Chapter 32
thirty-two
The gunshot cracked behind them and Evander didn’t turn.
He carried Rainey deeper into the trees, her weight solid against his chest, her blood warm on his neck where it had soaked through the flannel.
The sounds of the firefight receded—shouts, the metallic click of handcuffs, Brandt’s voice issuing orders—and the woods closed around them in that particular silence that came after violence, heavy and listening.
He found a fallen pine twenty yards in. Set her down against the trunk with his back to the clearing and his rifle still slung across his body because he hadn’t thought to drop it and his hands were busy with her face, her arms, the places where Hobbs had put his hands.
“Rainey.”
Her eyes fluttered. Half-focused. The left temple was swollen, blood matting her hair above the ear where Hobbs had hit her.
Her lip was split. The zip ties had left raw rings around both wrists, the right worse than the left where she’d worked it against metal for hours.
He checked her pupils. Equal. Reactive. Slow, but reactive.
Concussion. Not life-threatening. Not yet.
Tilly pressed against Rainey’s hip, whining low in her throat. The dog’s muzzle was dark with someone else’s blood—Gemma’s, he assumed, from the sounds he’d heard—and she kept nudging Rainey’s hand with her nose, demanding acknowledgment.
“She’s okay,” Evander told the dog. His voice came out steadier than he expected. “She’s okay.”
Rainey’s hand found his wrist. Her fingers were cold. She squeezed. Once. Hard.
“I’m here,” she said. Her voice scraped. “Stop looking at me like I’m dying.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. You have your doctor face on.” She tried to sit up straighter. Winced. “Christ. Hobbs hits like my father on a Tuesday.”
Evander pressed her back against the tree. His palm cradled the back of her head, careful of the swelling. “Don’t move. Not yet.”
“My ribs are fine. It’s my head that hurts.” She looked past him, toward the clearing. “Who was that shot?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was it—”
“I don’t know.”
He didn’t. The gunshot had been clean. Single round. Not part of the firefight. Something deliberate. He’d heard enough final shots to recognize the difference.
Footsteps crashed through the underbrush behind them. Fast. Frantic. Breaking branches, no attempt at stealth.
Evander reached for his knife. Found empty air—he’d surrendered it at the gate, part of the unarmed charade—and settled for shifting his body between Rainey and the sound.
River burst into the small clearing. His face was wild. Blood on his jacket—not his own, Evander didn’t think—and his rifle clutched in both hands, barrel pointed at the ground but his finger inside the trigger guard. He saw Rainey. Stopped. The rifle dropped to his side.
“Oh god. Rain.”
He crossed the space in three strides and dropped to his knees beside her.
His hands reached for her face. Evander didn’t move.
Didn’t step back. His body stayed between River and the tree, one hand still braced against the trunk above Rainey’s head, and the tension in the small clearing went from alert to something else entirely.
“She’s concussed,” Evander said. “Possible fracture at the temple. Zip tie abrasions. Nothing life-threatening if we get her to Bear.”
River’s eyes flicked to Evander’s face. Really looked at him. Saw the blood on his neck, the set of his jaw, the way Evander’s body had positioned itself—not over Rainey, not possessive, but between her and whatever might come through those trees next.
“I’ll take her,” River said. He reached for Rainey’s shoulders.
Evander’s hand closed over River’s wrist. Not hard. Just present. Anchoring.
“No.”
River froze. His jaw worked. Something raw moved across his face—grief, rage, the devastation of a man who had just watched the woman he loved reveal herself as a weapon aimed at his sister. He looked at Evander’s hand on his wrist. Then at Evander’s face.
“I need to help,” River said. His voice cracked. “I need to do something.”
“Then secure the perimeter.” Evander released him. “North tree line, fifty yards out. Brandt’s men are still clearing the turnout. We need eyes on the approaches.”
River stared at him. For a heartbeat, Evander thought the kid would swing. Would take the grief and the guilt and the rage and put it into his fist because that was easier than carrying it.
River stood. Grabbed his rifle. Nodded once.
“Fifty yards. North.” He turned. Paused. Looked back at Rainey. “I’ll be right there. The whole time.”
He disappeared into the trees. His footsteps faded, deliberate now, controlled. A man channeling chaos into purpose.
The clearing went quiet. Just the sound of Rainey’s breathing, shallow and a little ragged, and Tilly’s whine, and the distant radio chatter from the turnout where Brandt’s team was securing what remained of Mal’s operation.
Evander turned back to Rainey. Her eyes were open. Watching him. Clearer now, the concussion receding enough for focus.
“You sent my brother away,” she said.
“He needed a job.”
“He needed his sister.”
“He needed not to watch me fall apart.” Evander brushed his thumb across her split lip. The blood had started to dry. He wanted to clean it. Wanted to put his mouth there and take the taste of copper away. His hand shook. He hadn’t noticed it shaking until now.
Rainey caught his wrist. Held it. Her fingers were warm where they’d been cold minutes ago. Circulation returning. Color coming back into her skin.
“You came back,” she said.
“I called for help.”
“I know. Walker told me. Over the radio, while we were driving. Brandt had comms.” She squeezed his wrist. “You asked.”
The word sat between them. Heavy. Final. He had asked. After eight years of believing that needing people gave them power to hurt or abandon him, he had picked up a satellite phone and called Walker Nash and said I need your help.
Rainey’s hand moved to his face. Her palm cupped his jaw. Her thumb traced the line of his cheekbone where the beard grew in rough, and he leaned into the touch without meaning to, without deciding to, his body moving before his mind caught up.
“I love you,” he said.
The words came out quiet. Raw. Unpracticed.
He hadn’t rehearsed them. Hadn’t planned to say them here, against a fallen pine in the cold, with gunshot residue still hanging in the air and blood on both their clothes.
They just arrived. Three words he had carried since the mountain, since the fever, since the night he’d held her in the guest room and written a note instead of speaking.
Rainey’s eyes filled. She didn’t cry. The tears gathered and held, bright and unshed, and her mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
“Say it again.”
“I love you.”
“Again.”
“I love you, Rainey.”
She pulled him down. Her mouth found his, careful of her split lip, and he kissed her with his hand cradling the back of her head and his cracked ribs protesting and nothing in the world mattering except the warmth of her against him and the three words he would never take back.
Tilly whined. Pressed harder against Rainey’s hip. Rainey broke the kiss, laughing through the wince, and scratched the dog behind the ears.
“She’s jealous.”
“She’s concerned.” Evander rested his forehead against Rainey’s. Their breath mingled in the cold air. “I left her with you. She takes that seriously.”
“Smart dog.”
“Better judgment than her owner.”
Radio chatter cut through the trees. Brandt’s voice, clipped and authoritative, directing his team through the scene. Evander caught fragments—evidence collection, vehicle searches, weapons secured. The federal case building itself one piece at a time.
Footsteps approached. Deliberate. Unhurried.
Brandt emerged from the timber, his dark suit jacket open, a radio in one hand.
He took in the scene—Evander kneeling beside Rainey, Tilly pressed close, the blood, the swollen temple—and his expression didn’t change. He’d seen worse. Probably much worse.
“Ms. Beckett.” Brandt nodded to her. “Medical’s on its way. Bear’s coming up the road.”
“How bad is it?” Rainey asked.
“Hobbs is dead. Single gunshot to the head. Execution-style. Creed’s work, from the positioning.
” Brandt’s voice was matter-of-fact. No drama.
Just information. “Mal and the woman escaped on the motorcycle. Gemma’s injured—your dog did significant damage to her face—but she was conscious when they left. Riding pillion. Mal driving.”
Evander’s jaw tightened. Mal. Gone. The man who had put a gun to his head, who had threatened Rainey, who had orchestrated every piece of this from the moment Rainey walked out of his clubhouse.
Riding east on County 14 with a bleeding woman behind him and the whole of federal law enforcement about to land on his organization.
He should have felt rage. Should have wanted to run. Should have been halfway to Greta’s truck already, chasing taillights, because that was the pattern. That was what he did. Men hurt the people he cared about, and he pursued them until something broke.
He looked at Rainey. At the blood in her hair. At the way she held his hand like she was afraid he might let go.
He stayed on his knees.
“Creed?” Evander asked.
“Missing.” Brandt checked his watch. “Blood trail leads northeast from the turnout. Significant volume. He took at least one round, possibly more. The trail disappears near a secondary access road about a quarter-mile out. No vehicle tracks. No body. He either walked out under his own power or someone picked him up.”
“Mal’s people.”
“Or his own.” Brandt’s gaze held Evander’s. “You want to pursue?”