What You See: Sons of the Survivalist: 3 Page 8

  This should be fun. Not.

  On her knees in the dense undergrowth, Frankie studied her brand-new drone, the one she’d named Iron Boy. The drone wasn’t the cheapest model but wasn’t too expensive either—because she knew she’d probably fly it into a tree.

  It was all hooked up to the controller and her phone, calibrated, and ready to go. The streamlined white body, the rotors, the high-tech gizmo on the front made her feel as if she was in a science fiction movie.

  Wouldn’t that be cool? Well, as long as she could be a heroine like the ever-so-competent Ripley from Aliens.

  I don’t feel like Ripley.

  That wasn’t who she was. She was no courageous kick-ass woman.

  She was a city girl. She liked being a city girl. Still, no matter what it took, she’d get Kit and Aric out of that PZ compound. Because helping her friend was also who she was.

  Why, oh why, couldn’t it have worked out that she could call in the police, FBI, or DEA. But Kit had been very vehement about not doing that.

  After reading about Waco and Ruby Ridge’s disastrous shoot-outs, Frankie understood why. At Ruby Ridge, the white supremacist leader had survived the battle, but his poor wife and a fourteen-year-old boy were shot and killed. At Waco, the siege caused seventy-some deaths, including twenty-five children.

  The PZs had that big fence and gate. If they refused entry to law enforcement, there could be a nightmare of guns and fighting. Bullets would go right through those flimsy houses—and kill children and women.

  So, fence cutting was the plan of the day, which meant finding out where the women’s and children’s barracks were.

  One drone flyover, coming up.

  Thankfully, she’d found a good launch site.

  Dall Road ran from Rescue to McNally’s ski resort high on the mountain and had a myriad of small dirt roads branching off to various houses and cabins. The PZ compound sat a third of the way up in a valley between two foothills.

  On Thursday and Friday, she’d driven down all the tiny roads on each side of the compound, putting on an embarrassing I’m-a-stupid-female-tourist act whenever she ended up in someone’s front yard. Finally, she’d found a poorly maintained road that wound past several properties and dead-ended at an abandoned cabin. A strenuous hike through vicious underbrush brought her to this spot where she could…barely…see a corner of the compound far below.

  Let’s not think about all the rules I’m going to break. Her drone wasn’t registered. Wouldn’t always be in her line of sight. Would fly directly over people. Would be snooping over an area where the residents had an expectation of privacy.

  She grimaced. Since Kit said a PZ was one of the Rescue cops, if Frankie got caught, she’d probably be locked up forever.

  If the PZs caught her, it would be worse than that.

  Heart pounding hard, she powered on the drone, hovered it, and sent it off the cliff down to the target zone. A quick check ensured everything was being recorded to her phone.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  She watched the screen and kept the drone high up. Wasn’t it nice the PZs had all that cleared land and those big plastic greenhouses? It was easy to find the compound in the forest.

  Iron Boy flew past the southern fence toward the rooftops.

  Now, which building will have the children?

  “Down, boy.” She worked the controls to decrease the elevation.

  Iron Boy dropped low enough she could see people. Men with rifles. Women. A couple of big dogs. Right, mustn’t forget the guard dogs when planning.

  There—there were the children. Kids were playing games between two houses near the east fence. One building had two ugly shrubs in front, the other one a flagpole.

  Score! The children’s barracks must be one of those two houses.

  The kids started pointing at the sky. At the drone. Uh-oh. The adults noticed. Suddenly, fireworks sounded. The snapping and crackling echoed off the mountains.

  Her screen went blank.

  She stared at her phone and shook it. The drone display was gone. That hadn’t been fireworks. Merda, it’d been gunfire.

  They’d shot Iron Boy. Killed her little drone. Her hands went cold. Numb.

  They’d come searching for the drone operator—for her.

  Run.

  She shoved her gear into the bag and sprinted through the thick underbrush. A branch scraped across her face in a flare of pain. Eyes tearing, she bounced off a tree.

  Faster.

  She leaped over a dead log and tripped on the uneven ground. A rock tore her palm open, and her ankle twisted with a blast of pain. She scrambled up and forward, shoving her way through the dense growth, collecting more stinging scratches and scrapes. Her arm bumped into the spine-covered stem of a tall, ugly plant. Ow, ow, ow.

  Panting, heart trying to burst from her chest, she staggered into the open area around the cabin.

  No one was there. Not yet. Move.

  She jumped into her car and sped down the narrow dirt road. Branches lashed the sides of the vehicle. The bottom of the car scraped as the wheels dipped into the ruts.

  Don’t get stuck, don’t get stuck.

  At Dall Road, she started to turn north toward town. To go home. To hide.

  No, no, she couldn’t. She’d have to drive past the turnoff to the PZ compound to get back to Rescue and her cabin. What if someone was watching the road?

  She turned to the right and headed up the mountain. There was a bar at the ski resort…with alcohol. Maybe she’d even buy a bottle to bring home with her.

  In the rearview mirror, she saw a car pull out onto Dall Road from the PZ turnout. Another car pulled out, and another and another. Heading both ways.

  She stepped on the gas. In the resort parking lot, her little car would be just one of many. She’d be one of many. They wouldn’t find her.

  Anger was a sullen burn in her chest. The bastardi had trapped Kit and Aric.

  And they’d killed Iron Boy.

  In the Patriot Zealot compound, Captain Grigor Nabera walked outside. His lieutenants stood waiting for him in a rigidly straight line. “Report.”

  “Sir.” Hair freshly buzz cut, Luka stood straight—and Nabera almost smiled, knowing the fool’s shoulders ached from the lashing he’d received yesterday for questioning the Prophet’s scriptures. “The drone pieces were recovered. The device isn’t military or law enforcement. It’s one that can be bought from any store.”

  Nabera gave a nod and saw him relax. “Obadiah, what about the perimeter?”

  The obedient soldier of the Prophet had a straggly yellow-brown beard, short brown hair, built heavy, like a Texas bison, and he was just as slow moving. “The perimeter has been searched with no tracks found.”

  “Good. And farther out?”

  Tall, skinny Conrad had a reddish beard that reached his belt buckle. “Sir, my team went up Dall Road. Three dirt roads had fresh tracks, so we checked ’em. The last…it had a shithole of an empty cabin. Somebody pushed through the undergrowth to a spot that overlooks us. They couldn’t’ve seen more ’n a corner of the compound though.”

  “Except the person was using a drone,” Reverend Parrish said as he joined them. The Prophet seemed tired with lines around his mouth and deep-set eyes.

  Nabera gave him a worried look. If their leader faltered, so would they all. Their plans to shake up the country, bring back the traditional ways were just beginning to come together.

  With a reassuring smile, Parrish set a hand on Nabera’s shoulder, warming him to his soul. “In this godless world, technology like drones will be an increasing problem to the faithful.”

  “We’ll catch the bastard.” Nabera’s lip curled up. “He’ll end up in as many pieces as his hellish spyware.”

  His lieutenants all nodded quickly.

  Conrad stirred.

  “Speak,” Nabera ordered.

  “When we got onto Dall Road, we saw a truck almost at Rescue. A SUV comin’ down th
e mountain, and a little car going up to the resort. Some of our faithful went after them and reported back.” He held up the reports.

  Nabera took the papers and glanced at them. Both vehicles were owned by Rescue residents, ones with families. Not the type to spy on them with a drone.

  Conrad waited for Nabera’s nod and continued, “At the deserted cabin, the tire prints were small—and the vehicle must’ve been low. It scraped bottom a time or two.”

  Nabera eyed him. “You think it might’ve been the little car?”

  “Yeah, mebbe.” Conrad scowled. “We found footprints. Small.” He held his hands up to illustrate the size. “Could be the spy’s a teenager or a woman.”

  Obadiah shook his head. “Women don’t do such things.”

  “Yours might’ve before you broke her.” Conrad sneered at him.

  Obadiah glanced at Nabera uneasily.

  Nabera felt a stirring in his manhood…because Obadiah’s woman, Kirsten, wasn’t broken. Not yet. A spark of defiance still glowed inside her.

  He wanted to be the one to snuff it out.

  But this wasn’t the time to think of such matters.

  The Prophet frowned. “A woman. Spying on us.”

  “She might be a reporter like the ones who plagued us in Texas,” Nabera said. Along with the rage that someone had invaded their privacy came a sense of anticipation.

  When one of their women had escaped and claimed she’d been abused, reporters had swarmed to the Texas compound. Not that they could get in.

  Naturally, after the escapee disappeared, the news dried up. The police had decided the woman had gotten frightened and left the area.

  Nabera scratched his chest and smiled. She had been frightened…after he’d caught her. He’d had a most pleasant night.

  And she had certainly left the area. Her body was now rotting in one of the east Texas deep-water swamps.

  Gators were God’s cleanup crew.

  May in Alaska…such a fine time of the year.

  Standing at the grill, Bull breathed in the scents of hickory smoke and sizzling meat. Along with the conversation of his family came the contented clucking of chickens and the quiet lap of water against their small dock.

  It was a starkly beautiful day. Under a clear blue sky, the white-clad mountains were mirrored in the calm turquoise lake. On the banks, the grasses and reeds were turning a vivid green.

  Summers were short here and meant to be savored—which was why his family was gathered on the Hermitage patio for supper. Although the temp was in the fifties, the heat of the grill and the sun’s warmth kept them all comfortable. Sure beat the winter when a warm day made it barely above freezing.

  “Serve them up, Regan.” He set the last burger on the stack.

  “Yes, sir.” His ten-year-old niece carefully lifted the platter. As usual, she’d been his assistant chef. Today, because she’d been missing JJ who was out of town for a while at some cop seminar, he’d graduated Regan to actually helping him at the grill.

  She might follow Caz into the medical field, but the ability to cook never hurt anyone.

  She was as proud of the food she’d grilled as he was of her.

  With JJ gone, Caz had helped his daughter braid her long brown hair up and out of danger. The girl had scrapes on her hands where she’d fallen into the brush on a fishing expedition this morning. Her nose was sunburned. Her red sweatshirt had a picture of Leia with a blaster, saying, Don’t mess with a princess.

  Bull grinned. Feistiest niece ever.

  The rest of his family made appreciative noises as she set the platter of burgers and sausages on the long picnic table.

  Not that they were starving, since Hawk had brought raw veggies and crab dip to munch on while Bull and Regan grilled.

  Being a firm believer in the importance of vegetables, Caz had raided the greenhouse to make a salad of baby greens.

  Gabe and Audrey had contributed cheesy scalloped potatoes and a chocolate cake. From the smears of frosting on Regan’s cheek, she’d helped bake.

  “Dig in, people.” Bull said—and grinned as they did.

  Yeah, there was nothing as great as feeding people. He watched Audrey try a testing nibble of the caribou—aka reindeer—sausage. Surprise filled her face, then she handed a small chunk to Regan. “It’s really good. Try it.”

  Regan sampled. “Huh. Like a really spicy hot dog.” Making a hungry sound, she grabbed a sausage for herself and wrapped it in a bun.

  Laughing, Bull passed her the catsup before taking some burgers for himself. Feeling something rub his shin, he pulled off a piece of meat and dropped it to the ground.

  Sirius’s tufted ears pricked forward, and the cat batted at the tidbit experimentally with a big paw, before deciding the offering was adequate.

  The long-haired stray had filled out nicely after a few months of regular meals. The beast was descended from monster-cats—Caz thought it had Siberian Forest cat genes—and was big enough the hawks wouldn’t bother him.

  Having Gryff around would help, too. The canine had taken up watchdog duties with all the enthusiasm of a new SEAL team member. Turning and seeing the big brown eyes, Bull tossed a piece of burger, and the dog snapped it out of the air.

  The introduction of cat and dog had gone well, and a tentative peace had already been established. On first spotting Sirius, the dog had stalked forward…and Regan burst into tears. Gryff had flattened to the ground in obvious worry he’d screwed up. Sensitive guy, Gryff was. Bull turned and fondled the soft ears. “You’re a good dog.”

  Over the next hour, the conversation ran around the table, adhering to the sarge’s protocol for meals where each person shared the high and lows of their day.

  Hawk had flown a busted-up guy to the Soldotna hospital. The man had swerved his car around a moose in the road, skidded on ice, and hit a tree instead.

  The doc had treated a woman for a concussion. She’d been dipnetting for the first of the hooligan runs, slipped, and smacked her head into a rock.

  “Dipnetting? That’s like fishing?” Regan asked.

  “More like scooping little fish up with a big net.” Bull mentally made room for some fishing time. “The hooligan are thicker in May. We’ll spring your papa from his clinic and go then.”

  The kid had the best smile.

  “Hey, Uncle Bull, is that your new waitress?” Regan pointed at the other side of the lake.

  In jeans and a red jacket, Frankie was perched on the small picnic table behind her cabin. Something sat beside her—a bottle and glass? Her shoulders were slumped unhappily. She was drinking alone. She was too far away for him to see her expression, but her posture was a picture of loneliness.

  A shame she didn’t like him, or he’d bring her here. Feed her.

  “Yes, that’s Frankie,” he told Regan. “Dante rented her a cabin.”

  “Is she nice?” Regan’s brows drew together. Although she’d come a long way from her defensive attitude last fall when Caz had brought her to Alaska, she was still slow to warm up to strangers. Reminded him of Hawk, sometimes.

  “Nice, well…” Bull hesitated. His new employee was friendly to everyone but him.

  “Frankie seems really nice,” Audrey said. “It can be scary to be all alone in a place like this—so different from the city. She’s from New York.”

  “Oh. Yeah, I get it.” The Los Angeles child cast a sympathetic look toward Frankie.

  Caz grinned at Bull. “Does your server still not like you?”

  “Nope. Damned if I know why.”

  Regan’s small face scrunched up. “If she doesn’t like you, then I won’t like her.”

  For fuck’s sake. Bull scowled at Caz who’d started this mess, and his brother gave a very Hispanic shrug, denying all responsibility for fixing it.

  “Maybe you should ask her why she doesn’t like you.” Gabe tossed a piece of sausage to Gryff.

  “What?” Bull eyed Gabe. Of them all, Gabe was the best strategist—but wasn’t
exactly known for having long heart-to-hearts about emotional matters. “You’re saying that?”

  “It’s a self-serving suggestion.” Gabe chuckled. “Dante strained his back delivering firewood to the cabins. He asked if we could drop off some wood for Frankie, since he didn’t make it to her place.”

  After an idiot renter used an ornamental tree for firewood, the old Okie had taken to stocking the cabins with wood.

  “You want me to make the delivery for you, eh?” Bull scowled at his brother.

  “Well, yeah.”

  Fuck. However, it wasn’t a bad suggestion. “Okay, sure.” He’d wanted to discuss her idea for theme nights at the roadhouse, anyway. “First thing tomorrow morning.”

  “We’ll hold off on not liking her until Bull reports back, yeah?” Gabe grinned at Regan.

  Regan’s mouth set into a firm line. Someone had already made up her mind. His niece was extremely loyal.

  Hawk snorted, not speaking, but amusement showed in his steel blue eyes. If not the target, Hawk enjoyed Gabe’s maneuvering.

  Bull studied him, then Gabe.

  Hawk, who’d suffered more as a kid than most humans ever endured, had emerged with a caring heart even if he kept it armored and hidden. He and Gabe had been close when growing up. But when they’d been on the same team in a mercenary outfit, something had happened. Gabe didn’t know why Hawk had quit the team and pulled away, and Hawk sure wasn’t talking about it, the taciturn bastard.

  Bull eyed Gabe. It might be that Gabe’s unhappiness with Hawk’s silence was why he’d set Bull up to talk to Frankie.

  Audrey had obviously come to the same conclusion. She winked at Bull, before leaning into Gabe who automatically put his arm around her.

  Too fucking sweet. So were JJ and Caz.

  Bull turned away, trying to ignore the empty feeling in his chest. Why the hell was he regretting not having a relationship too? He’d tried it, hadn’t he?

  Married twice, burned twice.

  Done with that shit.

  Chapter Eight

  You make mistakes. Mistakes don’t make you. ~ Maxwell Maltz