Chapter 17
Callie had never run so fast in her life. Her lungs burned, and there was blood dripping down her neck into her sweatshirt. She weaved and zigzagged around anything that could give her cover.
She turned left, intending to get as far from the town as she could. Her best chance was to lose them in the woods. The arid landscape of Austin and the surrounding area gave way to more lush grounds with taller trees.
Branches snagged on her clothes, hair, and face. She didn’t pause until she found a set of trees that she could duck behind. Callie closed her eyes for a second and took several deep breaths before peeking around the trunks to see how close the men were.
The wound on her neck stung, but she was lucky that she had shifted at the last second. Otherwise, she’d be dead. She wondered about Wyatt. When she’d been able to glance his way, he was locked in a very physical battle with someone.
She’d debated doubling back to find him, then decided against it. Away from the city, the men after her would have to fan out to look for her. It would give her time to take them out one at a time.
The crack of a limb sounded loudly nearby, silencing the birds. The area grew as quiet as a graveyard. They were close. She looked out in front of her, trying to see as far ahead as she could in order to choose the best route.
She didn’t know this region and didn’t want to end up cornered somewhere. But it wasn’t like she had a lot of time to plan an escape.
With a deep breath, she pushed away from the safety of the trees and crept forward. She stayed low, letting the underbrush assist in hiding her. Fortunately, her clothes were dark, which also helped conceal her.
Thanks to her time working at the Loughman Ranch, Callie had learned how to move quietly through the thickets. That skill came in handy now as she methodically and steadily put more distance between her and the men following.
She needed to find an area large enough to move around in, but which also provided great cover in order for her to start taking the men out. Unlike her attacker—who had a silencer on his gun—as soon as she fired the first shot, her location would be known.
Her throat was already parched. It was a good thing it wasn’t summer, or she would be in for a very rough day. Not that the autumn climate would give her much relief. Texas weather could change on a dime any time of the year.
She kept moving from tree to tree, only running when the distance between them kept her visible for too long. The trick was to blend in with the foliage. She could only pray that there wasn’t a tracker with the men after her. Otherwise, things would get much more complicated.
Wyatt stashed the bags behind a large bush. He knelt beside them, getting out weapons as he glanced up every few seconds. He didn’t know what he would be walking into. He had to be prepared, but he couldn’t lug the bags with him if he wanted to creep up on the man after Callie.
Once Wyatt was set with the weapons, he zipped up his bag and stood. The traffic in the sleepy town was getting busier, and that meant more people would see him. It was a chance he’d have to take to figure out which direction Callie had gone.
The concrete gave away nothing. It wasn’t until he spotted a drop of blood that he knew he was headed the right way. He refused to think that the blood was Callie’s, because the idea of her on the run and wounded sent him into an animalistic rage.
He followed the drops of blood in a path that wound around vehicles, garbage cans, businesses, and other things. It wasn’t until the trail suddenly veered to the left away from the town and into the treeline that he smiled.
Five feet into the vegetation, he saw a body slumped against a tree with the victim’s chest soaked in blood. Wyatt recognized the clothes as the man who had confronted Callie.
He squatted beside the dead man, looking him over. A white male in his thirties with no identifiable marks present. Wyatt knew the Reeds, and this man wasn’t a Reed, so he crossed them off the list. It also wasn’t any of Ahmadi’s men. That left the Saints.
Had it been misfortune that put them on a path that intersected with the Saints? Wyatt sure hoped so because the only other option was that the Saints had been following them all along.
As many times as Wyatt had gone off the grid, he knew what to do. Regardless of the reach of the Saints, he and Callie had been more than careful.
He surveyed the ground, spotting the prints of several large boots. The way they trampled over everything erased any evidence of Callie. But he knew she was out there. Just as he was certain she’d been the one to kill the man.
Wyatt straightened and looked around, his gaze moving slowly through the foliage. If he were in charge of this group of Saints, he’d leave a man behind to make sure no one followed.
It didn’t take Wyatt long to spot the guard. He kept well hidden, but not good enough. On silent feet, Wyatt crept toward the unsuspecting man.
There was a mechanical click, and his target whispered something. Wyatt paused, listening. When nothing more was said, he moved closer and spotted the headset the Saint wore.
With no time to spare, Wyatt came up behind him, removing the knife from its scabbard at the back of his waist and slit his throat. As the Saint bled out, Wyatt took his headset and rifle before following the trail of boot prints.
Callie was tired and thirsty. The amount of blood she’d lost was only making her weaker. She stopped to rest once more. When she looked back through the trees, she counted seven men.
“Shit,” she mumbled, hating that she had a stitch in her side.
She continued onward until the trees gave way to a clearing and a fence. Beyond the fence were miles of pasture. A large herd of cattle grazed nearby.
Callie avoided the ranch and turned to the right, hoping to skirt the property while remaining shielded by the trees. She pressed a hand against the wound on her neck to try and stop the flow of blood.
Every step became a struggle. She hadn’t thought she’d lost enough blood to put her in such a predicament. The stitch in her side didn’t relent. Adrenaline kept her going, but even that would wear off eventually.
During her training for the CIA and for Orrin, she’d been put in similar situations—though she hadn’t been wounded in either scenario.
Though it wasn’t often, Callie did get out in the field with Orrin on missions. She’d killed to save another life, so she didn’t feel bad about shooting the man trying to take hers. But she’d never been out on her own before.
That didn’t mean she wasn’t prepared. Orrin had been rigorous in the constant trials he put her through. Some were mental, some physical, some emotional—but all were training he knew she’d someday need.
That day had come.
The training worked to help her mind sort through minute details, but it was Wyatt who kept her going.
She paused, leaning against a tree. By the ascent of the sun, it was already mid-morning. She couldn’t believe she’d been out there alone for that long. The shade of the trees kept the sun off her, but the day was turning out to be warmer than usual.
It wouldn’t be long before she’d need to take off her sweatshirt or overheat. Without any water, she had to remain as cool as she could.
She was thankful for her two weapons, but she wished she had her backpack. Not only did it have water, but it also had the burner phone. She could call . . .
Her thoughts trailed off. Who would she call? The closest ones were Owen and Natalie, but they needed to remain at the ranch. Besides, she didn’t want anyone else to have to fight the assholes after her.
She wiped her forehead on her sleeve and looked behind her. There was no sign of anyone, but she didn’t let her guard down. Nor would she until her pursuers were all dead.
Callie started moving again. She’d gone about half a mile when she saw another clearing and the same fence as earlier.
Wyatt touched the blood on the bark of the tree. The twisting of his gut told him it was Callie’s. He’d hoped the blood he found in town was someone else’s, but it looked as if he were wrong.
It was easy enough to find her trail because Orrin had trained her and given her the same skills as his sons. Knowing which direction Callie would head helped Wyatt stay on her trail.
The Saints spread out looking for her, giving their locations via their communication that Wyatt heard through the headset. At least one of them was a tracker, because every time they veered off course, they would inevitably retrace their steps and find Callie’s trail.
Wyatt moved quickly over the land. He didn’t stop until he saw the ranch.
There, he stared at the cattle for a long time before he looked in the direction Callie had gone.
She would keep away from people, which meant she would remain in the woods as long as she could.
He realized she skirted the ranch in hopes of keeping hidden.
He turned and followed Callie’s trail. From what he could tell, there were at least seven men after her. And he was determined to find them before they found her.
Worry set in when he discovered how often Callie was stopping to rest. He spotted more blood, a thick drop here and there.
He looked up, squinting through the trees. She continued to remain on her feet, which was a good sign, but it wouldn’t be too much longer before the Saints caught up with her. As long as she stayed conscious, she had a chance.
“I’m coming, baby girl,” he said.
He’d gone another two miles when he looked from the woods and saw the ranch again. There were cattle in the distance, but closer to the fence were five horses. He was about to walk away when he spotted something running in the pasture.
As soon as he realized it was Callie, he rushed from the trees and across the clearing. He slowed when he neared the fence so as not to spook the horses. When he climbed over, all but one of the horses trotted off.
“Come on, boy,” he coaxed, holding out his hand.
The gelding snorted and walked toward him slowly. Each second felt like an eternity, but Wyatt remained patient until the horse reached him.
He stroked the velvety nose of the palomino, talking low and smooth all the while. Then he caressed the horse’s neck and side, walking around the animal to let the horse get to know him.
Once he returned to the gelding’s head, he looked the horse in the eye and said, “I need a ride. Will you take me?”
The horse gave a swish of his tail and moved closer to him. Wyatt grabbed a handful of mane and leapt atop the horse’s back. There were some things that a person could never forget, and riding a horse was one of them.
Wyatt gave the horse a nudge, and the palomino leapt into a run, racing across the pasture.
Though it had been years since he had ridden a horse, much less bareback, it was engrained in him.
He leaned low over the horse’s neck, his gaze on the men that had jumped the fence and were running after Callie.
He pressed his knee against the horse, sending the gelding veering toward the men. When the animal spotted the group, its ears pricked forward and he picked up speed.
There was a smile on Wyatt’s face when the palomino ran over two of the men.