Cole, didn’t let me get away with any cheechako goofs and have enlivened the story—and my life—with fun tidbits. (Any remaining mistakes are my very own). So many thanks go to JJ and Kathleen.

  Ekatarina Sayanova and her Red Quill editors, Rebecca Cartee and Tracy Damron-Roelle, who do such a brilliant job of catching errors, worked long hours to help me get this book out before the holidays. Thank you so much!

  Finally, I want to thank you, my readers, for your enthusiasm for the Sons of the Survivalist series. Y’all are the best!

  Prologue

  Twenty-three years ago

  * * *

  In your darkest hour, when the demons come. Call on me, brother, and we will fight them together ~ Unknown

  * * *

  He was a crappy son. And brother.

  Miguel Ramirez, now called Cazador, sat on a moss-covered log and dangled a stick in the stream. Tiny fish mouthed the bark before flitting away. Disappearing.

  Like Mamá and Rosita had. Because they’d died.

  His little sister’s screams still filled his nightmares.

  Caz hammered his fist on his thigh until his leg throbbed painfully. He should hurt. If he hadn’t played soccer after school, maybe they’d be alive. Maybe he could’ve kept that man from shooting Mamá.

  Maybe, maybe, maybe.

  He’d told Rosita to lock doors. Told her and told her and told her. He’d told Mamá to make sure no one followed her home after she got off work from the bar. A breath of a sob shuddered through him. I tried.

  His trying hadn’t been enough.

  That man had shot them. Mamá and Rosita died.

  Before Papá left, he’d said Miguel was the man of the family. A tear dropped onto his jeans, a dark spot. He’d let Papá down, let them all down.

  Now, Miguel had a new family. And a new name. Cazador. Just like Kana was now Bull, Derek was Hawk. Gabe was still Gabe because he was stubborn that way.

  Mako had rescued them.

  When the foster father had tried to make Hawk have sex—pulled Hawk’s pants down and everything—Gabe and Bull and Cazador had attacked him. A big man—Mako—heard them yelling, walked in, and finished everything by punching the foster father. As Caz and the others started edging toward the door to escape to the streets, Mako asked if they wanted to go away with him. He said he’d raise them, if that’s what they wanted.

  Cazador looked around. All he could see were trees. All he could hear was the low gurgle of the river. No wonder Mako said social workers wouldn’t find them. Not here in Alaska in the middle of nothing.

  Caz didn’t want to like the other guys or Mako. Not any of them. They’d probably die, too, cuz he couldn’t protect them; he was the littlest. Hawk called him “the baby” since Cazador was only eight. Nine, today.

  Stupidass nine-year-old Hawk wasn’t all that cool, the way he cried at night. When Gabe tried to talk to him about it, the pendejo had hit him. Caz snorted. Gabe had knocked Hawk on his ass.

  Gabe was all right. He was ten, and they all did what he said. Because he always seemed to know what to do.

  Hawk was a stupidass. Well, maybe not. He’d jumped into the river and saved a fawn that had its leg stuck. Caz would’ve, but he didn’t know how to swim. His shoulders slumped. Hawk wasn’t the only stupidass.

  And unlike the rest of them, Hawk hoarded his treats, although he’d shared a candy bar with Caz last week. Yeah, sometimes, he wa
s all right.

  Bull was fun. Always laughing and telling jokes. Only, he had a temper too. He’d knocked Gabe into a tree when Gabe kept teasing him. And sometimes, his face got sad, and he just went and stared at the river.

  Kinda like Caz was doing now.

  Behind Caz, something snapped. He tensed and twisted to look.

  Not a bear. It was Mako—who was almost as big as a bear. The sarge never made any noise in the woods. He must’ve busted a branch on purpose to let Caz know he was there. He carried a couple of fishing poles and a tackle box.

  Caz scowled and turned his back. Yet…he kinda hoped Mako would stay.

  Mako did.

  The log sagged as the sarge settled next to Caz and made him feel even littler. Mako was tall and huge with muscles. His really short hair was going gray, and his skin was lined and tanned almost as dark as Caz’s. His eyes were blue and scary, like he’d seen some bad shit. He’d been a soldier, like, forever, so he probably had.

  “Your food’s still on the table, boy.”

  Caz shrugged although his stomach rumbled.

  “Gotta say, getting pissed off about birthday cake is new.” Mako baited the fishing hook and dropped it into the river. “Did Gabe get the day wrong?”

  “No.” Caz scowled and picked up the other rod. Baited it. He’d just learned how. Too many things to learn. His English was still crappy, too, mostly when he tried to talk fast. “It’s today.”

  “Did Bull misspell your name?”

  Cazador. It meant hunter in Spanish. He’d chosen it when Mako told the boys they needed new names in case someone looked for them. Although Mako figured the foster father in Los Angeles would just say the kids ran away. “Bull spelled it right.”

  Bull was cool the way he liked feeding people. He’d made the cake and even decorated it.

  Holding the fishing pole, Cazador frowned. It’d been rude to run out of the cabin. He eyed the sarge to see how mad he was. Cool or not, Mako didn’t take any shit. Yesterday, Gabe mouthed off and got tossed in the river. And the water was like ice. “I just…”

  He could feel when Mako turned to look at him. “Yeah?”

  “No quiero…I do not want to like them. The boys. I do not want a family. I had a family, and they…”

  “They died?” Mako didn’t bullshit around saying they’d “passed” or “went to heaven”. Died.

  Caz nodded. “Mi hermana, she more little than me. I not protect her or Mamá.”

  “What happened to them?” Mako reeled in his line, sent it out again.

  “Mamá and Rosita come home with groceries, and man come in. A druggie.” The river seemed to turn red, dark, and ugly. “I come inside. Hear it. The gun.” The gun fired, and Caz was running into the house, into the kitchen. Mamá lay on the floor, and her pink shirt, the one she liked, was all bloody. “He shoot Mamá.”

  “Shit, that’s rough, kid.” A big hand squeezed his shoulder, then Mako cast the line again. “It’s not easy when crap like that happens out of the blue.”

  Caz saw it again, like in his nightmares, how he’d grabbed a knife off the counter and charged.

  The words came out slow. “I take knife. And…” He shook his head when the words didn’t line up. But Mako should know what a loser Caz was. If he sent Caz back to L.A., it would be what Caz deserved.

  “Yeah? Knife versus pistol—the pistol usually wins.”

  The gun had made that noise again, like a sharp firecracker, and his head exploded with pain. “He shoot me.” Caz touched the side of his head, the long scar from the bullet plowing through skin and hair. “I fall down, and he shoot Rosita.”

  Because Cazador had failed.

  The grunt Mako gave sounded like pain.

  Caz held very still and asked the question he’d never been able to ask anyone else. “Did he shoot her because me?” Was it his fault?

  The scraping sound was Mako rubbing his chin. He shaved every morning, but his stubble showed up fast. He shook his head. “Doubt it, Caz. After he shot your mom, he couldn’t leave witnesses behind. Not you or your sister. And a druggie? Most likely he was shootin’ everything in sight.”

  “Oh.” The dirty knot in his chest loosened a little. But if he’d moved faster, been better, maybe they’d be alive. He hadn’t been…enough.

  Mako recast toward quieter water under a tree. “Sounds like you left today because you don’t want a family. At least not one you gotta protect.”

  “Sí.”

  “I get that.” Mako turned his gaze up, watching something.

  Caz looked. Wide black wings in the blue sky. White head. An eagle.

  “Women and kids… A man does everything he can to protect them. They’re our reason for being.”

  Caz nodded. It’s what was in his heart. What he’d never been able to say.

  “We got no women or children here,” Mako said.

  What were Hawk and Gabe and Bull? And Caz? “I am nine.”

  “You and the other boys aren’t children—not any longer.”

  Es verdad. It was true. Living on the street changed a kid.

  “By the time I get through with you, it’ll take a fuck of a lot to kill you.” Mako reeled in his hook and rose. “A man needs his team at his back. You could do worse than Hawk, Gabe, and Bull.”

  The other three boys. At his back. Guarding him as he guarded them. They’d already done it once with that perv in the foster home. Not a family—a team.

  “Sí.” No, he needed to use the English. “Okay.” He looked up. “Is cake left?”

  “Yep.” Mako pulled him to his feet. “Let’s go eat.”

  Chapter One

  ~ Twenty-three years later ~

  * * *

  Cutting his throat is only a momentary pleasure and is bound to get you talked about. ~ Robert Heinlein

  * * *

  After closing his medical clinic for the night, Cazador had settled down at his favorite corner table in his brother’s roadhouse for a well-deserved beer. The big barroom was warm against the increasing chill of an Alaskan autumn, and the lingering aromas from the restaurant section made him wish he’d gotten here earlier. Bull and his chefs were great cooks.

  Even nicer, Caz’d found a gorgeous woman to join him. He smiled at the pretty brunette sitting at his table. Conversation, a good beer, probably some fun to be had later. The perfect prescription for contentment. Fleeting, but that was the way Caz wanted it. No complications, no entanglements, no relationship.

  “Please step out of my way.” A young man’s voice rose above the noise in the busy barroom.

  Caz turned.

  Felix, one of the waiters, was being harassed by two dumbasses. From the stink, they were probably fishermen.

  “Look at the pretty boy. I think you should go back to San Francisco or whatever faggot place you came from.” The big bald drunk gripped Felix’s glittery purple shirt and gave him a shove.

  Felix stumbled back a step.

  The bearded, potbellied man followed and grabbed a beer off Felix’s tray. “Thanks, pretty boy. Appreciate it.”

  Felix glanced at the bar, but Caz’s brother Bull wasn’t there. Probably in the back getting supplies for the bar.

  Caz scowled. His shit list was short, but bigots and bullies were near the top. Besides, his brother considered his employees as extended family—which made them Caz’s too.

  Rising, he patted the hand of the lovely brunette. “Excuse me, please. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He didn’t wait for her reply. Joining Felix, he smiled politely at the two bullies. “Leave the wait staff alone, please.”

  Baldy leaned forward, mud-brown eyes squinting in anger. “Butt out, beaner. What? Are we bothering your boyfriend?”

  At a nearby table, Zappa from the gas station gave a loud snort. “Dude, what’ve you been smoking? The doc there goes through women like a bear through blueberries. You should be so lucky.”

  Unfortunately, dumb went hand-in-hand with prejudice, and the
bigots weren’t about to see reason.

  He’d give it one more try. “Gentlemen, if you harass the wait staff, you’ll get kicked out. Just a warning.”

  “I don’t listen to spics. Get outta here.” Baldy rammed his hand into Caz’s shoulder, pushing him back a step.

  There—Baldy’d made the first move. Having a brother who was Chief of Police meant Caz usually made a token effort to behave.

  He let himself stagger back a step. Then—accidentally, of course—he bumped Felix’s tray hard enough to knock the drinks onto the bullies.

  As they roared in wet outrage, Caz swung Felix out of the kill zone. “Go get Bull, sí?” That would get the young man out of danger.

  “You fucker.” Potbelly’s beer-wet face was dark purple. High blood pressure. Should be on medication. He swung at Caz.

  Caz ducked, stepped in, and punched. His fist sank nearly to the pendejo’s backbone. Pitiful. “You should do sit-ups,” Caz advised as the man folded in half, wheezing in pain.

  “Fucking beaner!” Baldy yanked a long blade from his hip sheath and swung wildly.

  Dancing back, Caz kicked a chair at Baldy, which knocked him back against the log wall.