Master of Freedom: A Mountain Masters Novella Page 21

  Rescue was the last hope.

  Surely the prison riot had been stopped. Surely they’d discovered inmates had escaped. And Karen and Gin had been taken.

  Her eyes stung with tears. Had they found Sawyer?

  He’d fought so hard, using the murderous skills he’d spoken of in their sessions. The inmate today wasn’t the first man he’d slain in hand-to-hand combat. He’d never wanted to kill again, had been glad to be out of the military, but he had killed for her, trying to save her. And he’d died. Oh, Sawyer.

  Atticus, I’m so sorry.

  Lordy, she hurt, inside and out. Blood trickled from her skinned, gashed knees. How often had she fallen? Her hands were scraped raw. Branches had torn at her face and arms. Her shirt was ripped open; Pit had wanted access to her breasts. Her lower lip was split, her cheek bruised, one eye swollen partly shut.

  Could be worse, she tried to tell herself. Only…the future didn’t hold much hope.

  The convicts were hurrying to reach their pickup location before dark, which meant they hadn’t had time to do more than grope her, but tonight…would be bad.

  She glanced at Karen. The other woman was in a fugue state, eyes dull and hopeless. She’d given up.

  The light brightened for a moment, and Gin looked up. Above the western mountains, the sun was setting, taking her hopes with it.

  * * * *

  Wyatt had led them up the trail at a pace not healthy for man or beast, although the horses were holding up well. Atticus wiped sweat from his face and muttered apologies to Festus. He heard Morgan doing the same with his mount.

  Trigger trotted at the rear. Fucking dog. They’d left him tied up at the Mastersons’, and he’d slipped his collar and appeared on the trail half an hour later. Now they were stuck with him.

  Atticus couldn’t slow down.

  A prison riot. Sawyer, my brother, keep your head down. Stay safe.

  He stared out at the conifer-covered mountains. Valleys formed dark green stripes; granite glinted in the sunlight. Gin was out in that damned wilderness. Being roughed up. Hurt. Possibly raped.

  Pray God the convicts hadn’t taken the time to stop, but fuck… His hand clenched on the reins as he drove the thought away. Be alive, counselor. Anything else we can work through.

  Urgency coiled in his gut.

  After the inmates met up with their ride, there’d be no need to handicap themselves with hostages. Once on their own turf, they could get anything they wanted.

  We need to move faster.

  But the Mastersons and Atticus were covering ground at an incredible pace. The Mastersons had grown up in these mountains. They’d hiked, fished, hunted, and led wilderness groups all over this area. But they couldn’t work miracles and the sun was setting.

  Off and on, helicopters buzzed past, their effectiveness limited by the forest canopy and the huge amount of area to cover.

  At the summit where the trail forked, Wyatt pulled his horse to a stop and shoved his Stetson up to give Atticus a look. “Need a decision here. Left or right?”

  Atticus moved the buckskin beside him. “Give me a rundown.”

  Pointing to the left, Wyatt said, “All forest. Small trails. A couple paths come out on Argyll Road; more emerge on to Bent Hill Road.” He nodded toward Banner Mountain on the right, then scowled. “Atticus, could the bastards manage to set up a copter pickup? Prisoners can’t communicate easily, can they?”

  “Anything can be organized with a smuggled-in cell phone. They’ve had everything else arranged like clockwork.” Atticus scowled.

  “A copter could fly under radar through the valleys,” Wyatt said.

  “If they hike through the Green Creek area, they’ll reach the backside of Banner Mountain. There are wide, flat clearings where a copter can land.” Morgan tossed Atticus a piece of beef jerky and added, “Search and Rescue used one last year for an emergency pickup.”

  “True that.” Wyatt pulled on his thick mustache. “They’d have to traverse the Green Creek ravine. Got an old cable and plank footbridge but the wood rotted. It’s blocked off to hikers, but that wouldn’t stop fugitives. Might slow the cops since no dogs or ATVs could use it.”

  The thought of the two terrified women being forced across a chasm… God, Gin. His mouth tasted of despair as Atticus stared at the two trails. Choosing was a crapshoot. If he was wrong… “We’re already close to Banner Mountain past the Green Creek ravine, correct? This trail to the right intersects the route?”

  “You nailed it.” Wyatt lifted his chin. “Your woman, Ware. Your call.”

  If they finished this, she was damn well going to be his woman. The vow didn’t ease the constriction in his chest. He checked the sky. Sunset was in about an hour. Would the assholes risk a night copter landing?

  They would.

  “Virgil should have enough men to cover the other trails, especially if dogs keep him straight.” Maybe. There were a hell of a lot of mountain paths terminating on the small county roads. Atticus pulled off his hat and swiped his arm over his forehead. “Let’s take the area where the dogs can’t go. But if we’re wrong…”

  Gin and the other woman would pay the price.

  “Pa always said—if not overused—an honest prayer would be heard in heaven.” Morgan glanced up at the sky. “So put in a word for us, old man.”

  Atticus nodded, motioned to Wyatt to lead off, and nudged Festus. At a fast walk, they started down the backside of the mountain and into the growing shadows.

  * * * *

  After the bridge incident, the convicts had chosen a terrifying trail down steep switchbacks into a mountain valley. Gin’s short-heeled pumps weren’t anything close to hiking boots. From the slick feel, blisters on her toes and heels had broken open and were bleeding.

  “Here. This is the place.” Slash led the way out of the trees and stopped.

  In the gray twilight, a mountain valley opened up, treeless, wide, and flat. Gin’s hopes slid down further into hell. The prisoners had said a helicopter would pick them up. This must be the site. As freezing wind whipped at her clothes and hair, she shivered from the cold. From the fear.

  The rest of the inmates and Karen stopped next to Slash.

  “Viper called it right—shouldn’t be any problem landing here.” The scar across Slash’s upper lip pulled his smile into a snarl. “Now we wait.”

  “Let’s get our asses out of the wind. And out of sight.” Crack turned in a circle, stopping to slap Karen. “Don’t eyeball me, cunt.”

  Flinching at her coworker’s low cry and hopeless weeping, Gin forced herself to stay put. She’d tried to help Karen when the woman had refused to step onto the horrible broken bridge. Crack and Stub had taken turns punching and kicking until both women were curled up and sobbing. Then they’d shoved them onto the bridge, taking bets whether one would fall when they got to the parts with only cable and no planks.

  She’d hated them so much right then.

  She wanted them dead. Wanted Atticus to come and kill them for her. Wanted him to save her. Just…just wanted him. Where are you?

  As a detective, he’d have been notified of the riot and escape by now, surely. He’d come after the escapees—and her. He wouldn’t stop. Would never give up on finding her.

  No matter what the inmates did to her, even if they killed her, Atticus would find her. The certainty was a tiny trickle of warmth within her.

  “There’s shelter over there.” Stub pointed.

  A line of granite rocks looked like fifteen-foot fingers extending out of the ground. The curved tops were pink with the last of the setting sun.

  “Let’s go.” Slash led the way.

  Crack jerked the rope, and Gin staggered after him.

  By the time they reached the edge of the meadow, Gin was shaking with the cold. The massive boulders, scattered here and there as if a giant had been playing marbles, loomed over them as the inmates dragged her and Karen deeper into their shelter.

  When Crash dropped the r
ope attached to her wrists, Gin sagged against a huge boulder, grateful for the way it blocked the wind.

  As the men tossed their packs onto the ground, Pit appeared with a load of branches from the trees.

  “No fire,” Slash stated. The scant moonlight pooled in areas not shadowed by the boulders. “Pigs might continue with the helicopters.” He tossed his pack on the ground and pulled out a protein bar and water bottle. Whoever had prepared their backpacks had been a savvy camper.

  Still shivering from both cold and fear, Gin watched. Her mouth was so parched she could hardly swallow. Everything on her body hurt from the blows and kicks, from falling, from branches tearing at her.

  Slash turned and Gin tried—tried—not to cringe. But the expression on his face told her what was coming next.

  “No one’s there,” Atticus said in a low murmur as he crouched inside the tree line to survey the dark clearing. Empty. His gut clenched.

  He set his hand on the dog’s neck. When they’d intersected the Green Creek ravine trail, Trigger had caught Gin’s scent and taken off, almost out of sight before Atticus could call him back. He and the dog had worked together, playing to their strengths. When Trigger lost the scent in streams and rocky areas, Atticus had picked up the track in other ways.

  As the sunlight dimmed, they’d relied more on Trigger. What if the dog had led them wrong?

  Atticus scowled at the meadow. They’d tied the horses a quarter mile back to avoid the noise of saddle gear and hooves. But nothing was here. He’d been so certain…

  Wyatt tugged on his mustache as he squinted at the dark landscape. “Crap,” he growled. “Should have gone the—”

  “That’s a nasty wind.” Morgan’s voice was almost drowned out by the rustling trees. “They’re not stupid. They wouldn’t stand in a clearing and freeze their asses off.”

  Jesus, Masterson was right. “Where would they go?” He eyed the increasing silver glow in the east. Hidden behind a high bank of clouds, the moon would be exposed in a few minutes. Once free of the clouds, it would shine down directly into the meadow.

  Wyatt pointed left. “Weren’t there boulders over there, Morgan?”

  “Quite a few. Good-sized ones.”

  Squinting, Atticus edged out of the trees far enough to spot the tall shapes, like crouching ogres. “Let’s check it out. Quietly—they might be canny enough to post a guard.” He made his way through the forest, grateful he’d worn dark clothing.

  A few minutes later, they reached their goal—several ten- to fifteen-foot “stones” at the base of a cliff. The closest was a massive boulder as high as a house.

  Morgan’s hand closed on his arm. The man tilted his head. Below the howling of the wind, men’s voices could be heard.

  They were in there. But was Gin still alive?

  Trigger whined and pulled on the rope leash Atticus had constructed.

  “Easy, boy,” Atticus whispered. Fuck, no way of telling where in the boulders the convicts had holed up. His team couldn’t sneak up on the bastards—not if they’d posted a guard. A straightforward assault would likely get the women killed.

  Doing nothing wasn’t an option.

  “Morgan, stay on the right flank and set up to cover the meadow.” Wyatt’s younger brother—by a year—had a wall covered in blue ribbons from shooting competitions. And the rifle he’d brought would make any sniper proud. “If we don’t get the women out, it’ll be up to you. Take out the copter if you need to.”

  “Aye,” he muttered and faded into the forest.

  Unusually enough for him, Wyatt waited quietly.

  Atticus pointed to an angle off to the left. “Morgan covers the exit. You move in from the west. Give me about”—he eyed the house-sized boulder he’d chosen—“ten minutes.”

  Wyatt followed his gaze. “You climbing that bastard?”

  God, he didn’t want to do this. A sick feeling unfolded in his gut. “Not like you’re going to.” Neither Masterson was into rock climbing.

  “You up to it?” Wyatt’s gaze was assessing before he nodded. “Yep, you can do this.”

  Masterson wasn’t a bullshitter and his confidence was bracing.

  “I can.” He had to. Because the biggest boulder was the one that would measurably block the wind—and that was the one they’d probably be camped behind. If he could manage to scale the goddamn thing, he’d come out above them. He handed Wyatt his rifle. “I can’t carry anything more than my automatic.”

  “Got it.” Wyatt hesitated. “You going to hold off if…”

  If the women were getting raped? The knot in Atticus’s gut twisted. “We can’t move without a chance of taking them down before they can kill the women. Even if…” Gin, I’m sorry.

  But she was a strong woman; stronger than any he’d known. Smart. She wouldn’t give up. He had to trust her to survive. Did she know he’d be coming for her?

  At the foot of the boulder, he studied the rock for a long, long moment. Half of climbing was setting out a mental map. Fingers here, toes there, shift… The hardest spot would be the almost-smooth dome, which gleamed in the brightening moonlight. It had less holds than the area where Bryan had slipped. Had fallen. Had died.

  No. No flashbacks. He removed his boots. His socks. Adjusted his belt so the pistol holster and knife sheath lay against the hollow of his back. No chalk to dry his sweating palms. He exhaled, inhaled. Relaxed his abdomen. Repeated the sequence. Easy.

  His gut stuck halfway to his heart as he started to climb. Moved up. Up. Up.

  And then, a piece of splintered rock broke off. His foot slipped.

  Jesus. His fingers went rigid, taking his weight as he struggled to find a foothold. Far, far below, the rock hit with a dull thump too much like the sound of Bryan’s landing and the hollow thud of his skull cracking on stone.

  That sound… Death was different, more shocking, off the battlefield. Bryan was laughing one minute, screaming the next.

  Stop it.

  Gin needed him; he couldn’t think of anything except the mission. He remembered the homework exercises she’d assigned him, and he took a breath to center himself. I can do this. Got to rescue my counselor.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead, stinging his eyes. His toes curled into a tiny crack—barely enough support to relieve the pressure in his fingers. He ran his free hand over the rock, searching for his next hold.

  A glance upward showed the silvery moon, the infinite stars in a black sky. “Pa always said—if not overused—an honest prayer would be heard in heaven.”

  Well then… Shoving his face against the abrasive granite, he growled, “Listen up, you fucking angels. Yeah, I mean you, Bryan. Could use a little help here, you know.”

  “Jesus, it’s still winter in this shithole area,” Crack said.

  It was, Gin thought. The mixed granite and gravel under her hip was icy. But she wasn’t about to try to stand again—not after Pit had smacked her down the last time. Instead, she watched as Slash dug through his pack and found a down vest.

  “A small fire wouldn’t be seen,” Crack continued. His tats formed full sleeves up his arms, turning them dark as he searched in another pack.

  “No.” Slash pulled on his vest. He motioned to where Karen lay. Moonlight shone down into the rocks, highlighting her bruised and bloody face. “Go fuck your bitch; you’ll warm up quick enough.”

  “Now you’re talkin’.”

  Karen whimpered, trying to scramble away.

  Crack grabbed her leg. With her hands still tied in front of her, her struggles were useless.

  Gin couldn’t save her. As frustrated tears prickled her eyes, she looked away…and saw Slash moving toward her.

  Her stomach turned over.

  “What about me an’ Pit?” Stub blocked his way. “You got to fuck that counselor already.”

  Gin frowned. What counselor?

  “That was work, you dumb fuck. Penny, the pussy, needed to be motee-vated, and you don’t got the equipment—or brains—
to do it.”

  “Like you do,” Pit sneered.

  “Got her to arrange the yard work assignment—and us all together, didn’t I?” Slash’s grin was ugly. “Told her a story ’bout the family we butchered. She got all excited.”

  “Fuck, you didn’t.” Pit’s expression was shocked.

  “Made Slash laugh. Clueless bitch.” Slash ripped the wrapper of the protein bar.

  “Yeah, well, you had pussy already.” Stub pointed to Gin. “We want a turn with that one afore you ruin her.”

  Hand on his crotch, Pit nodded.

  “Dream on, asshole. She’s mine.” Slash stopped, his gaze still on Gin. “Gonna ream that cunt while I cut pieces off the rest of her.”

  Terror blasted Gin so violently she almost heaved. Run.

  How? Even if she managed to run, they’d catch her before she made it out of the rocks.

  Or they’d shoot her down like a rabbit.

  “Fine, I’ll wait for the other bitch,” Pit snarled. He glared at Crack. “Be done before I come back from taking a piss, asshole.” His boots crunched on the loose rock.

  “Keep watch,” Slash told Stubb. “Slash got shit to do…”

  “Fuck that. Pit can watch.” As Stub’s voice rose in protest, Gin stared out at the darkness.

  A bullet would hurt. I don’t want to die. Her belly tightened. But… No matter what, there would be pain and death. Through burning tears, she watched her fingers tremble. She wanted to live. To stay in this little town. To be with Atticus.

  Because she loved him. Oh, so, so much—more than words could express. And she’d never told him.

  A tear slid down her cheek, hot against her chilled skin. I just found him. This isn’t fair.

  Heaven didn’t answer her protest.

  She bit her lip and pushed her despair back. There were only two choices here. Should she wait like a victim to be put through horrors and murdered? Or take a bullet trying to escape? Either way, Slash wouldn’t let her live.

  Atticus…he was coming. She knew it. “Virginia, I’ll always come after you. I keep what’s mine.” Like an old-fashioned cowboy, he wrote his own code, and he’d never give up. But he couldn’t arrive in time to save her.