Master of Solitude (Mountain Masters & Dark Haven Book 8) Page 21

  Acceptance.

  Love.

  The knot in his throat grew bigger. Blindly, he reached for his beer to wash the constriction away.

  Gin’s smile was understanding. In prison, she’d been his counselor before Wheeler had taken him on. She knew his past and knew this was a revelation. A smile quirked at the corners of her mouth as she asked, “I’ve been wondering, oh macho cowboy, what do you think of Mallory’s home?”

  Mallory made an exasperated noise, and Sawyer almost laughed. Sounded like some female discussion he’d missed. However, when the nymph turned in his arms to look at him, he knew his answer was important.

  Fair enough. He glanced at his brother. “I like the western look here, Att. Feels a lot like home. The parts I liked the most.”

  The little body in his arms tensed slightly. Mallory loved her home.

  Fortunately…so did he.

  He touched her jaw, so strong and so feminine. “Your home though… I’ve never felt more comfortable or more peaceful anywhere. Ever.” He could hear her small sigh of relief. “The furniture is big enough for me and damn comfortable. I’m not going to break something if I pick up a dish or sit down hard. And the house is so filled with light that, even on cloudy days, it feels as if the sun will appear at any moment.”

  When she tilted her head into his hand, rubbing her cheek on his palm, he only smiled. Because no matter how beautiful, her home was a mere reflection of the peace she carried and shared with everyone around her.

  Chapter Nineteen

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  Sawyer felt his wristwatch vibrating to relay a notification from his phone. Since Mallory was curled up beside him, he carefully eased away before sliding out of bed. As he stretched silently, he glanced at the clock. Three a.m.

  Achilles jumped up and danced. Time to play?

  Sawyer sighed. Did pups require no sleep?

  Dammit, if he left the dog, Achilles would wake Mallory.

  Silently, he took the dog out to Mallory’s great room before pulling up his phone app. The map displayed the locations of the GPS trackers he’d put on the Aryan Hammers’ vehicles. Yep, the assholes were on the move and not toward the highway. Looked like their target was somewhere at the east end of Main.

  Welcome to Friday night in Bear Flat. Only maybe he should call it Saturday morning. Dammit, dressing and driving into town were low on his list of fun things to do. Why the hell hadn’t the bastards pulled up stakes by now? Their membership was down to less than a handful—too small to survive here. They needed to rejoin their buddies in L.A.

  Guess they hadn’t gotten the memo.

  Good news was the Mexican Mafia offshoot gangbangers had given up and left.

  Bare-ass naked, Sawyer stepped outside, and cold, drizzling rain spattered over him. He’d gotten out of a warm bed for this? Snarling under his breath, he pulled his gear bag from the truck, pulled on baggy jeans, black running shoes wider and longer than his own, a black T-shirt, a Kevlar vest, and a bulky black leather jacket. His new skin-tight latex mask was in the jacket pocket.

  Achilles, having finished pissing, joined him.

  “C’mon, boy. I can’t leave you here. Let’s drop you off quick.”

  He swung by his house, left the pup in the cabin, and took a minute to make his license plate unreadable.

  As he headed into town, adrenaline started through his system, driving the last of the sleep away.

  He checked the GPS tracker again. The Aryan Hammers’ vehicles had stopped on Gold Dust Avenue. Looked as if they were in the motel parking lot. Maybe they were meeting someone there?

  Or…the motel was next to the gas station. This late at night, the pumps and minimart would be closed, since Roger Simmons was keeping reduced off-season hours.

  In case a Hammer was keeping watch, Sawyer drove past Gold Dust Avenue, turned down Riffle, and parked in front of a secondhand store.

  Before getting out, he donned the facemask. The tight latex was a bitch to get on, but turned him into a fucking realistic-looking old bald guy.

  After flipping off the overhead so no light would show when he opened the door, he got out.

  He jogged down the side of the secondhand store building to the back. Went past their storage building with piles of used clothing and appliances. Grimaced at the six-foot fence dividing the property from the motel and scrambled over it. At least they hadn’t used barbed wire.

  As he eased through the hedge surrounding the motel parking lot, he saw the lot was quiet, not even half-full. The motel rooms were dark. The only sound was the patter of the light rain.

  Then a thunk came from the next-door gas station.

  A-huh. His gut tightened. The mini-mart would be quite a lure to a gangbanger.

  Sawyer headed quietly toward Simmons Gas and approached from the side.

  There they were. Although someone had busted the gas station’s lot lights, movement was discernible around the station’s minimart. With a low sound of victory, they forced the front door open.

  Animal entered the store first. Sawyer recognized the one who followed, as well as the third Hammer, who remained in the doorway. A quick recon showed no one else on the property.

  From yesterday’s surveillance, Sawyer had confirmed four Hammers were left in Bear Flat.

  During break-ins, they always left one person at home, probably to do a pickup if things went south, or to provide bail. Thus, he had three-to-one odds here, and he was unarmed. His gut tightened, his instinct for danger making the hair on the back of his neck rise. Pushing your luck, Ware.

  But if he got them now, they’d be done. To hell with the odds; this was worth the risk.

  Flattened against the side of the building, he checked around the corner. The gangbanger in the door was watching for traffic coming from downtown—the wrong way. Perfect.

  Silently, Sawyer eased up to him, jammed a forearm against the guy’s larynx to silence him, and knocked him out with a punch to the temple. As he let the guy drop, he stomped down and busted the man’s tibia.

  As usual, his stomach turned over at the snap of bone. The sound…

  Focus. Swallowing hard, he set his mind on the mission.

  One down. Two to go. They’d spot him the minute he entered.

  Keeping low, he lunged through the doorway and skidded to a stop behind the canned goods shelves.

  “He’s here, Animal!”

  The two sets of footsteps charging toward Sawyer sounded like a stampede.

  Fuck. Grabbing cans from the shelves, Sawyer crouched. The first bastard came around the shelves.

  Sawyer threw—and the can hit the man. He went down.

  Sawyer nailed the next one as well.

  Animal staggered back, shaking his head.

  A sound came from behind Sawyer. From someone charging through the door. Who the hell was that?

  Sawyer dodged to the right as a pistol barked. The bastard was armed.

  Turning, Sawyer dove straight through the gas station’s display window, rolled, and scrambled to his feet. Three more gangbangers converged on the station. He could see even more coming from a van in the motel parking lot. Not a vehicle he recognized.

  This had been a setup.

  A burning pain sliced through Sawyer’s hip, and he staggered.

  “Kill the fucker!” The half-crazy voice was Animal’s.

  As the new gangbangers fired their weapons in a roar of sound, Sawyer dove toward the corner of the station. Bullets sent sparks flashing off the concrete.

  Scrambling up, Sawyer rounded the corner. A bullet seared across the back of his arm.

  Jesus fuck. Zigzagging, he sprinted through the darkness behind the station and dodged into the hedges behind the lot. Every jolting footfall sent pain stabbing into his hip.

  His mouth tightened as he kept going.

  The firing diminished as the Hammers lost him in the shadows. Shouts of anger, threats, curses came to his ears.

  Far too many shouts.

 
; Rather than abandoning Bear Flat, the Hammers must have brought in their brothers from Los Angeles. Like a dumbass, he’d walked right into a trap—one set to take out the vigilante. Him.

  He’d never anticipated them adding to their people here. Way to fuck up, Ware.

  Lights were coming on in the motel, although no one had come out. Undoubtedly, the cops were being called.

  Anger at his stupidity drove his pace as he made his way from shadow to shadow until reaching his truck on the parallel street.

  Painfully, he eased onto the driver’s seat and—unable to tolerate the claustrophobic feel—yanked off his latex mask. His face was drenched in sweat.

  His arm and hip burned—and from the wetness, were bleeding like hell. He tied a quick bandana around his arm. After pulling some clean fast-food napkins from the glove compartment, he made them into a compress inside his jeans to put pressure on the hip wound. No time to do more now.

  In darkness, he drove to the intersection before flipping on his lights. He could feel the internal shaking from the adrenaline and the fear.

  As he turned the corner, a car sped toward him from the end of Riffle.

  Ah, hell. The headlights spotlighted him—and his pickup.

  Stomping on the gas, Sawyer sped away. In the dark cab, his features hopefully hadn’t been recognizable. And his license plate couldn’t be read.

  After a second of hesitation, the other vehicle raced down the street toward the gas station. Maybe a cop?

  Talk about a major clusterfuck.

  On the way home, as if to add insult to injury, the light rain turned into sleet, forcing Sawyer to keep both hands on the steering wheel. With every movement of the wheel, the gunshot graze on his arm, shallow as it was, hurt like hell, and he used every swear word he knew. Pain management through profanity.

  Rather than returning to Mallory’s, Sawyer pulled into his own place. This was his mission—and his disaster. He’d keep her out of it entirely.

  Inside the cabin, the pup was barking his little head off, so Sawyer climbed the steps and let him out. After a frantic greeting, Achilles started an unhappy-puppy whine, unnerved by the stench of blood and pain.

  “Yeah, I know,” Sawyer muttered, feeling like whining himself. He flipped the interior light back on and hastily cleaned his blood off the seat.

  At least the sleet would cool the pickup off quickly. A few seconds with a screwdriver, and the light over his license plate worked again. A swipe returned the unreadable, mud-covered license plate to readable.

  With Achilles at his heels, Sawyer headed into the stable, stripped down, and left his gear in one of the improvised storage areas beneath a stall floor.

  In the house, a quick shower took care of the blood and sweat. He bandaged the gouge behind his left arm as well as the one along his left hip. An inch over, and it would have shattered his hip socket.

  How could he not have anticipated the Hammers bringing in reinforcements? Even worse, the out-of-towners were heavily armed.

  Failure was a heavy weight as he fell into bed—because the bedroom was where he needed to be if he got a visitor. On top of the quilt, Achilles made a circle and settled down, his muzzle over Sawyer’s shin. And damned if they both didn’t find the contact comforting.

  Not that he was going to fall asleep anytime soon.

  An hour later, lights flashed on his bedroom windows.

  Yep, here were the cops. As was common in the country, a polite honk announced company.

  Sawyer rolled over and turned on the bedside light. As Achilles jumped down, Sawyer carefully pulled on his jeans over the bandage. The heavily-lined wool shirt he donned would hide the bandage on his arm. “Let’s go make nice to the police, Achilles.”

  The pup yawned and stopped at the top of the stairs. It would take the dog a while to reach the bottom since he took each step, one by one.

  Shirt half-buttoned, Sawyer flipped on the outside light, saw Virgil Masterson, and opened the door. “What the hell?” He shot the questions out quickly, “Is there a problem? Is Atticus all right?”

  Masterson scowled. “Your brother is fine. Where were you tonight?”

  “Bed.” Sawyer glanced behind him and saw the pup had stalled out most of the way down the steps. “C’mon, Achilles. You can do it.”

  After an ooo-ooo-ooo of protest, the puppy started up again. Jump. Stop. Survey the step. Jump. Stop. After achieving the last step down, Achilles scrambled across the room and bounced around Sawyer and Virgil to celebrate his victory.

  Virgil laughed and bent to pet him. “Good job, buddy.” Straightening, he looked at Sawyer. “Now—”

  “Hold on a second.” Sawyer picked the dog up and set him outside on the grass. Probably didn’t need to go, but on a normal night, the puppy’s bladder would be bursting by now.

  Leaving Achilles in the yard, knowing he wouldn’t venture outside the circle cast by the porch light, Sawyer trotted back up the steps. His hip hurt like hell. “Now, what’s up? Is this a Masterson stock problem or a Masterson, the cop, problem?”

  When Virgil’s mouth tightened, Sawyer knew the reminder about caring for their horses had scored.

  “I’m here as a cop.” Masterson folded his arms over his chest. “Someone broke into Simmons Gas tonight.”

  “Simmons. He’s the guy who’s always bleating on about getting the convicts out of town?” When Masterson nodded, Sawyer snorted. “I can see how he’d make a great target. Nonetheless, I’m not hard up for cash, thanks.”

  “Several people were involved. And there was a gun battle.”

  Sawyer allowed himself to stare at Masterson before shaking his head. Here he could be honest. “Although I’m allowed, I don’t own any firearms, Masterson.”

  Achilles trotted in, fur drenched, leaving a trail of wet behind him.

  “Jesus, I own a drowned rat.” Grabbing the towel by the door, Sawyer knelt to dry the pup off. “Fair warning, Masterson. The minute I have horses on the property, I’ll be buying a shotgun.” Thank fuck his lawyer had pushed “mitigating circumstances” like PTSD to reduce the conviction to a misdemeanor and not a felony.

  After a long, unhappy silence, Masterson sighed. “Yeah, well, living out here, having a shotgun is a good idea.”

  Sawyer looked up.

  The cop’s face illuminated by the porch light was hard. And tired. “Roger Simmons saw a pickup driving away. Says the driver looked like you.”

  Sawyer let his exasperation show. “For fuck’s sake, Masterson, half the men in town look like me. More than half drive pickups. You know, no matter what your crook looked like, Simmons would think I was involved.”

  The lieutenant’s expression said he knew it.

  Sawyer tossed the towel onto the hook and ruffled Achilles’s ears. “All done, champ. Let’s find you a chew toy before you decide to eat the cop’s boots.”

  The pup politely accepted a bully stick and settled down at their feet.

  Sawyer turned back to the interrogation. “Anything else?”

  After a second, Masterson sighed. “I don’t think you tried to rob the place. In fact, I got a feeling you might’ve been trying to stop it. That isn’t the way, Ware.” Without waiting for an answer, Masterson turned and left. He ran his hand over the pickup’s hood, checked the back license plate, shook his head, and kept walking.

  Sawyer grinned. Masterson was a damn good cop. He hadn’t been fooled.

  As Virgil drove away, Sawyer’s smile faded. Fuck, he hurt. Must be getting old. At one time, a couple of bloody gouges wouldn’t have slowed him down. Now, all he wanted was a couple of pain pills and to fall into bed.

  With Mallory.

  No. Absolutely not. He’d give her a call in the morning.

  Sawyer frowned at the stairs leading to his bed. Too damn far. With a grunt of pain, he picked up the dog and the toy, settling onto the couch. Achilles licked his neck and curled up in Sawyer’s lap to play a sleepy tug-of-war with the stick.

  Hip
aching like a mother, Sawyer tipped his head back and watched the dark rain lash the window.

  Roger Simmons had been in the truck on Riffle. Made sense he’d live fairly close to his station. And didn’t it just figure—Sawyer’d been ID’d by the most prejudiced, mouthiest man in town. After having his ass handed to him by the Hammers.

  But what had the cockroaches crawling around in his gut was having more Aryan Hammers in town than when he’d started.

  Way to go, Ware. You were so fucking effective, they brought in reinforcements.

  What with Simmons pointing his finger at Sawyer, by tomorrow, the Hammers would know who’d been fucking up their business, which meant an increased risk to anyone around him.

  His chest contracted with fear. What if the Hammers went after Mallory?

  No, that wouldn’t happen. Aside from Gin and Att, no one knew he had a woman. The tightness in his chest loosened slightly.

  Right now, Mallory was putting in long hours to finish up a job before the snows came. She wasn’t going out.

  Nonetheless, he needed to tell her. Somehow. Only how the hell could he explain without putting her at risk for collusion…or whatever knowing about a crime and not reporting it was termed?

  Chapter Twenty

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  As Mallory drove up Kestrel Mountain Road, she could feel steam coming from her ears. What a messed-up morning.

  Last night, she’d gone to sleep, snuggled in the arms of the man she loved…and woke to an empty bed and an empty house. No note or anything. When she’d walked out on the porch, she’d seen his pickup at his place and smoke curling from his chimney.

  She’d worried then. Had she done something wrong? Was he all right? Before she could call, she’d received a text: Had to check something out before you were awake. Sorry I didn’t get a chance to wake you in a better fashion. See you tonight.

  Of course, it had been a shame to miss out on being woken up in a “better fashion.” Although evenings and weekend mornings were reserved for slow, sensuous sex, on a workday, Sawyer would resort to energetic quickies. Having discovered her stash of bedside table vibrators—and having added to them—he’d use them to ensure they were both sated. He always made sure she got off, as if he found her climax as rewarding as his own.