Warrior Mine: A Base Branch novel Page 7

  Vail took cover behind a wide hardwood trunk. Around him the forest stilled in that lull between the daylight roamers’ bedding and the nocturnal critters’ rise. The bugs sang a repeating chorus, but he blocked it from his mind. His attention focused on seeking out other sounds. Footsteps. The snick of a gun being switched from safety. The chatter of men. A phone or television. None of them registered.

  Light filtered through the trees dim and distant, but showed exactly where the cabin sat among the trees. His quarter mile estimate had been spot on. With the barest hint of sound, Vail slipped the pack from his shoulders. The right one would bruise like a mother, but there wasn’t anything to do about it. He unzipped the brown leather bomber-jacket one tooth at a time, even though he’d oiled the metal last night. He dragged a fortifying breath, and then he shucked the jacket. Next came the military issue wool sweater and the cotton that turned his skin to gooseflesh. Using the upper corners of the shirt, he soaked up the remaining moisture from his skin. Then he practically dove back into the itchy shirt and jacket, and rolled his eyes at the pansy he’d become.

  Keeping the tree between him and the cabin, Vail took a knee and opened the rucksack. His fingers easily found the holster in the blackness. He strapped the drop-rig through his belt loops and around his right upper thigh. The nylon snug beneath his groin, he slid the CZ P Duty into place cocked and locked. A ten-inch fixed blade came next. He glided the tip into its sheath. The knife snugged to his leg just in front of the barrel. He shoved the wet shirt into the pack, hunkered down against the tree, and waited.

  10

  Sophia lay on the tiny mattress in the tiny room in the tiny cabin in the middle of a big forest. If only she knew where the heck it was, she could sneak a phone and make plans to get out of here. They weren’t careful with many things, but their location hadn’t slipped, yet. It would. Eventually. She could get a phone without even trying. Manny lost his at least twice a day, leaving it on the back of the disgusting toilet or on the lumpy cushions of the plaid sofa and forgetting about it for a few hours at a time. Her legs stretched up the wall. Her hair hung over the opposite side of the bed. She relaxed her feet, letting them fall to the side, and then she pulled them back together. The motion allowed her to play peek-a-boo with the mountain lion in the painting above the bed.

  “Now you get ’em. Now you don’t. Now you get ’em. Now you don’t.”

  Feet together, her light orange Converses hid the snarling cat, its lean lunging body, and ready claws. In that brief moment the white horse was beautiful, his head held high as he galloped across a meadow. Then she moved her low-tops and the poor thing became breakfast. Sophia’s gaze shot to the dark window. She could open the thing, drop onto the awning below, slip off the edge, and be gone in a minute. Their sentry skills sucked. They’d fall asleep or watch whatever Manny did through the window. Sometimes they’d go in for a pee break and never come back out. But she didn’t have a clue about which way to go and she sure as heck didn’t want to be breakfast for a hungry beast.

  She’d grown up outside. This outside had bigger carnivores than hers. Yep, she’d had to contend with scorpions and rattle snakes, but they couldn’t rip your arm from your body while you were still alive to feel it. She’d take her chance with the snakes she knew. And know them, she did.

  They had—when her mother wasn’t around to vehemently object—given her piggy-back-rides as a little girl, twirled her around in wide whirring circles when she’d gotten bigger, and stared down boys in the streets when she’d gotten even bigger. And yet, maybe she didn’t know them at all.

  That terrible morning they’d dragged her from sleep, from her bed, while she fought and screamed. The dark still scared her. Because of them. They’d nearly suffocated her with a black bag over her head, knotted tight on her neck. They’d tied her hands and legs after she broke Ricky’s nose with her heel and tossed her into the trunk for two long, hot days. She’d been soaked in her own sweat and urine. Curse them all to the devil. They’d laughed.

  Tears stung her eyes, but she hadn’t given them the satisfaction of her tears then. She shouldn’t now. That horrid experience seemed a lifetime ago, but had really only been six weeks, if she’d counted correctly. She flipped to her stomach and grabbed the hard-covered book from beneath the bed. The inside cover showed six rows of seven tick marks, plus one row of four. Sophie grabbed the pencil and added a slash across the four straight lines.

  She replaced the writing utensil for tomorrow and flipped to her marker toward the back of the thickly piled pages. Father in heaven knew she was bored, if she read a book. To her surprise though, this one was remarkably fitting and had cemented her sanity throughout the long days. Heck, Fernand Mondego in his captivity had given her the idea of tracking the days. His lost hope had mirrored hers on the first sad and scary days, and now, his renewed hope bolstered hers.

  The blows on the bedroom door came hard and fast. “Sophia!”

  “I’m not hungry.” She stuffed the fright deep inside and was glad to hear it didn’t reveal itself in her voice.

  “Open the door or I’m breaking it down,” Manny bellowed.

  Sophia shoved the book under the bed and stomped to the door. He hadn’t called for dinner. They usually called from the stairs or, when she refused to come down, left a tray by her door. Her shoes didn’t make quite the ruckus she’d hoped for, so she yanked the door hard and tried to snarl like the lion to show her anger.

  Manny’s gun was out of his holster and in his meaty fist. She reeled from the shock and lunged for the window, but his other hand came down hard before she’d completed a step. It bit into her collarbone. He hauled her into the hallway. Her feet went out from under her and she landed butt first on the grimy floor.

  “Get up,” he barked.

  His boot shoved at her back and she sprawled forward, catching herself on hands and knees. Manny’s hand stayed knotted in her curls. Pain ripped through her neck and skull and she was on her feet. He used it like a horse’s mane, guiding her down the steps. She reached toward the railing for balance, but he maneuvered her like a puppet.

  The thought enraged Sophia. Her mother would never allow them to toss her about like yesterday’s garbage, and neither would she. Halfway down she reared back, ramming her head toward his face. She hit something hard—really hard from the gong ringing inside her head. His hold on her hair loosened. A heel to his instep set her free. With a firm grip on the railing and two leaps she cleared the remaining stairs, only to find two stares locked on her in wide-eyed bewilderment.

  Ricky and Pat both had really big guns in their hands and were cuddled up against the two large window frames in the living room. Whether Manny tackled her on purpose or fell onto her she wasn’t sure. And it didn’t matter when someone that boasted three or four times your body weight landed on top of you. What mattered? Air.

  Sophia inhaled, but a vacuum sealed her lungs, refusing to let anything in or out. She lay on the floor, watching the men alternately run from the front to the back, but not seeing them. All she saw were her lungs flat as a sheet from The Count of Monte Cristo.

  Two booms drew her attention from her panic. Sweet air—dusty air, but sweet all the same—filled her lungs only to lodge in her throat on the exhale. Ricky and Pat joined her on the ground. Unlike her they didn’t fight for air. They no longer fought for anything. In an instant they shifted from living to dead. A bullet, she guessed from the noise and size and shape of the hole in their heads, went from a barrel through their skulls. The end.

  Before Sophia could wrap her mind around the jarring concept, a hefty arm snaked around her throat. Again the floor dangled beneath her feet for a moment. And again pain spread through her neck and drummed in her skull.

  “Let her go.” A calm, deep voice issued the command.

  Though Manny wrenched her head so high it might snap off, she could see the entire room. Two dead men fallen among the cola cans, plastic wrappers, and chip bags they and the others
had accumulated over the last two months. Yet, she didn’t see the man who would decide her and Manny’s fates. She knew it and, judging by the way the fat arm smashing her windpipe shook, Manny did too.

  “I’ll kill her, if you don’t leave, now. And then I’ll kill you,” Manny screeched. The end of his gun swung from the fractured glass to her temple.

  Her entire body seized, as if the tightening of muscles could block out a bullet. She imagined a tiny red circle on her head and the bloody damage it would do flying out the left side of her face. “No.” She meant to scream the word, to heave the breath from the bottom of her toes and roar like a big cat. It came as a strangled whisper, a pitiful cry.

  She hadn’t even kissed a boy. She couldn’t die. The metal pressing into her skin said otherwise. Fear paralyzed her synapses. Every self-defense move her mom had taught her froze in mid-fire, rendering her and the skills useless. Her mother would surely die of a broken heart. All because she was too small and weak to defend herself.

  While Sophia reeled at her inadequacies and the coming end to her short life, she didn’t notice that the voice remained silent. Not until the bite of Manny’s gun eased its sinking teeth from her skin. Her gaze darted from window to window, but saw nothing through the cracked black glass. Both relief and soul-deep sadness buckled her knees. The crushing weight of Manny’s arm doubled as she sagged. Maybe, if the guy was gone, her uncle’s thug wouldn’t shoot her. But…she’d remain a prisoner.

  The man, the voice gave her no reason to think he was any better than Carlos’s gang. Proof of his deadliness lay lifeless before her eyes. She’d only heard the tales of the AFO’s and her family’s apparent penchant for power and violence. Yet, something in his menacing voice said peace. It flared with no south of the border accent, and she guessed it wasn’t another cartel coming to steal her away. Perhaps it was her wild imagination conjuring a rescue from a deranged man’s attack.

  “Stand up, damn you. He could still be here.” His arm loosened and his hand dipped below her right pit.

  She could breathe. Instead of celebrating, her esophagus convulsed. She wheezed and hacked, her middle nearly jack-knifing from the tantrum.

  “Quiet,” Manny growled.

  But there was nothing she could do. Just as she no longer had control over her life, she possessed even less over her body at the moment.

  Manny still held her in front of him, a human shield for his vital organs. “Callate. Callate.” The force with which he spoke jostled her, but did nothing to stop the coughing. He aimed at the nearest window, stepped forward, and dragged her along. He smashed the barrel into the softness of her neck. “Callate,” he whispered.

  Her body responded to the greatest threat, forfeiting the struggle for air. Funny how as soon as it quit fighting the breaths came. Pained and labored, they came.

  “You hear me, fucker? I’ll kill her unless you go,” Manny blustered.

  “I heard you.” The voice and its quiet, razor sharp menace whispered in their ears. A crack of bone followed, and then she was free, stumbling forward. “Go to your room, lock the door, and wait for me.” Somehow she heard his quiet words over Manny’s howl and the deafening snap of another bone.

  Sophia’s stomach lurched. She’d broken her arm as a little girl and remembered the sounds and pain too well. Despite it all, her hands braced against the couch’s back. She used it as a crutch, towing her shaky frame in the direction of the stairs. The set of ninety-degree angles rose like a mountain before her. One wobbly step at a time she hauled her puny weight higher.

  When she reached the last step that would give her a view of the living room she tightened her grip of the rail and turned. Manny and the man were gone. Her gaze swept the room, found two bodies, but they didn’t count. She studied the door. It gaped, revealing the porch and a hint of the dirt and grass that made up the front yard.

  Assuming all the other men were scattered corpses around the cabin, she didn’t dare go outside, even if she had the strength to run. Instead she mounted the remaining stairs, walked past her door, and slipped into Manny’s room. With the hallway light burning, Sophia could easily see the cedar chest at the foot of the unmade bed. She swallowed past her sour throat and apprehension, and stepped to the sloped top box.

  She heaved the lid and nearly wept. “Not so helpless now,” she said and hardly recognized the voice that breezed through her lips. The pistol was too big for her hand, much larger than the one her mom taught her to shoot, but it would do the job. She hurried to her room, forgetting the lid. Inside, she locked the door and sank onto the bed. She waited. And waited. Eventually, she eased back against the wall, drew her legs up, and rested the gun on her knees.

  As her heart settled and her brain caught up with her actions, Sophia stared at the hulking gun in her small hands. She hadn’t even checked to see if it was loaded, she’d just assumed it was. She hadn’t checked the safety or to see if there was a bullet in the chamber.

  Lord above.

  Sophia pointed the barrel at the floor, wrapped her left hand around the slide, and pulled. Nothing happened. She repositioned her grip, gritted her teeth, and strained with everything she had. The thing budged a quarter of an inch. Nowhere near far enough to do her any good. She flipped on the safety, not that it would matter unless there was a round already in the chamber. But she didn’t want to accidentally shoot herself.

  She didn’t want to shoot anyone.

  Why was this her life? Self-defense training, firearms safety, target shooting, cataloging her surroundings, checking for concealed weapons, watching people’s hands, meticulous planning for life on the run, imprisonment. Why couldn’t she be normal? Talk on the phone, listen to loud music, hang out with her friends, romanticize about her first kiss.

  The first tear fell hot on her cheek, stunning her. She hadn’t cried yet. She couldn’t cry. She had to be ready, prepared for anything. But it was normal to cry, and if she was about to cry, damn it, she wanted to do something normal for a change. With that simple permission her body took over once more, breaking her soul on unyielding fear, sadness, and anger.

  11

  Vail braced his forehead against the tree and pulled a breath. His billowed exhale caught in the porch light’s dull glow, curling like smoke as it lifted and dissipated, shoved on by the sharp breeze. The cold had driven him to move far sooner than he should have. If he’d waited until the dim morning hours, she’d have been asleep, tucked safely in the bed and out of harm’s way. He held no delusions that the man wouldn’t have just as easily snatched her from sleep to cower, like the worthless wretch he was, behind the innocent girl. But later in the night the bastard would have been sleeping too, and wouldn’t have had the opportunity.

  He pushed off the smooth bark. Crimson on his hands caught his attention. The dried crusty stuff on the left one was his. The slick fresh blood coating the right was not. Turning to the small shed, he shoved the arm dangling out of the narrow wood frame inside with his foot and shut the door. When the latch caught the thing flapped like a sheet of paper in the wind. He shook his head and headed up the hill to wash off. With any luck the door would hold until his team could get here and deal with the pile of bodies inside.

  None of the men, the few he’d left alive for the briefest of moments, had been able to tell him much he didn’t already know. Carlos had learned Carmen planned to leave the family, ordered her daughter—his niece—kidnapped and held until further notice.

  “No harm! No harm to her! Senior!” Manuel Dominguez’s pathetic cries still rang in his ears.

  How could they not see that taking a child from everything she knew and holding her captive for weeks on end wouldn’t harm her? He plainly saw that his actions, killing two men before her pure eyes, had hurt her. That thread combined with the others in his head, forming the world’s largest ball of yarn inside his skull.

  Why did she have to be a little girl? A woman he could handle. But he wasn’t equipped to handle a child of any gender,
most especially a girl.

  Vail made his moves through the house deliberate, letting her track his progress. His earlier comings and goings he’d kept quiet. She didn't need to see him hauling dead men, cleaning up their blood—or the filth of their existence. The place made a pigsty seem inviting, and it had taken twice as many loads to clear out the trash as it had the burly bastards. He’d also stayed quiet to give her privacy. When he cried, which wasn’t often these days, he didn’t want an audience. She probably didn’t either.

  No. That wasn’t quite true. She probably wanted her mother there. He imagined Carmen’s swollen curves in a whole new light, as a mother, pulling her daughter to her bosom. She’d hold Sophia with her entire body wrapped around the girl. Like the physical barrier could block out the bad. Like she’d protect her with her life.

  She would. He’d seen it in Carmen’s eyes the moment she’d dropped into his office. He just hadn’t realized it. Vail liked to think his mother would have done the same for him. But she’d never been pushed to it. Ellie… Ellie had thrown her arms across her middle in a desperate attempt to keep the bullets from her baby.

  Moisture that had nothing to do with the water pouring from the sink’s spout plopped onto his bare forearms. The fat tears spread across his skin and pooled in a muscled groove before sliding down to meet the water trapped in the basin.

  “Damn it.”

  He rinsed off the remaining soap and wiped the tears on the shoulders of his shirt. Set on holding his emotions in check and coaxing Sophia out of her room, he turned away from the dark window and darker thoughts. Slowly he ascended the stairs, giving Sophia time to adjust to the idea of him. She had to be scared out of her mind. At twelve he’d have shit himself if he’d witnessed what she had. And he had military parents who talked Guns and Ammo articles over the dinner table, war tactics while they went about the cleaning.