4. Doc
DOC
The lights die.
Glass explodes inward.
I wrap an arm around Mara’s waist and drive her to the floor as a bullet tears through the space where she was standing.
We hit hard.
I turn before we land, taking the impact against my shoulder and pulling her beneath me. Glass rains across my back. Somewhere in the darkness, Wolf shouts for everyone to get down.
Mara’s elbow slams into my ribs.
“Get off me.”
“Stop moving.”
“I need my weapon.”
Another shot punches through the front window.
Wood splinters from the table above us.
I cover the back of Mara’s head with one hand and reach beneath my jacket with the other. My pistol clears the holster as emergency lights flicker to life above the bar, bathing the tavern in a dim red glow.
Trigger is already moving.
He crawls toward the hallway leading to the kitchen while Wolf reaches beneath the bar and comes up with a shotgun.
Sheriff Tate crouches behind an overturned table, his weapon aimed toward the broken window.
“No one returns fire unless you have a clear target,” he orders. “There are homes and businesses across that street.”
A third shot doesn’t come.
The storm fills the silence instead.
Rain blows through the shattered window, carrying broken glass across the floor. The street beyond appears empty, but the darkness between the buildings could hide anyone.
Mara twists beneath me.
“Doc.”
“Not yet.”
“If you don’t move, I’m going to shoot you myself.”
“You can’t reach your gun.”
“I can reach yours.”
Her fingers close around the grip of my pistol.
I look down.
She’s glaring up at me, her dark hair spread across the floor and a thin line of blood forming near her temple where a piece of glass caught her skin.
Grant’s eyes.
But the fury is entirely hers.
“Let go of my weapon.”
“Let go of me.”
“We’re in front of a window.”
“We’re behind an overturned table.”
“Because I put us here.”
“And I appreciate it. Now move.”
The calmness of her voice should warn me.
It doesn’t.
She drives her knee into the outside of my thigh, hooks her boot around my ankle, and uses my own weight to shift me far enough to roll free.
I catch her arm before she crawls toward the bar.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s a scratch.”
“I’ll decide that.”
Her eyes narrow.
“You may have been my brother’s medic, but you aren’t mine.”
The words hit a place I keep buried.
I release her.
That’s all the opening she needs.
Mara pulls her sidearm from its holster and moves behind the heavy end of the bar.
Wolf glances at me.
“Grant warned you about telling her what to do.”
“When?”
“Every day.”
Trigger’s voice comes through the darkness near the kitchen.
“Back door is secure. I’m going into the alley.”
“No,” Sheriff Tate orders. “Wait for my deputies.”
“We might lose him.”
“We might also put you in front of his rifle.”
Trigger stops, but I can tell from the set of his shoulders he doesn’t like it.
Neither do I.
Waiting goes against everything the Army trained into us, but Tate is right. We don’t know how many shooters are outside or whether the power failure is meant to pull us into an ambush.
Sheriff Tate takes out his radio.
“Unit Two, approach from the south without lights. Unit Four, block the north end of Main Street. Possible shooter positioned east of the Last Stand Tavern. We have shots fired into the building.”
Static crackles before a deputy responds.
I stay low and move toward the front wall, keeping beneath the windows.
Mara follows.
I look over my shoulder. “Stay behind the bar.”
“That suggestion sounded remarkably like an order.”
“It was.”
“Then the answer is no.”
She moves beside me and studies the splintered tabletop.
“The second round hit lower than the first.”
“I noticed.”
“The shooter changed his target.”
“Or fired while moving.”
She shifts closer to examine the angle. Her shoulder presses against mine.
I smell rain, gunpowder, and the faint citrus scent of her shampoo.
It has been years since I noticed anything about a woman in the middle of danger.
I don’t like that I notice it now.
Mara points toward the wall behind us.
“The first round struck there.”
A dark hole marks the wood less than a foot from where she stood before the lights went out.
The second bullet is buried inside the overturned table.
I trace the probable paths with my eyes.
“They came from different angles.”
Her gaze meets mine. “Two shooters?”
“Maybe. Or one shooter moving fast.”
“He would’ve had only a few seconds.”
“He could’ve fired the first shot from a fixed position, then moved.”
“The power went out before the first shot.”
“Which means he didn’t cut it from the street.”
Mara looks toward the hallway.
“The breaker box is behind the tavern.”
“Someone could have cut the line ahead of time and waited for the right moment.”
“Or there are two people.”
I don’t want her to be right.
One shooter is a threat.
Two shooters are a plan.
A vehicle engine roars somewhere north of the tavern. Tires squeal against wet pavement.
Trigger turns toward the sound.
“That’s our shooter.”
“Stay inside,” Sheriff Tate orders. “If you get shot, my Rylie will never forgive me.”
Red and blue lights flash through the broken windows as two patrol vehicles enter Main Street from opposite directions. One deputy stops in front of the tavern while the other continues north after the fleeing vehicle.
Sheriff Tate reaches the front door.
“Parker, come in here.”
A young deputy rushes inside, rain streaming from the brim of his hat.
“Dark SUV blew through the north roadblock,” he says. “No plates. Deputy Collins is behind it.”
“Tell him not to pursue alone. Have state police block the highway.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then secure this building. No one enters or leaves without my authorization.”
Mara rises.
Sheriff Tate points at her before she takes a step.
“You stay here.”
“I’m going to check the alley.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“The shooter may have left evidence near the breaker box.”
“And Deputy Parker will find it.”
Mara glances toward the young deputy.
He looks away.
Smart man.
“With all due respect,” she says, “Parker has been a deputy for six months.”
“And I’ve been sheriff since before you learned to walk. You are the target of this investigation, Mara. Tonight, you follow my orders.”
She opens her mouth.
Tate lifts one eyebrow.
Mara closes it again.
I almost smile.
Her gaze cuts toward me.
“If you laugh, I’ll arrest you.”
“For what?”
“I’ll think of something.”
Wolf lowers his shotgun and comes around the bar. Blood runs along his forearm from a piece of glass, but he either hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care.
I notice.
“You’re cut.”
He glances down. “It’s nothing.”
“That phrase must be contagious in Eagle River.”
Mara gives me a look.
I point toward a chair away from the windows.
“Sit down.”
Wolf snorts. “You’ve been gone fifteen years and still think you’re in charge of everyone’s injuries.”
“I am.”
Trigger returns from the kitchen carrying a flashlight.
“He’s right. Sit down before he tackles you too.”
Mara brushes glass from her sleeve.
“He won’t make that mistake again.”
I remove the medical kit from the emergency cabinet behind the bar and set it on the table.
The contents are better than I expected.
Until I look closer.
“Who stocked this?”
Wolf looks at me. “I did.”
I hold up an expired package of gauze.
He shrugs. “I own a tavern, not a hospital.”
“You own a building where drunk people throw chairs.”
“They haven’t thrown one in months.”
“They threw one last week,” Trigger says.
“That was different.”
“How?”
“It was a stool.”
Despite the danger outside, the exchange pulls me back fifteen years.
Wolf and Trigger could argue in the middle of incoming fire. Grant usually made it worse until I threatened to sedate all three of them.
For one painful second, I expect to hear his voice joining theirs.
It never comes.
I clean the cut on Wolf’s arm and confirm it doesn’t need stitches.
Then I turn toward Mara.
“Your turn.”
“No.”
“Let me see your head.”
“It’s fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“So is half the room.”
“You were beneath a window when it shattered.”
“I didn’t lose consciousness. I’m not dizzy, nauseated, or confused. My pupils are equal, and the cut is shallow.”
She recites the symptoms as though she has rehearsed them.
“Grant taught you that.”
Her expression changes.
“He taught me a lot of things.”
I put a clean gauze pad on the table between us.
“Then he also taught you that people with head injuries aren’t always reliable judges of their condition.”
“I don’t have a head injury.”
“Prove it.”
For a moment, I think she’ll refuse simply because the request came from me.
Then she steps closer.
“Make it quick.”
I position her beneath the emergency light. The glow is weak, but it’s enough. I tilt her chin up and examine her pupils.
Mara goes completely still.
So do I.
She’s close enough that I can see tiny amber flecks in her brown eyes. A faint scar curves beneath her chin, nearly hidden in the shadow.
I remember Grant telling us about the time his little sister tried jumping her bicycle over a drainage ditch and needed seven stitches.
I never imagined I would stand this close to the woman she became.
“Are you finished?” she asks.
Her voice is quieter now.
“No.”
I inspect the cut near her hairline.
A sliver of glass remains caught in the skin.
“This will sting.”
“I’m not afraid of pain.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
I remove the glass with tweezers and clean the cut. Mara doesn’t flinch, but her fingers curl against the edge of the table.
I feel Wolf and Trigger watching us.
I ignore them.
“Why did my mother find you after Grant’s funeral?” she asks.
My hand stops.
“She wanted answers.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Not enough.”
“Did you tell her about the betrayal?”
“I told her Grant believed our route had been changed.”
“And she still hid the journal.”
“She believed keeping it hidden would protect you.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
Her eyes search mine.
“Then why didn’t you come back for it?”
“Because I didn’t know he had one.”
“But you knew he found evidence.”
“He gave me part of it before the mission.”
“The numbers and the name you mentioned earlier.”
I finish taping a small bandage over the cut.
“Yes.”
“Who was the name?”
I pull my hand away, but Mara catches my wrist.
The contact surprises both of us.
Her fingers are warm against my skin.
For a second, neither of us moves.
Then she asks again.
“Who was it?”
I look down at her hand before meeting her gaze.
“Elias Hampton.”
Recognition doesn’t appear in her eyes.
“Was he a Ranger?”
“No. He was a civilian intelligence contractor attached to our forward operating base.”
“Did he change the coordinates?”
“We believed he helped transmit the false order.”
“Where is he now?”
“Dead.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
Her grip loosens.
I step away before I forget why keeping distance from her matters.
Sheriff Tate returns from the hallway with Deputy Parker behind him. Both men’s boots are muddy.
“What did you find?” Mara asks.
“The line feeding the tavern was cut at the rear junction box,” Tate says. “Parker also found tire tracks in the alley and this beneath the breaker.”
He holds up a clear evidence bag.
Inside is the torn corner of a photograph.
Wolf takes it and moves beneath the emergency light.
The piece shows part of a camouflage uniform and a man’s hand resting against a rough stone wall.
“Is it from the missing unit picture?” Sheriff Tate asks.
Wolf nods. “I think so.”
Mara places Grant’s journal beside it.
“Why did Grant write ‘Last Stand wall’? This tavern didn’t exist when he died.”
Wolf’s expression grows distant.
“The tavern didn’t. The Last Stand did.”
“What was it?”
“An abandoned outpost near the valley where Grant died. Our unit used it as a temporary base during the final weeks of the deployment. The men before us called it Outpost Seven. Grant renamed it the Last Stand after we were pinned down there for two days.”
Trigger takes the fragment from Wolf.
“The picture was taken against the west wall of the outpost,” he says. “Wolf hung the original in the tavern when he opened it. That’s where the name came from.”
Mara looks at the strip of paper hidden inside the journal.
“Eight. Seventeen. Twenty-three. Last Stand wall.”
I take the strip from her and turn it over.
Nothing is written on the back.
“The numbers could identify points in the photograph,” I say. “Men, stones, markings.”
“Or a date,” Sheriff Tate suggests.
“August seventeenth, twenty-three,” Mara says. “But Grant died fifteen years ago. That date hadn’t happened yet.”
“Then they aren’t a date,” Wolf says.
Trigger studies the empty hook on the wall.
“The photograph showed eight men.”
My pulse changes.
“Eight?”
Wolf nods. “The six of us from Mara’s copy, plus two men standing at the edges.”
“Who were they?” Sheriff Tate asks.
“Hampton was one.”
The name settles over the room.
Mara looks at me.
“And the other?”
I already know the answer.
I can see the missing photograph in my mind.
Eight men standing before a bullet-scarred wall. Grant in the center. Wolf and Trigger on one side. Me on the other.
Hampton stood at the far left.
The man beside him was the only soldier who knew our assigned route before the false order came through.
“Captain Fred Miller.”
Wolf’s face hardens.
Sheriff Tate catches the reaction.
“Who is he?”
“Our commanding officer,” Trigger answers.
“Where is he now?”
“No one knows,” Wolf says. “He disappeared three months after Grant died.”
Mara’s eyes narrow.
“Disappeared?”
“The Army listed him as absent without leave,” I say. “Two years later, a body believed to be his was recovered from a burned vehicle in Arizona.”
“Believed to be?”
“Dental records confirmed the identification.”
“But you don’t believe he died.”
I remember the message on my phone.
Your promise ends with her.
“I did until today.”
Deputy Parker’s radio crackles.
“Sheriff, we found the SUV.”
Tate takes the radio. “Location?”
“Old Mill Road, two miles north of town. It’s burning.”
“Any sign of the driver?”
“No, sir. But there’s something painted on the rear door.”
“What?”
Static breaks across the transmission.
Then the deputy’s voice returns.
“Three numbers. Eight, seventeen, and twenty-three.”
No one speaks.
Mara looks at the strip from Grant’s journal.
“This isn’t only about recovering the evidence,” she says. “They want us to follow it.”
I stare at the broken window, the dark street, and the rain washing away tracks that might have led us to the shooter.
She’s right.
Someone brought me to Eagle River.
Someone was waiting for Mara to find Grant’s journal.
And now that person is leaving us a trail.
The question isn’t where it leads.
It’s which one of us will still be alive when we reach the end.