Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Mercury
We rendezvous with Lelanie at Daniel’s designated coordinates.
Rather than hitting the bunkers, which are already mapped out for a later pass, we push onto reservation property to inspect the caverns on the Blackfeet side of the mountain.
Lelanie leads the way without a word, her boots barely disturbing the pine needles on the forest floor.
She moves with a fluid grace that makes our heavy tactical gear feel clumsy by comparison.
I keep my eyes on her back as we navigate the dense brush.
She stops at a ridgeline where the trees thin out and the mountain face scars the horizon.
A deep split in the rock reveals the entrance to the Blackfeet caverns.
It is narrow, barely wide enough for one man to squeeze through, but the air flowing out is cool and smells faintly of wet limestone.
“It goes deep,” Lelanie says, her voice barely a whisper in the mountain wind.
She doesn’t look back as she slides into the gap with the ease of a predator entering its den.
We follow, one by one. I’m second in line, my rifle held at the low ready.
The transition is brutal. The bright mountain light dies the second I cross the threshold.
I flip on my light. The beam cuts through the thick, stagnant air, revealing walls that shimmer with moisture.
“Watch the floor,” Lelanie warns, tapping a spot on the ground where the rock slants at a wicked angle.
“There are holes here that go down for miles. You slip, you do not come back up.”
I nod, stepping carefully. “You know this place well?”
She glances back, her eyes reflecting my flashlight for a second.
“My grandfather taught me every vein of this mountain. It breathes. You have to listen to it.” I feel a shiver that has nothing to do with the temperature.
She is not just a guide. She is a part of the land.
We move deeper, and the acoustics change.
Every step echoes, making the cave sound like it is filled with unseen people.
Gemini signals for a halt. He points at the wall.
I look closer. There is a series of scratches near a protrusion of quartz.
Not animal claw marks. These are man-made.
Someone has used a tool to wedge themselves a foothold.
“They’ve been here,” I claim, my throat tight.
Lelanie kneels, running her hand over the dirt near the wall.
She stands up and points to a discarded cigarette butt pressed into the mud.
It is fresh. “They are careless,” she remarks, her voice devoid of emotion, her expression disgusted.
“They think the mountain hides them, so they stop being quiet. They stop being hunters.”
The realization hits me hard. These people are in here right now, or they were here hours ago.
I motion for the guys to tighten the formation.
We are not just explorers anymore. We are prey if we are not careful.
I see Pisces checking his sidearm, his movements calm but fast. We’re deeper than I expected.
The tunnel branches off into three distinct directions.
“Left,” Lelanie directs us without any hesitation whatsoever.
“That is where the air flows from the lower chambers. If they are hiding supplies, that is where they put them.”
“How can you be sure?” I ask.
“Because the elements of the mountain tell me,” she says. We push forward into the dark, ready for whatever awaits us.
As the cavernous walls open up into a wider pathway, Midas squeezes through us and shuffles his way to Lelanie’s side, as if he’s drawn to her charisma and can’t resist being beside her.
Gemini gives me a knowing look, one that says those two will be hooking up, and I shrug my shoulders in response.
Can’t keep people apart who are drawn to each other.
As soon as he reaches her, the two of their heads navigate toward each other’s, nearly touching as they talk in low murmurs and communicate in hand signals.
I watch the two of them ahead of us, and it’s impossible to ignore how Midas and Lelanie move like magnets pulled together by a force stronger than the mission.
She shifts to the left to avoid a slick patch of limestone, and Midas is already there, his boots landing in her prints with a precision that borders on supernatural.
It’s not just about protection. He doesn’t treat her like a damsel.
He treats her like an equal, a partner, and every time she pauses to scan the darkness, he stops instantly, his gaze tracking her silhouette with an intensity that makes me look away.
They breathe in sync. They stop in sync.
There’s a silent language passing between them, a rhythm forged in the deep earth that I can feel vibrating in the air.
Midas is hovering, sure, but she’s the one setting the pace, and he is happy to follow her lead wherever she goes.
We push deeper until the tunnel opens into a massive chamber.
Lelanie raises a hand to halt us, her eyes narrowing at something in the shadows.
Tucked against the damp rock wall is a shack, built from scavenged rotten, mismatched boards that have no business being this far underground.
It looks like a scar on the face of the mountain.
We move in with our weapons high, scanning for tripwires, but the place is quiet. Too quiet.
“Clear it,” I tell the guys, my voice a low growl.
I kick the door inward, and the stench of decay hits me like a physical punch.
It smells of sickness, unwashed skin, and wasted life.
In the back corner, huddled against the dirt floor, is a figure draped in rags.
They are emaciated, their skin the color of old paper, and they don’t even flinch when we enter.
The victim doesn't make a sound, just stares at the dirt with eyes that look like shattered glass. They’ve clearly been missing for a long time, discarded like trash in this hellhole.
“They’ve been holding someone here," I say, my blood turning to ice.
Lelanie is already on her phone. She keeps her tone clipped and professional, giving Daniel the location and the situation without wasting a breath. She hangs up and turns to us, her face a mask of cold fury. “They are on their way. We keep the area secure.”
It takes less than ten minutes. Then, they appear.
I don't hear boots. I don't hear gear clanking.
One second the tunnel is empty, and the next, two figures are standing just outside the shack's entrance.
The woman is older, her hair a cascade of silver braids, and she moves with a calm authority that makes my brothers lower their weapons instinctively.
The man beside her is a mountain of a warrior, his frame blocking out the light, his eyes scanning the chamber for threats I don't even see.
“Stand back,” the woman says. It isn't a request.
We back away, giving them the space they need.
I watch, mesmerized, as the medicine woman drops to her knees beside the victim.
She doesn't rush. She moves with a slow, deliberate grace, reaching out to brush a strand of matted hair from the victim's forehead.
The victim flinches, a small, birdlike sound escaping their throat, but the woman just makes a soft humming noise, a low vibration that seems to settle the panic in the room.
“You are safe now,” she tells the person, her voice steady and warm. “We are here. You are coming home.”
She pulls a bundle from her satchel. It is not medical equipment, but a heavy wool blanket that smells of sage and woodsmoke. She wraps it around the person’s shoulders, tucking it in tight as if she is swaddling a child. The victim leans into her touch, their shoulders finally dropping an inch.
“Check for trauma,” the woman says to the warrior.
The massive man moves in, his hands thick and calloused but gentle as he inspects the victim's arms and legs.
He finds the bruised, raw patches where the shackles bit into the skin and curses under his breath.
It is a soft sound, barely audible, but it carries a weight of pure, unadulterated rage.
He nods to the woman, confirming what we already know.
The victim is broken, but they are alive.
“Prepare the litter,” she commands. The warrior pulls a frame from his back that he unfolds with a snap.
He lays it down, and together, they lift the victim.
They don't drag them or manhandle them. They act in perfect unison, one supporting the head, the other the legs, sliding them onto the soft surface of the blanket-lined frame.
The victim lets out a long, shuddering breath, their eyes finally closing as the weight leaves their body.
“Take them to the entrance,” she tells the warrior.
“Do not stop for anyone.” He grunts, hoisting the frame onto his shoulders with ease.
He turns and walks out of the chamber, his movements as silent as a shadow.
The medicine woman lingers for a heartbeat, looking at the spot where the victim was chained.
Her expression shifts, the warmth vanishing to reveal a cold, predatory focus.
She looks at us then, her gaze piercing right through my gear and my bravado.
“You did well to call,” she says. “But do not make the mistake of thinking this is over. They are not done with their cruelty. You need to be ready for what comes next.”
She turns and follows the warrior into the dark.
I want to say something, to thank them, but the words die in my throat.
We are outsiders here, and I know better than to interrupt a ritual of healing.
Lelanie steps forward the moment they are out of sight.
Her face is a mask of stone. “You heard her,” she says, her voice cutting through the damp air. “We tear this place down. Now.”
We don't need a second order. We move to the walls of the shack, our boots thudding on the cave floor.
Pisces takes a crowbar to the main support beam.
With a violent grunt, he levers it outward.
The wood groans, the old nails screeching as they give way.
Gemini joins him, putting his weight behind the pull.
The front wall sags, then collapses into a heap of splinters and dust.
I walk to the back corner where the victim was held.
I see the eyehook embedded in the rock, a jagged piece of steel that ruined a life.
I swing my boot, hitting the base of the wall with enough force to crack the rotting boards.
I kick again, and again, tearing the shack apart board by board.
We work in a frenzy of destruction, fueled by the image of that person curled on the dirt.
We smash the furniture, we shatter the remains of their meager supplies, and we pile it all in the center of the chamber.
In ten minutes, the shack is nothing but a mound of kindling.
I pull a flare from my vest and strike it.
The sudden red light turns the chamber into a hellscape.
I toss the flare onto the pile, and the dry, ancient wood catches instantly.
We watch the fire rise, licking at the stone ceiling, devouring the last evidence of the nightmare.
By the time we leave, there is nothing left but ash and the memory of what happened in the dark.
On our way back out, Lelanie shows us how to access the underground chamber she briefly indicated as we were coming through.
When all of us are in the cool, dark cave, none of us utters a sound.
Piled high, up to the ceiling are crates of various guns, ammunition, and other armaments that these fuckers are using to torture the people they’ve abducted.
I remember how I found Finley, and I also recall the way Skippy looked.
Thankfully, Skippy’s seemed to be more like an opportunity presented itself after Sutton thwarted Jeffries’ attempts to capture her.
Enraged, he went after someone she cared about.
At least, that’s my presumption, because Finley was definitely malnourished and in horrible shape when I came upon her all those weeks ago.
Why the person we found was in even worse shape than Finley was is anybody’s guess, but as far as I’m concerned, those bastards have gone too far.
“It’s too much for us to carry out of here,” Gemini muses as we continue to look around at all the crates. “But we can’t leave this shit here, brothers. Lelanie, do you have any suggestions?”
“I will reach out to Daniel. I am sure he will get warriors down here so we can get this removed. This is a violation of our mountain,” she replies.
She looks sad but also livid that their sacred land has been so reprehensibly desecrated.
While I don’t share her beliefs, I feel the same damn way.
Sometimes nature should be left alone and these mountains are so majestic, what those shitheads have done is a travesty in and of itself, notwithstanding the survivor we found.
“He will get our medicine woman out here to perform a cleansing ceremony once this trash has been removed.”
While I understand their formal way of speaking, her ire at the situation is battling with my need to chuckle at the words she’s using regarding the arsenal we’ve found.
There are countless thousands of dollars sitting around, everything spic and span and shiny.
Definitely not what eclipses my definition of trash.
Still, she’s right; these fuckers shit on the mountain, the tribe itself, and the surrounding community.
It’s a damn good thing we don’t mind taking care of the ‘trash’ because there are at least three men I know of who are going to meet their maker. We’re just getting started and while this first battle may be ours, I can’t fool myself.
The war is going to take precision, strategizing, and knowing exactly when to move forward and when to fall back. But, since nobody fucks with the Kings, my bet is on us ultimately winning.