Chapter 34
THIRTY-FOUR
“Waylon.”
No.
“Waylon, wake up.”
Can’t. Hurts.
“Frankie’s gone.”
That did it.
Waylon’s eyes snapped open, pain screaming through his skull. His throat felt raw. The sky above him was a swirling blur of gray and white, snow biting into his face. He sucked in a breath and winced.
Hands were on him—steady, strong. A face swam into view. Lachlan’s. Gina was by his side.
“Easy, man,” Lachlan said over the wind. “You with me? We thought you were dead.”
“Lach.” Waylon’s voice sounded rusty. He coughed. “What the hell—” He tried to get up. He needed to get to Frankie. She was in the cabin with Derek?—
No. She’ s gone .
“Frankie.”
“We need to get you up and out of the snow,” Gina said. She gave Lachlan a look and he nodded. “We’ll help you into the cabin.”
“No!” Waylon coughed again. “We need to get Frankie.” Waylon tried to get to his feet. Lachlan helped him up. Gina stood on one side of him while Lachlan was on the other as they walked him toward the porch. The world tilted. His head was killing him. But it didn’t matter. “Derek jumped me. Strangled me.”
“It wasn’t Derek,” Gina said.
Not Derek?
He blinked hard, forcing the world into focus. “Who? Sitrep.”
“Shane called us twenty minutes after we talked to you. BeMyNeighborCO isn’t just some friend-finder bullshit. Flint did a deep dive on Frankie’s phone. He found a backdoor script embedded in the app’s code. Whoever it was built himself an admin panel. He could access the mic, camera, everything. He stalked Frankie through her own damn phone.”
Waylon’s stomach turned. That would explain the battery draining all the time.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
“Shane tried calling you and you didn’t answer. He called us next. We’d talked to you about twenty minutes before. We stayed on the line while he called Bear and we suited up to come over. Bear checked the camera footage around the cabin. He rewound and saw the whole thing—a man disabling the generator, then attacking you when you came out to check it. We didn’t know if you were alive or dead.”
They’d reached the porch. The door was standing wide open. Waylon’s blood ran cold.
Fuck!
“After you went down, the attacker went inside and came back out ten minutes later carrying Frankie. They disappeared into the woods. We don’t know her condition.”
The world tilted. Waylon reached out, caught himself on Gina’s shoulder .
“I’m good,” he gritted. “How long ago?”
“They’ve got a fifteen-minute head start. We’ll get you inside then Lach and I will pursue.”
“The fuck you’re without me.”
“Waylon, you’re injured?—”
He shook her hand off his arm. Adrenaline cleared his head. “I need my gun.” Waylon stormed into the cabin.
Drops of blood ran from the door all the way down the hall.
Waylon broke into a run, Lach and Gina right behind him. He stumbled over a blanket lying in the middle of the hall.
More blood in the bedroom.
No. She’s alive .
Frankie’s gun case lay empty on the floor, her Glock nowhere in sight.
“Fuck! He’s got her gun.”
Gina was right behind him. She and Lach were already suited up—black tactical vests molded tight to their frames, built for mobility but solid as hell. Lachlan was talking to someone, presumably Shane via earbud.
Waylon ignored them. He opened the bedside drawer. Thank fuck his Beretta was still there. He took it, then turned toward the closet and yanked the door open. Bear’s vest hung just inside, next to a rack of outerwear. It was heavy-duty SAR issue, fitted with Kevlar panels and reinforced shoulder seams. Not regulation military, but damn close—and more than enough to keep a bullet from ending him today.
He shrugged it on and zipped it up over his hoodie.
That’s when he heard the whimpering in the other room.
“Oh, fuck. Snoopy.”
Waylon dashed into the other guestroom, bracing for what he might see. He clicked on the light.
And saw Snoopy safe in his crate. The puppy scratched at the door, crying to be let out.
“Bud, I’m sorry.” He opened the crate door, but left Snoopy in the room. “I’ll bring her back home, I promise,” he said as he closed the door. Gina was in the hall.
“Snoopy’s fine. Let’s go.”
“Waylon—”
“ Now ! Or I will take Bear’s snowmobile and go without you. You’d do the same if it was Lach, and he would for you.”
Gina’s golden eyes flashed. “Fine.” She turned to Lach who nodded.
Waylon took his phone out of his pocket. “Loop me in.”
“Elk, call Ram,” Lach said. “Yeah, the devil himself won’t stop him.”
Waylon’s phone buzzed. He reached into his other pocket and pulled out an earbud case.
The earbud case.
She’s riding with me .
Waylon put the earbuds in and answered his phone. The three of them raced back outside to Bear’s shed where he kept the snowmobiles.
“Ram, you okay, brother?” Shane said.
“I will be once we get Pixie back and I put this motherfucker in the ground.”
“Acknowledged,” Ben said.
“Moose?”
“Yeah, brother. I’m joining the hunt.”
“They’re heading his way.” That was Bear. “Camera six picked them up in the woods on a snowmobile.”
“There’s an old shack five miles north,” Ben said. “That’s gotta be where he’s taking her. There’s nothing else out there. I’m joining from the west in the Cat. I’ll meet you halfway.”
“All units tracking via GPS,” Shane said, voice clear in their ears. “Lion and Timberwolf are live.”
“En route to Moose’s position with medevac capability,” Elias confirmed.
“Godspeed, team,” Gabe said. “Over.”
They’d reached the shed and opened it. Waylon grabbed Bear’s helmet off the seat, put it on, and started Bear’s snowmobile. Lach and Gina took off for theirs, which they’d left just inside the edge of the woods.
The forest behind the cabin offered enough cover for the narrow trail they followed, the fresh snowmobile tracks just visible in the fresh powder under the trees.
They rode fast, the storm throwing everything it had at them. Branches iced and heavy with snow hung low over the trail, and the sleds bucked against the drifts. But the tracks stayed visible. Headed northwest.
Waylon leaned harder into the snowmobile throttle. The trail narrowed, trees pressing close on either side. The snow was deeper here, the path rough. His arms ached from the strain, and his ribs throbbed with every bump. But he didn’t let up.
Frankie was ahead. Bleeding. Terrified.
And his Adventure Buddy, his Pixie, the fated love of his life, was still fighting. He knew it in his soul.
“I’ve got your back, Pixie,” he muttered, barely loud enough to hear over the engine and the storm.
After nearly twenty minutes, Shane’s voice came through Waylon’s earbud.
“Spooky, you should see Moose in three.”
“Copy,” Gina said.
Waylon didn’t say a word. He couldn’t. His jaw was locked so tight it hurt. Every bump sent fresh pain through his body, his head was on fire, but he kept riding. Frankie was out there.
She’s counting on you. Get to her. Bring her home .
Then he caught sight of a dark shape ahead—Ben’s snowcat, its lights off. They stopped on the other side of a ridge from the old cabin. Even with the storm still howling, they didn’t want to risk Leon hearing them .
Ben emerged from the trees, tall and silent, a shadow with a rifle strapped to his back.
“Cabin’s about a quarter mile ahead, other side of the ridge,” Ben said. The snowmobile trail led straight to it.
They had to be there.
“I’ll take point,” Gina said. Glock out, her movements were smooth and silent. Waylon followed, then Lach, with Ben bringing up the rear. They moved through the snow like ghosts, no one speaking. The storm was abating, the howling wind dropping. Waylon knew that could work for or against them. If the walls were thin there was a chance they could hear what was happening inside. But if they made a sound, they’d tip off the psycho holding Frankie, and God knew what he’d do.
The side of the old cabin came into view through the trees—a squat, weather-worn building tucked between the pines. Light flickered through a dirty window. They crept closer.
A sound cut through the wind.
Thump .
Gina raised a fist, signaling halt. They stopped cold, listening.
Another sound—softer this time. A muffled cry.
Frankie!
Waylon’s heart hammered in his ears. He took four deep breaths to steady himself. He reached for his weapon, hands steady despite the rage curling tightly in his chest.
Gina motioned—two entries. She and Waylon would go for the front. Lach and Ben would take the back.
Gina met Waylon’s eyes.
Count of three.
One.
Two.
Three.
They moved fast—but not loud. Not reckless.
Gina ghosted forward like she was born from shadow, low and smooth, her Glock raised and ready. Waylon followed tight on her six. Ben and Lachlan split off silently to flank the rear.
They weren’t charging in half-cocked. They were trained. Coordinated. And deadly.
Waylon’s breath steamed against the cold. His heartbeat thudded in his ears. He felt every bruise, every ache—but he kept his focus tight. Bear’s vest rode heavy on his chest. It didn’t matter. He’d have come without it.
Because Frankie was in there.
Gina signaled halt again near the front door. She signaled for Waylon to breach while she covered.
He nodded once.
Gina held her weapon high, her back to the wall. Waylon reached out, wrapped his gloved fingers around the icy doorknob. He tested it.
Unlocked.
He gave Gina the signal, then eased the door open with the practice of a man who’d done it on enemy soil countless times.
Inside, the old shack was dimly lit. A single propane lamp glowed near the hearth, casting shadows that moved when nothing else did.
Waylon swept his gun left, then right. The place was one open room with a tiny hallway leading off it. Graffiti covered the walls and beer cans littered the floor.
And Frankie curled up on a ratty couch.
Blood soaked her thigh. Her shirt was streaked with dirt and sweat.
Then she looked up.
Their eyes met. She jerked her head back, the gesture telling him He’s behind the couch .
Waylon and Gina dove aside as a man sprang up, aiming Frankie’s Glock at Waylon.
“Stay down!” Waylon shouted, not sure if he meant Frankie or Gina or himself.
Frankie dropped to the floor and cried out in agony .
Bam! Bam! Bam! Plaster exploded in dust clouds behind Waylon and Gina. A bullet thudded into Waylon’s chest.
Bear’s vest kept him alive.
A flash of movement—Gina flanked left, taking a hard angle toward the back of the room. Waylon mirrored, closing the gap from the other side. The man jumped up again, uncertain which target to choose.
He chose Frankie.
Waylon watched it happen in slow motion—the man leaning over the couch, his finger tightening on the trigger?—
Waylon fired twice.
The man collapsed, his body hanging over the couch.
Silence.
Waylon kept his Beretta trained on the man’s body, ready to fire again if he so much as twitched.
But he didn’t.
“Clear!” Gina called from the rear. “Soup, you have eyes?”
“Back room clear,” Lach replied.
Ben appeared a second later, ducking inside, rifle up, scanning. “We’re good. No one else out here.”
Waylon was already across the room. He dropped to his knees beside Frankie.
“Pixie. Where are you hurt?”
She was pale but her eyes were bright with tears, and she was breathing.
“He shot you.”
“I’m fine. He shoot your thigh? Anywhere else?”
She shook her head. “What’s wrong with your voice? It’s hoarse.” She reached up and pulled his collar back. “You’re bruised. Did he strangle you?”
“I’m fine , Pix. Now, are you?—”
“I’m so sorry. I fought him,” she whispered. “I tried. I hit him with the flashlight. Got to the gun, but he was faster. God, he shot you with my gun?—”
“Shh. You did everything right.” He pressed his forehead to hers for a heartbeat, then got to work. “Gunshot wound to the thigh,” he said over his shoulder. “High, but not femoral. She’s losing blood. We need to move.”
“I brought a med kit. I’ve got her,” Ben said, moving to help. He handed Waylon a combat gauze pack and pressed a trauma pad into his palm.
Waylon’s hands were steady as he worked. Frankie winced but didn’t cry out.
“You’re okay, Pixie. You’re safe now.”
“I knew you’d come,” she breathed.
That crushed his heart.
Ben met his eyes. “If you’ve got her, I’ll get the Cat.”
“Go.”
Ben disappeared.
Around him, Waylon heard Gina talking to the sheriff’s department, relaying coordinates.
Waylon held Frankie’s hand and whispered to her.
“You saved yourself,” he said softly. “You fought him off, Frankie. You kept fighting, even after he—God, Pixie, you’re the bravest woman I’ve ever known.”
“You’ve got my back,” she whispered.
“Always.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’m not leaving your side.”
Lachlan pulled the man’s head back by the hair.
“Recognize him?” He asked Waylon.
Waylon finally got a clear look at his face.
The guy from the alarm company.
The one who came to Frankie’s house twice.
“You son of a bitch,” Waylon muttered.
“His name’s Leon,” Frankie said. “He owns the app. He’s been spying on me.”
Waylon heard the snowcat pull up, Waylon scooped her up, ignoring the pain in his ribs. Frankie whimpered, clinging to him .
“I’ve got you,” he murmured again. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
He carried her outside, trying his best to shield her from the falling snow. Lach opened the rear hatch. Waylon climbed into the cab, settled onto the bench, and wrapped himself around her as the door shut and the snowcat began to move.
Frankie trembled. He held her tighter.
“You’re going to be okay,” he promised. “Then we’re going home.”
The ride back to Ben’s house was a blurred haze of exhaustion and adrenaline. The snowcat plowed through the storm like a beast, heaters blasting. Waylon didn’t loosen his hold on Frankie once. As he continued to apply pressure to her thigh, he felt the tremble in her limbs, the tension she was trying so damn hard to hide. Her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps as her head lay against his chest.
“I’ve got you,” he kept whispering. “I’m not going anywhere.”
They were all still on the group call. “Give me a report on Frankie,” Elias said.
Waylon shifted his weight slightly to keep Frankie steady in his lap. “GSW, upper thigh, right side. Entry wound only, bleeding, but not arterial. I packed it with combat gauze, wrapped it, been holding pressure since we got her clear.”
“Vitals?”
“Pulse is one-ten, thready but steady. Resp’s elevated, about twenty-four, and shallow. Skin’s pale but not clammy. Pain’s eight out of ten. She’s alert. And absolutely beautiful.”
Frankie gave him an exhausted smile.
“What about you?” Elias asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Bullshit, Ram. What happened?”
Waylon knew Elias wouldn’t let it go. “Got clocked from behind with a shovel. Might’ve cracked a rib, definitely got knocked out.”
“Jesus, brother. Should’ve brought a second rig just for you.”
“I can ride. I’ll be in the back with her.”
“Ram.”
“I’m not leaving her.”
Another pause, then Elias said quietly, “Didn’t think you would. But only if you’re stable. And you better as hell not conk out on me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Waylon closed his eyes, just for a second, holding Frankie closer as the snowcat surged forward.
They rolled into Ben’s long drive. Emergency lights cut through the falling snow; the ambulance was already waiting, Elias climbed out before they even stopped moving. Tim and Andy followed close behind. They moved with practiced speed, transferring Frankie to a stretcher, checking vitals, assessing blood loss.
“She’s stable,” Elias confirmed. “Let’s roll.”
Gina was already climbing into the Cat. Lachlan was on his way back to Bear’s cabin to get Snoopy. Ben fired the Cat back up, clearing a path for the ambulance.
Waylon settled in beside Frankie in the back of the rig, holding her hand while Elias moved into full medic mode, confirming vitals, updating charts, and prepping for intake.
The storm was finally breaking, but the world still felt like it was spinning.
They pulled into the ER thirty minutes later. As soon as they wheeled Frankie through the doors, two trauma nurses and a doctor met them in the bay.
Elias gave report. The ER doc nodded, eyes on Frankie. “Any history we need to know about? Allergies, medications, major illnesses?”
Frankie looked dazed, her lips pale, but she answered. “No allergies. I had breast cancer. I… I think it’s back now.”
The doctor’s pen paused mid-air .
Waylon’s chest cracked in half. He turned to her, stunned. “Frankie…”
Frankie hesitated. Then she blurted, “I’ve been exhausted and nauseated and forgetful. My lower back hurts. I think it’s the cancer. I think it’s back and spreading.”
It hadn’t been his imagination. He’d chalked it up to Derek, but she’d been tired before that. He was in denial.
Frankie looked up at Waylon, eyes filled with fear and apology.
Before he could speak, they were moving Frankie again.
“We’ll get a CT of your leg and a chest scan,” the doctor said. “Blood panel, trauma imaging, and we’ll consult with oncology tonight. Right now, We’re taking you in for imaging and wound assessment. You’ll be admitted upstairs for observation.”
A nurse turned to Waylon and looked him over—really looked at him. “You’re coming with me. I need to get you checked out.”
Waylon shook his head. “I’m not leaving her.”
“You won’t be far,” she said gently. “Let us take care of both of you.”
He watched as they wheeled her toward the OR. She looked back once—just once—and the fear in her eyes hollowed him out.
He didn’t even notice Elias until he pressed a hand on his shoulder. “She’s in good hands, Ram. Let them do their work. We’ll be in the waiting room.”
Waylon nodded, silent, and followed the nurse.
After everything they’d just been through—the attack, the blizzard, the rescue. After wondering whether she was going to make it through the night?—
This.
The one thing Frankie feared most. And now it might be happening again.
Unfair. Absolutely un-fucking-fair.
The worst part was that there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He couldn’t punch cancer. He couldn’t shoot cancer. He couldn’t tackle it, stop it in its tracks. It was inside of her. Inside his Pixie. To anyone who didn’t know her, her body hardly seemed like it could fight anything.
But after everything they’d been through, Waylon knew differently. Frankie was strong and brave. She met every challenge life presented her and asked for more.
But this? This was devastating.
He clenched his fists and ground his teeth. Well, if he couldn’t fight it directly, he would do everything he could to help her fight it. He’d fix her whatever kind of medicinal tea or aloe juice or God knew what to help her fight it off. He’d make sure she was fed, that she was warm, that she was comfortable and out of pain.
But most of all, he would make sure that she was never alone. Not his Frankie, not his Pixie. Not anymore.
He’d never leave her.
They checked him over—concussion, bruised ribs, bruising around his neck where that asshole tried to strangle him. They patched him up, cleared him for now, but told him to rest.
Like hell .
He asked about Frankie and was told to wait. Waylon headed for the waiting room. Elias was there. So were Ben, Gina, Wren, Gabe, and Rochelle.
By the looks on their faces, Elias had already shared the news.
“Waylon—” Wren started, but he held up his hand. He couldn’t take sympathy right now.
“They’re going to admit her and run some tests. She’ll be here all night.”
“So will we, brother,” Elias said. “Shane, Charlie, Kyle, and Arden are on their way, and Lach’ll be here after he gets Snoopy settled at the house.”
“I appreciate it. She will, too.”
Waylon took a seat, pulled out his phone, and immediately started reading up on cancer on treatments. On anything that reduced pain and made patients more comfortable. But throughout his researching, other articles popped up like a red thread through a white cloth. Articles about caretaker burnout. About coping when your loved one had cancer. How your life was tied to the patient. And how it was okay to grieve when your loved one passed away.
At that point, he slammed his phone facedown. He didn’t need that shit. Frankie was gonna make it. She made it once before; she’d do it again. And he’d do anything to support her in any way he could.
All their friends would be there for her, too.