Chapter 14 #2
And he couldn’t . . . well . . . even with the team inside the sheriff’s office, maybe his idea from last night wasn’t terrible . . .
Vic blew on her hands. A simple gesture, but they seemed to be shaking.
“Vic, are you all right?”
Her jaw tightened and she met Dawson’s eyes. Swallowed.
And again, his gut—and shoot, it was time to listen. “Is there something . . . I mean . . . are you in trouble?”
Caspian picked that moment to wrench out of his grip, jog over to her, sit, and whine. He put a paw up, as if to greet her.
She looked at him. “Reminds me of a dog I had who was trained to help soldiers dealing with stress.”
He glanced at Caspian and suddenly, oh wow. Yes. “Like PTSD?”
“Yeah. He belonged to a friend who died, so I took him. But they’re trained to notice elevated heart rates and sweating and agitated behaviors.
They’ll nuzzle their handler to distract them, lean on them, or put a paw on them, or even sit on their feet to calm them.
Alert to panic moments. Sometimes even lead them to a different place. ”
He looked at Caspian. “Like wake a guy up if he’s having a bad dream?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Maybe sit with their back to their handler?”
“It’s called watching their six. And they’ll often clear a room ahead of their handler, come back, and give the all clear.”
She crouched, rubbed Caspian. “Usually, the dogs are specifically trained for their handler, but their skills are embedded, so . . .”
Caspian pushed his muzzle into her shoulder.
“Vic, are you . . . stressed out?”
She said nothing. And shoot—but he knew. Just like that, he knew. “Did you . . .” Aw. “Do you know someone named Keely?”
She glanced up at him.
Caspian licked her face.
“Wait. Do you know what happened to Keely?” He couldn’t move.
Vic looked at the dog. “Still got it, huh?” She sighed and stood up. “Yes, and yes.”
He stared at her. Silence rose between them. He cocked his head. “And?”
“And if I tell the police, they’ll kill her.” She met his gaze, something steely in it.
“Okay, so, let’s say I’m not the police. I’m just a guy who cares very, very much for her.”
One eyebrow went up.
“We met a few days ago,” Dawson said. “And she is . . . smart and beautiful and amazing and—”
“Dawson Mulligan, are you falling for my daughter?”
The breath swept out of him. He glanced at Caspian. Now might be a good time for the dog to show up with a little stress relief. But, oh well. “Maybe, yes.”
Vic sighed again. “I should have told her that I knew who she was when she came into the Sun the day before the blizzard. She just sat in the booth and didn’t touch her food, and I was .
. . I was such a coward. I just stood there, behind the bar, watching her suffer.
Wondering if she’d talk to me. Thinking I should talk to her.
I finally screwed up the courage just as she was leaving. But it was too late, I think.”
“It’s not too late,” he said softly. “She’d really like to meet you.”
Vic’s eyes misted.
“But she’s in trouble—The Sorros brothers have her, and—”
“I know.” She held up her phone. “Sloan Sorros just called me. If I don’t . . . If I don’t bring them Luna Frost, then they’re going to kill Keely.”
A beat. “Who is Luna Frost?”
“Wilder Frost’s seven-year-old daughter. Whom I’m keeping under my protection while he goes to Juneau and testifies against Conan Sorros.”
His mouth opened.
“So, I get to choose between keeping a promise and losing the daughter I love all over again.”
He nodded. “Do you know where they are?”
“No. But my guess is somewhere around here, because they told me that if I delivered Luna, then they’d exchange her for Keely.”
“Somewhere around here.”
“When people want redemption, they go home.”
And there it was. “I know where they are.” He knelt and put his hands into Caspian’s fur. “Did you know I’m an Eagle Scout, Vic?”
She frowned. “No.”
“Yeah, well, when we make promises, we keep them.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “So, will you trust me?”
And now someone else was going to die because of her.
Keely sat on the grimy kitchen floor, her wrists zip-tied behind her, trying to unsnarl the conversation she’d heard before being hit.
Her face burned, bruised and swollen, and it felt like her entire head had exploded—pow. She’d been out of it long enough for Sloan to have shoved her into the back seat of his pickup truck, bound her hands and feet, and carted her like a sack of potatoes back to the Thornwood slash Sorros lair.
Where they now waited for her, the scent of beer heavy in their rancid breaths, dark eyes peeling away any fragment of courage that remained in her body.
Sloan had carried her on his shoulder and dumped her on the floor of the kitchen, where he’d then berated them for her escape.
There might have been some shouting.
Oh God, please get me out of here. Because what other help did she have?
Sloan had told them not to screw it up—whatever that meant—and left.
So now, Thornwood sat on a green-patterned sofa, a pump-action shotgun over his knees, his gaze on her, holding a walkie. The other Sorroses had gone outside.
Her stomach growled. The sky a crisp blue outside, the sun fighting to pour into the grimy windows of the house.
“Always know your exits.”
Her father’s voice had been sitting in her head pretty solidly since her failed escape. “Eyes open, ears open.”
She’d already scoured the room for exits. Front door, yes, but also a side door in the kitchen that led out the back toward the half-frozen river cresting along the rear of the property.
Between her and Thornwood stood a round table, a couple wooden chairs, and she’d spotted a poker by the stove near a stack of fresh-cut firewood.
The stove sent out enough heat now to turn the place warm, nearly hot, or maybe that came from her own adrenaline. Still, she had a plan.
Get out of the zip ties—her father had taught her that much. Then grab the poker, head out the back, and if she needed to, run for the river.
Or better, grab the keys on the table and make for the truck.
Preferably before whomever Sloan had called showed up to die.
Because of her.
Please let it not be Dawson. Because she had no doubt he’d show up, hands in the air, sacrificing his life for hers, and . . .
She couldn’t watch someone else she loved die.
The thought swept her up, heat coursing through her. And maybe it felt too early for love, but—and call her crazy—she’d spent the last two hours wondering what a new life might look like. Here in Alaska, or anywhere.
Most of all, with Dawson.
She never wanted a song to be real more in her life.
Maybe that’s what this trip to Alaska had really been about—finding the parts of herself that she’d silenced.
A crackle on the walkie, then a voice. “She’s on her way.”
She?
Thornwood got up, walked over to Keely, and looked down at her. “You’re not a big deal. You try to escape, you do anything to mess this up, and I’ll kill you.” His gaze bored down into hers.
She looked away.
He made a noise, then headed out the front door.
“Stay calm, think fast.”
Right. She wiggled her hands down under her backside, to the front, shot a look at the door, and brought her hands down hard and fast, breaking the ties.
Then she leaned back, put her hands between her knees, then jerked them apart.
Her ankle ties snapped.
She rolled to her feet, grabbed the poker, turned, and slammed open the back door. Sort of slammed it open because snow blocked it, but she managed to squeeze through the opening.
And then she was in the snow, up over her knees, the depth slowing her down, but she took off.
Except, a vehicle pulled up in the driveway, its tires crunching on snow and—shoot. Who?
She ducked down, under the windows of the kitchen, and moved toward the front of the house.
A late model Ford 150, green and dented in places, with a white racing stripe down the side. It tugged a memory inside her. But she couldn’t place it.
She crouched along the edge of the building, watching as Thornwood walked away from the house, his shotgun pointed at the truck.
The door opened.
No—what—?
Vic Dalton emerged, her short blond hair pulled back in a tight knot, wearing a thick flannel jacket, jeans and boots, exactly how Keely imagined her. Tough. Brave.
Unyielding.
What was she doing here?
Vic walked around the truck, hands up. “No one needs to get hurt.”
“Did you bring her?” Thornwood shouted.
Bring who?
“No. But she’s close. I want to see Keely.”
The words stilled her. What did she say?
“The Frost kid first.”
Vic shook her head.
What on earth—
Crunching in the snow sounded behind Keely, and she rounded fast, the poker up.
The man caught it on her downward swing. He wore a stocking cap and outdoor gear, but she’d recognize those blue eyes anywhere—“Dawson?”
“Sorry I took so long.”
She had nothing as his arm went around her neck, pulling her to himself. For a second, she clung to him. Dawson. Oh!
Don’t cry, don’t cry!
“Let’s get you out of here!”
She glanced past him, spotted another person crouched in the woods, holding a rifle. “Where did you come from?”
“Boy Scout camp.” He winked. “Listen. Run for Flynn. She’ll get you to safety.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to make sure your mother doesn’t die.” He moved her behind him and took her position at the corner of the house.
Vic was still arguing with Thornwood, who had raised his rifle.
“He’s going to kill her!”
“He won’t,” Dawson whispered. “He needs Luna.”
Who?
Dawson turned back. “Run!”
But her legs wouldn’t work. Not when—
And that’s when she spotted the other brother. He’d parked himself in the barn, in a window overlooking the compound.
“Sniper! In the barn.”
Dawson stood, holding his handgun. “I said run!”
A shot fired, and snow chipped up near Vic’s feet.
She didn’t move. No, no—this wasn’t happening.
Another shot, and she screamed. “No—!”
Vic’s gaze landed on her a second before another shot.
Vic jerked, falling back against her truck, then crumbled onto the ground.