Chapter 18
Cowboy came to in the darkness, the world around him a blur of shadows and muffled sounds.
His head throbbed, a dull pounding ache that pulsed through his skull, and he tried to move, his limbs sluggish and unresponsive.
He felt a trickle of something warm on his neck, and when he reached up, his fingers came away sticky with blood.
He winced, blinking against the darkness, trying to piece together what had happened.
The lighthouse. The flame. Someone had been there, and it damn sure wasn’t a ghost. Someone had hit him—an actual flesh and blood person—and hard enough to knock him out.
Now he was alone, trapped in the confined space, with no way of knowing if they were still there, lurking in the shadows, watching him and waiting to strike again. He took his Glock out of its holster, wishing with the benefit of hindsight that he’d done as much before he’d been assaulted.
Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to stay calm and focus.
He needed to get back to Charlotte, to make sure she was safe, to get her and Grams out of this godforsaken place before it was too late.
But as he tried to sit up, he felt a sharp, burning pain at the back of his head and gritted his teeth.
He forced himself to push through the pain and get to his feet.
He was up, the weapon held before him at the ready.
The room was silent, the air heavy with the scent of his own blood, and he longed for his busted flashlight so he could search for any sign of his attacker.
He was surrounded by shadows, deep and impenetrable, and could only hope he was alone.
He stumbled toward the door, his hand shaking as he grasped the handle, his heart pounding as he pulled it open.
He stepped into the icy abyss beyond, the howling wind seeming to encircle his entire being.
The storm raged, snow swirling in blinding drifts that obscured everything, and he took a steadying breath.
They were stranded on an isolated island in a winter storm, with someone who’d attacked him and a potential madman back at the house.
What if his attacker had gone back there?
What if Charlotte and Grams were in danger right now?
The snow sucked at his feet as he worked to move as quickly as he could.
He wished he hadn’t left Charlotte alone.
He wished they’d never come here until backup was in place, but he hadn’t truly believed her grandmother was in danger until seeing it for himself.
The sudden cry of a baby in the distance had him whirling around and he cursed under his breath, confusion blending with adrenaline and the acrid taste of danger. The cry had come from the lighthouse. But how was that possible? He’d just searched it and found no one inside.
A longer, more pronounced cry carried on the icy wind like a vibration on a tight steel cable, propelling Cowboy back from toward the lighthouse. Its silhouette was just barely visible through the whirling snow, and for a moment he would have sworn he saw a warm glow coming from the lantern room.
He hurried toward it, praying he was heading in the direction where he was needed most, and that Charlotte would be ok while he checked on the wails of a baby who might only exist in his imagination.
The next several minutes were a blur as he fought to keep his eyes open against the frozen precipitation. By the time he returned to the lighthouse, the baby was still crying, inconsolable, leading Cowboy through the darkness like the beacon before him had guided sailors through countless storms.
He forced the heavy wooden door shut behind him, pressing his weight against it.
His head throbbed, a reminder of the hit he’d taken earlier, the baby’s cries seeming to pluck the nerve endings of what was surely a concussion.
His Glock was steady in his hand, though he was aware it was near useless in the dark space, clearly occupied by at least one baby and whoever had clocked him over the head.
Cowboy moved carefully, his boots crunching against the pieces of his broken flashlight now strewn across the floor.
The shadowed darkness seemed to shift as he moved toward the spiral staircase, aware that he was heading into something he couldn’t fully anticipate and may not be able to handle alone.
He wondered if he’d made the right decision, heading for the crying infant instead of the woman he loved. As if on cue, the baby screeched as if it were being hurt, great gasping sobs echoing through the stone structure.
Ascending as quickly as he could, he was halfway up the tower when suddenly the baby’s cries stopped abruptly. Cowboy froze, the step beneath him groaning under his weight. He continued to climb, each creak echoing ominously, setting his nerves on edge.
The faintest sound reached him—something he almost missed beneath the storm’s roar. A muffled cough? He froze, holding his breath as he listened.
There it was again: the faint, unmistakable sound of someone trying—and failing—to stifle their breathing.
His grip tightened on the Glock as he climbed the last steps.
The faint orange glow Charlotte had described earlier was visible now, emanating from the lantern room above.
It flickered erratically, like a dying fire barely clinging to life.
Cowboy reached the top of the stairs, his shoulders taut with tension as he nudged the lantern room door open.
Huddled near the corner of the room, partially obscured by rusted machinery and crates, were a man and a woman. The woman held a baby to her breast, the infant releasing its mother’s nipple to turn and look at Cowboy, leaving the woman’s dark nipple exposed to his view.
His heart jolted as his gaze swept over the couple. Their clothes were thin, inappropriate for the brutal cold, and their gaunt faces were smeared with dirt. The woman shielded the child instinctively, her eyes wide with fear. “No,” she said quietly, lifting the baby to cover her bare breast.
“Who the hell are you?” Cowboy demanded, his voice low but firm, his Glock raised toward the man.
The woman flinched at his tone, clutching the child tightly against her chest. The man stepped forward, his hands raised in a universal gesture of surrender. “Please,” the man rasped, his voice trembling. “Don’t hurt us.”
Cowboy frowned, lowering his weapon slightly but keeping his guard up. His mind raced, trying to piece together what he was seeing. “You’re the one who hit me.”
“I’m sorry,” said the man, his arms still raised. “We were frightened.”
“What are you doing here?”
The man exchanged a wary glance with the woman before speaking. “We were told to wait here until it was safe.”
“By who?” Cowboy demanded, his voice sharpening.
The baby grinned at him in the dim light, then twisted back toward its mother and again found her nipple.
He felt like the aggressor—the threat to their innocence, the violence to their calm—and he reminded himself this man had just hit him hard enough to knock him out, giving him a concussion. He kept the hard edge to his stare.
The woman broke in, her English heavily accented but clear. “The boat was late. The storm made it too dangerous to go.”
Cowboy scowled. “Who told you to stay here?”
“Please.” The woman’s expression darkened with something close to desperation. “Bad men are looking for us.”
“I can’t help if you don’t answer me. Who told you to stay here?
” Cowboy’s jaw tightened. He had sympathy for the couple, who clearly had nothing more than the clothes on their backs, but for Charlotte’s sake, he had to get to the bottom of what was going on here.
These people had something to do with Tom and whatever his intentions were toward Grams.
They simply had to.
He had to change tacts. “Who are you running from?” Cowboy asked, his voice softening slightly. He went with his gut on the next part. “Is it Tom Vanderhoffen?” Something about Grams’s main squeeze seriously rubbed him the wrong way.
The couple looked to each other in confusion before the man responded. “No. He helped us.” The man hesitated, his eyes again darting to the woman. Finally, he spoke in a halting voice. “A man named Sarkisyan. He is dangerous. Tom said we cannot go back.”
“Do you know this Sarkisyan?” The man looked down, making Cowboy think he was ashamed.
“I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was fighting for people who couldn’t fight for themselves.
But Sarkisyan doesn’t protest peacefully.
He creates spectacles to get the attention of the media, and if an innocent person has to die for him to get what he wants, then he has no problem with that. ”
Cowboy furrowed his brow. He was no fool. Every terrorist was someone else’s freedom fighter, or warrior for a noble cause. But some fighters and warriors used ethical methods in their wars, while others did not.
The child whimpered, drawing his attention. Its mother was gently running her fingers over its head, but the baby was clearly agitated, its tiny hand fisting her breast as it moved its head from side to side, then released her nipple again and let out a plaintive wail.
“Please,” said the mother. “We need water. Tom said his wife would bring us food, water, and blankets, but no one has come.”
Grams hadn’t been hallucinating or delirious when she’d talked about bringing food to the hungry. She’d been talking about these two. She’d known they were here, and she’d wanted to care for them.
“We don’t need food,” said the man over his child’s cries. “Just water so my wife can make milk for our son.”
Cowboy’s throat tightened. Whoever these people were, they weren’t terrorists.
They were scared, vulnerable, and clearly desperate for help.
He nodded, letting his gun drop to his side for the first time since he’d encountered the trio.
“Come with me to the house. There is food and drink, and fire to keep warm.”
Their eyes widened. “No,” they both said at once. “Sarkisyan,” said the man. “He can’t know we’re here.”
Cowboy cocked his head, understanding crystalizing. “Sarkisyan is here on the island?”
The man nodded.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. We saw him shortly after we arrived.”
Charlotte. He felt her name in his bones, felt the urgency and fear. He’d left her alone with a terrorist leader on the loose, with an obvious association to the family. “Stay here,” he said firmly. “I’ll be back soon with water and everything you need.”
The man grabbed his arm, his grip surprisingly strong for someone so thin. “Please,” he said urgently. “Do not tell anyone. If Sarkisyan finds out—”
“I’m not planning on it,” Cowboy assured him, shaking the man’s hand off. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
The man nodded reluctantly, his eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and obvious fear.
Cowboy turned and descended the spiral staircase as quickly as the dark would allow, his thoughts churning and his pulse pounding in his concussed brain. The storm continued to batter the lighthouse, the wind rattling the entire structure with every gust.
This was bigger than he’d expected. Sarkisyan, refugees, Tom’s secret operation—it all pointed to a tangled web of danger and deception that would take more than a single night to unravel.
But one thing was clear: Tom wasn’t the villain Cowboy had assumed.
If anything, he was risking everything to help these people, and that made him a target for Sarkisyan.
He tightened his grip on the Glock and ran for the house, his jaw set with determination.
He needed to get back to Charlotte and Grams, fast. The storm was only a tiny part of the danger they faced.
What and whoever was waiting for them on this island, he’d have to make damn sure they were ready to take them on.