Chapter 21
The first sight of Loughman land was a welcome relief to Wyatt. He wanted nothing more than to take Callie straight to the others, but he couldn’t since it was still light outside.
He pulled up in between two live oaks and rolled down the windows before he shut off the engine. The chilly breeze ruffled Callie’s hair. He touched her face, thankful that she wasn’t running a fever.
His gaze slid out the window. It was a long walk to the barn where the base was located beneath one of the buildings. Even if Callie were awake, it would be a painful endeavor since she was so weak.
She wouldn’t be the first person he’d carried over long distances, but she was certainly the lightest. Wyatt leaned his head back on the seat and closed his eyes.
It was several miles to the house and barns with open pastures in between.
That openness would be a prime opportunity for anyone to take a shot at him.
Wyatt would be carrying Callie as well as weapons. It would make it difficult for him to spot an enemy and fire, but it was doable.
He wanted to be out in the brush himself with a rifle and scope. No. He wanted to track down these fuckers and slit their throats with his knife.
The Saints had murdered his aunt and uncle and attempted to kill Owen and Natalie, as well as Cullen and Mia. He wanted them to come for him.
The longer he sat there thinking about it, the angrier he became. It turned into something taciturn, something deadly. There was only one other time he’d ever felt like this—when he’d found his mother.
He’d been too young to realize the emotion running through him then—and too young to do anything about it. The same couldn’t be said for now.
For years, he’d trained his mind and body for just such an encounter. He was never more prepared than he was currently.
The minutes moved as slow as honey. He ate and drank, and managed to get more water down Callie’s throat. He inspected her wounds then took out his bag of weapons and laid everything on the ground, checking each gun and rifle. He reloaded Callie’s Glock and set it aside.
When the sun sank below the tops of the trees, Wyatt began to ready things. He knew exactly the route he’d take to the barn. Knowing Owen, he was most likely already there with his rifle, waiting.
Wyatt strapped three knives to his body—one in each boot, and one at his waist. He put Callie’s Glock in the holster strapped to his left leg. Then he chose a rifle. The rest would stay until he could return for it later.
With the weapons in hand, he went for Callie.
As soon as she was in his arms, he started toward the fence.
It was one of many he’d have to cross before he reached the barn.
His gaze scanned the area, searching the clumps of trees for any movement.
He chose to start his trek at dusk because it was difficult to see anything—for him, and for his foes.
He climbed the fence and threw one leg over the top rail. Then he sat and pulled his other leg over. When he jumped to the ground, Callie didn’t even stir.
A bat flew over his head chasing mosquitos, while an owl hooted nearby. Every once in a while, he’d look behind him. He knew the Saints were out there, because it was exactly where he’d be.
With the vast area of the ranch, anyone with half a brain would expect the Loughmans to return by any means other than the main entrance. And the Saints weren’t stupid. The leaders knew exactly what to do.
The same leaders he’d worked for his entire military career.
He reached another fence and crossed it. The hilly landscape aided in his bid to stay hidden. As did the night. The cloudy sky kept the half-moon hidden for long stretches at a time.
When the creatures of the night suddenly cut off their music, he knew danger was near. The sound of the retort reached him a second before the bullet slammed into his back near his shoulder, sending him pitching forward.
He turned as he fell to keep from landing on Callie. She rolled out of his arms when he hit the ground. Pain radiated out from the wound, making it hard for him to lift his right arm. He gritted his teeth through the pain and turned, raising the rifle.
Wyatt fired off one shot at the approaching attacker, stopping him dead in his tracks. Wyatt then rolled forward and came up on one knee, swinging the gun to the left where he’d heard gunfire.
The bullet landed in the dirt inches from Callie, right where he’d been. Wyatt quickly squeezed off two rounds, striking the man in the chest.
He felt blood, thick and warm, run down his back. His shoulder was on fire. The more he used the arm, the more the blood gushed. When the fingers of his right hand stopped responding, he switched the rifle to his left shoulder and took out another figure running toward him.
Then he was tackled from the side. His attacker kicked his rifle out of his hand while fingers dug into Wyatt’s wound, pushing against the ripped flesh.
He bellowed his fury and punched the man in the face with his left fist. His attacker’s hold loosened enough that Wyatt was able to knock him off. He rose up over the man and lifted his right arm, but the pain stopped him from delivering another hit.
That gave his foe time to get his hands around Wyatt’s throat. With his good arm, he pushed against the man’s face while he grabbed for the handle of his knife with his right.
But his fingers wouldn’t obey his command. Wyatt looked over at Callie to see someone fast approaching. He fought harder against his attacker, frustration making him roar his fury.
Then—finally!—his fingers grasped the hilt of his blade. He launched it at the man coming for Callie, impaling him. Wyatt’s attacker doubled his effort to choke him. With his air being cut off, Wyatt hit his foe with his injured arm and then immediately with his other.
In the few seconds that gave him, Wyatt grabbed for the pistol strapped to his leg. He brought it up to his attacker’s head, but the man knocked his arm away, sending the shot into the air.
Dark spots appeared at the edges of Wyatt’s vision. He bashed the barrel of the gun against his foe’s temple twice. As soon as the man’s fingers loosened, Wyatt drew in several gulps of air.
He sat up and turned the gun on the man and got off a shot. The Saint grunted as he climbed to his feet. Wyatt tried to do the same, but he was a second too slow, giving his attacker time to knee him in the chin.
The impact dazed Wyatt for a second as he fell backward to the ground. He turned the gun to the man, firing three shots, two of which hit his foe in the chest.
The Saint kicked the gun out of Wyatt’s hand. They were wearing body armor. The sound of other weapons firing warned Wyatt that there were more Saints on the way. He hoped none of the bullets had hit Callie, but he didn’t have time to look.
As he fought the Saint from his back, Wyatt managed to roll the man over and get off several good hits. When his foe reached for his gun, Wyatt hastily knocked it out of his hand and punched him in the throat.
While the Saint gagged and struggled to breathe, Wyatt dove for the pistol. He jerked around when a gun fired.
The Saint kneeled over him with a knife in his hand before he pitched forward, dead from a bullet to his neck.
Wyatt looked past him to find Callie on her side with her gun in hand.
Her head dropped to the ground as her eyes closed.
He crawled to her, grabbing weapons as he did, but she was already unconscious again.
It was the quiet that alerted Wyatt. He reached for his rifle and spun around to see a lone man walking toward him with arms raised.
“Stop,” Wyatt demanded.
“I’d rather not.”
Wyatt frowned, recognizing the voice. He stood. “Maks?”
“Yeah.”
“What are you doing here?” Wyatt asked as Maks approached.
Maks shrugged one shoulder and adjusted his rifle. “I was in the area.”
“Bullshit.”
“I knew the Saints would be waiting for you, just as I knew that you or your brothers would return.”
Wyatt snorted as he turned back to Callie. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine,” Wyatt said and knelt beside Callie. He hid his wince as he picked her up and stood. Then he began walking as Maks fell into step beside him. “How long have you been here?”
“Ever since I left Virginia.”
“I suppose you scouted the entire ranch?”
Maks nodded. “Those were the only Saints watching tonight. More will come at noon to relieve them.”
“Then we need to be here to kill them.”
“After you see to that wound,” Maks stated. “What happened to her?”
Wyatt gazed down at Callie, wishing her blue eyes were looking back at him. “The Saints.”
“The fact that both of you are still alive attests to your skills. The Saints only recruit the best.”
“Are you saying they came for you?”
Maks smiled as he cut Wyatt a look. “They might have shown interest, and I might’ve taken an undercover job in Russia.”
“The Saints are there, too.”
“I let them know I wasn’t interested.”
“This was while you were on my team?”
Maks glanced at him and nodded. “I wanted no part of them.”
Wyatt glanced sideways at him. “You could be lying.”
“I could be, but if I was, I’d have already killed you.”
When they reached a fence, Wyatt let Maks go over first before handing him Callie. Once Wyatt jumped over, he reached for Callie.
“Let me carry her awhile,” Maks said.
Wyatt shook his head. “I’ve got her.”
They repeated the process another six times until the lights from the house came into view. Wyatt actually felt joy at seeing it.
How Callie would love to rub that in his face. All those years of refusing to return home, and now it was the only place he wanted to be.
Wyatt led the way through the gates to the barn that had the base beneath it. The back of the building was open. A moment later, Owen came striding out.
His smile faded when he saw Wyatt carrying Callie. He ran to Wyatt and tried to take her, but Wyatt kept walking. He saw Owen and Maks exchange a look.
“Maks, meet my middle brother, Owen,” Wyatt said. “Owen, Maks.”
The two shook hands as they walked inside the barn to the stairs that led to the base.
“You’re the same Maks who helped Cullen and Mia,” Owen said. “Thank you for that.”
“Just doing my job,” Maks replied.
Wyatt hid his pain as he maneuvered down the narrow steps with Callie. Natalie was standing near the back entrance to the bunks. Her face fell when she saw Callie.
“I’ll get the supplies,” Owen said and hurried off.
Wyatt knelt next to a bunk and set Callie down. He lifted her shirt to exam the wound and saw fresh blood staining the white bandages.
Wyatt dropped his forehead onto Callie’s hip. Blood trickled down his arm to his fingers to drip onto the floor. He lifted his head to Natalie and said, “She needs fluids.”
“There’s so much blood,” Natalie said. “I thought her wounds were stitched.”
Owen stopped beside him. “That blood isn’t Callie’s. It’s Wyatt’s.”