Page 15 of The Mountain Man’s Retribution (Summer in the Pines #7)
Thank God. I knew he’d come through.
BODIE
Early twenties, long brown hair to her knees. But you won’t see her. She’s skittish. Hides from strangers
ROSCOE
What in the hell have you gotten yourself into?
She fled the backwoods
Shit, sounds like you’re the one who needs protecting. Not people to tangle with
Too late. Hunting now. Will let you know if I need an extra hand
I’ll bring Ginger to stay with Fawn in case
Thank you. Fawn will likely hide from her, too
Understood
Keep me posted
Will do
Every part of me regrets not getting a phone for Fawn last week. What in the hell was I thinking? I desperately need to call her. Hear her voice and keep her posted on what’s going on. But knowing Roscoe and Ginger are on their way fills me with the calm resolve I need to headhunt.
I find other tracks around the cabin. Male boot prints, a chaos of impressions no doubt left by the hot shots.
“Dammit,” I growl in low tones. The site is fucked for tracking by so much activity and the after-effects of first responders. Half-dug trenches and water damage. The land’s scars bear witness to the violence.
Along a gravel pathway that I assume must have led to the porch, I find tracks consistent with those of two males. Following the trail stealthily into the forest, anticipation tightens my throat, ready for vengeance.
The path splits in half a mile, the tracks diverging. I weigh my options, still concealed by the early morning darkness. My gut nudges me to the right, though I can’t express why in any logical way. But years of being a warrior make me trust it without question.
My pocket vibrates again, and I stop, grabbing my phone.
ROSCOE
Fire your cabin
My heart races as I stare at the words, trying to make them make sense.
BODIE
Fawn?
ROSCOE
Dunno. Pinned down. Cross-fire. At least two shooters, targeting anyone who approaches. Ready to engage. Which room?
Mind racing, I can’t believe my eyes.
BODIE
My bedroom
ROSCOE
Cops and firefighters en route. Possible hostage situation
BODIE
OMW
Fuck! I sprint back up the path through the woods to my vehicle, my mind racing and my heart bleeding. If anything happens to Fawn, I’ll never forgive myself. I can’t live without her.
Back in my truck, I race down the old forest service road, driving like a man bent straight for hell. My ride bounces and protests, but I push it to the edge, coming close to wrecking several times. I slow slightly. After all, if I crash, how will I help Fawn?
A distance off, I see a destitute white Ford pickup approaching, and my heart lodges in my throat.
I only have seconds to decide what I’m going to do as the vehicle nears, and I make out two ratty, bearded men and no license plate.
Slamming my brakes at full speed, I spin out, blocking the road as I slide into the truck sideways.
I jump out, crouching behind my vehicle as I hear car doors open. Bullets spray my truck. Dumb fuckers! I wait, crouched behind the dually tires as they unload their weapons into the cab.
Silence. Eerie and unexpected.
The rustling of fabric, heavy footfalls.
“Kael, where did he go?” a voice grunts.
“I don’t know. My fucking arm?—”
It’s all I need. Dropping beneath the truck, I fire twice.
Thud.
Thud.
Two bodies hit the ground. The first is a clean shot. The second leaves the man writhing on the ground, groaning and crying like a fucking coward.
Belly crawling to him with the quiet stealth of a Ranger, I’m on top of him before he realizes it, punching and choking him out, driven mad by the need for vengeance … to make him feel even a small portion of what Fawn endured.
“Malaketh,” I growl, bloodlust raging. “You will never hurt Fawn again.”
The man freezes, eyes round, head nodding. He shits himself, and I scowl at his cowardice and the godawful stench.
“Never hurt Fawn again?” He whimpers. “The fuck you on, man? I never touched her. Not once. Father wouldn’t let me.”
“How did you find her at my cabin?”
He hesitates, and I shoot his left kneecap, drawing a banshee wail. I shove the rifle more tightly beneath his throat as he coughs and sputters, groaning in anguish.
“Avery McCartney,” he howls.
Mrs. McCartney’s grandson. “How do you know Avery?” I growl.
He shakes his head, eyes wild like a wounded bear.
Bam! I sink a second bullet into his other kneecap, and he wails and sobs like a fucking baby.
“Next, it’s your balls, motherfucker!” I scream, my face inches from his, gun barrel cutting off his air. “If I can find them!”
“Everyone knows everyone up here,” he grunts.
“Only you and the girl are outsiders. City folks causing more trouble than you’re worth.
” He tries to spit at me but fails, mucus and fear running down his beard.
“Kill me!” he screams. “Unless you don’t have the guts.
I swear on my fucking life that when I get a hold of Fawn, I’ll split that fucking whore?—”
He never sees the bullet that penetrates his skull between the eyes.
Clean, fast, deadly retribution.
But far too easy for the sicko …
I scream into the silence of the woods, unable to hold back. Still seeing red, I fight the urge to beat the lifeless body to a pulp, more animal than man in this grisly moment. But I have to get back to the cabin, unable to rest until I ensure Fawn is safe.
Loading the men into the back of their old pickup, I start the engine and slowly back up.
Parking, I jump out to assess the damage to my ride.
The engine turns over, and though the tires are misaligned, it’ll make it back to my cabin.
I’m running out of time, but every move matters. Nothing can be left to chance.
I grab the extra gas canister from the back of my truck bed, ready for fireworks.
Driving madcap over rough terrain to the sight of the cabin fire, I abandon the truck in the center, douse it with gasoline, and set the whole fucking thing ablaze with waterproof matches I keep in the pocket of my hunting coat.
As my frantic feet hit the washboarded dirt road, spying my truck parked sideways in the distance, I hear an explosion. Smoke billows as angry flames devour the gasoline, the truck, and the two motherfuckers inside.
“Good riddance.”