Chapter 27 Dane
DANE
Travis brought a whole arsenal of weapons, or so it seems, and they're laid out on Ellie's table as Sloan and I prepare to visit the Christmas market. She wants to be a part of this, and though I'm a little hesitant to put her in harm's way, I'm not going to tell her what to do anymore.
"You carry this one," I say, picking up a Glock.
I turn it so she can see the mechanics on the side.
"The safety's here. You flick it off with your thumb.
" She watches as I demonstrate each movement.
"Keep your finger off the trigger until you're ready to fire.
" I keep my finger pointed down the barrel as I show her how to hold it.
She takes it, and I help her position her grip correctly. "This feels awkward."
"It's gonna feel awkward the whole time because you've never used a weapon, but I'm not letting you go out there unarmed." My body wraps around hers as I bring the weapon up and show her how to position her legs.
"Stance matters," I tell her. "Feet shoulder-width. Lean forward slightly. The recoil's going to buck, so you need to be ready for it." Bringing her other hand up under her dominant one, I show her how to brace her wrist.
"It's not like I've never held a gun," she says, but I hear the anxious tone.
"Squirt guns aren't weapons, Sloane, and you have to be ready to kill someone today to save your own life.
" I pull back and remove the gun from her grip, laying it on the table.
"I'm making sure you're prepared." The moment feels reminiscent of a time when I was younger, when one of the Ferraro men took me under their wing and taught me everything I know.
It seems like not too long ago now, but it's been twenty-five years at least. If only I'd have known the war I'd have to live through mentally and the things I'd have to do.
But Sloane won't have that journey. I won't let it happen to her. Today we will end Maddox and his threat and after today, we'll have a normal life. If not here in Sutter's Gap, then out west in the Rockies or maybe up north in Canada.
"Now this," I say, and pull out the Kevlar vest Travis gave me from his shop inventory.
Sloane's expression shifts immediately. "No."
"Yes." Holding it up, I give her a stern look.
"Dane, I'll look ridiculous. I won't be able to move—"
"You'll wear it." I hold it out to her. "This isn't negotiable."
Her eyes narrow. "What are you, my father?"
For a moment I think she's trying to be insulting, pointing out my age, but her face softens and she grimaces.
"No. I'm not your father." I step closer and I'm still holding the vest. "I'm the man you promised to come home to. You get hit without this and you die. That's not happening."
Her defiance wavers and she takes the vest from me, running her fingers over the Kevlar. "You're wearing one too?"
"I am."
"Fine." She pulls off her hoodie and lifts her arms. "Help me with it."
I fasten the Velcro straps, adjusting them so the vest sits flush against her torso. It's bulky under her coat, but not as obvious as she feared. When she moves, testing her range of motion, the restriction is minimal.
"Better?" I ask.
"Better." She meets my eyes, and something in her expression softens. "Thank you. For caring this much."
I cup her face and kiss her gently . "Always."
We finish gearing up in silence. I holster my primary weapon at my hip, slide a backup into my ankle holster, and tuck a knife into my boot. Sloane watches me arm myself, and I can see her studying me, understanding for the first time exactly what I am. What I've always been.
I've never let anyone in on this. It's almost a ritual to prep for a kill, and today, there will be more than one dead body on those cobbled stones in the town square.
But I don't mind letting Sloane watch as I go through the paces, tightening my vest, double-checking my guns, and calming my body with several deep breaths.
And when we're both caffeinated and ready, we head out to take our places among the town locals in the highly detailed plan.
The town square glows with festive lights strung between buildings and the lights seem brighter with all the snow reflecting their glow.
The cobblestones are dusted with powder that crunches underfoot.
A massive pine tree dominates the center, decorated with ornaments and tinsel, carols play on the PA system quietly under the din of conversation.
But the crowd is wrong.
The families who came out are couples without kids or parents who sent their children away for the night.
The atmosphere should be joyful, chaotic with young voices and laughter.
But it's more muted and tense, and I know one look at this bland sight and Maddox is gonna know he's been set up.
But there's nothing I can do about it now.
I scan faces as we walk. Varen stands near the tree, talking to an older couple, his coat open enough that I can see the bulge of his service weapon.
Travis lingers by the cider stand with a casual posture but his eyes tracking every person who enters the square.
Mira's behind the makeshift bar set up outside her tavern, serving mulled wine, but even she has a vest on.
I can see the outline of it under her woolen trench coat, and I know she has a shotgun under the bar.
Everyone's armed. Everyone's waiting.
Sloane's hand finds mine, her gloved fingers threading through my own. "It's weird," she murmurs, "all these people pretending everything's normal."
"Yeah, well they know what's coming." I haven't seen a trace of Cal's men, but the intel Jason gave me points to his coming at me tonight. There's no doubt in my mind that he was right because he's never wrong. Still, the waiting is agonizing.
We drift through the square, accepting cups of hot cider from Gideon, who mans a booth selling hand-carved ornaments.
And near the far end of the square, a Santa setup occupies a small raised dais—red velvet chair, fake snow scattered around under a light layer of fresh real snow, and a backdrop painted with reindeer and sleighs.
Eamon Holt sits in full costume, but his white beard is slightly crooked.
And there's a line of adults snaking out toward the fountain as they play along with the novelty.
"Come on," Sloane says, tugging me toward the platform.
"Absolutely not." I plant my feet, but it's no use.
"Yes." She's already pulling me forward with a wide, genuine grin on her face. "When's the next time you're going to get a picture with Santa?"
"Never, hopefully." It's humiliating but she doesn't let go, and Eamon waves us over, clearly delighted to have participants. Sloane perches on the arm of the chair, and I stand beside her with my arms crossed, doing my best to look anywhere but at the camera Eamon's "head elf" is wielding.
"Smile, Strouse!" the elf calls.
No way in hell they're ever getting me to smile for something so juvenile, but Sloane is happy. She bubbles off Eamon's lap and grabs me by my lapels, slapping a kiss on my lips in front of everyone.
"Perfect," the elf says, laughing, but I hope that picture never sees the light of day.
Sloane hops down, thanking Eamon, and we walk away from the platform. She's still grinning, pleased with herself as she wraps both of her arms around one of my biceps and leans on me.
"What did you tell Santa you want for Christmas?" I ask, mostly to distract myself from how exposed we are out here. There aren't too many people, but there are enough to make it challenging to decide who is a threat and who is friendly.
Her grin turns sly. "I told him I want a tall, dark, and handsome man to love me forever."
I roll my eyes. "You're ridiculous."
"You love it." She elbows me, laughing, and I feel the tension in my shoulders ease slightly. "You're an old man compared to me," she says, still teasing. "Twelve years. That's a whole different generation."
"You didn't seem to mind last night," I shoot back, and her cheeks flush as she bites her lower lip.
I'm about to continue tossing jabs at her when the first shot cracks through the air.
Sloane's body jerks backward, and she crumples. I'm moving before my brain registers what happened, catching her as she falls, my arms wrapping around her as we hit the cobblestones together. Her eyes are wide, mouth open in shock, and I can't breathe.
"Sloane!" My voice tears out of me as I look into her unfocused eyes that stare up at the string of lights overhead. "Sloane, stay with me. Look at me."
She's not responding. I press my hands to her chest, as if I'll find a wound, then remember the vest she's wearing.
"Sloane. Sloane, fucking answer me."
Another shot rings out, then another, but the square is already in chaos. People scatter, screaming, diving for cover behind booths and buildings. And I hear the echo of their return fire. But Sloane and I are too exposed out here.
Cal brought an army.
Figures emerge from the alleys and behind buildings with rifles raised. I count six, eight, ten—too many. They're fanning out, trying to surround the square, and the townspeople are caught in the open.
Then Sloane's eyelids flutter. Her chest rises with a shallow breath, then another. She's had the wind knocked out of her, but she's safe. The vest took the hit. She's going to wake up with bruised ribs and a killer headache, but she's going to wake up.
Relief and rage collide in my chest as I haul her up, ignoring the pain in my knees from where I hit the ground, and drag her toward the nearest cover—a wooden booth selling wreaths and garland. I prop her against the back wall then press two fingers against her neck to feel her strong pulse.
Then I pull my Glock, flicking off the safety as I rise.
The square's a war zone now. Muzzle flashes light up the darkness, and the crack of gunfire drowns out the Christmas music still playing from tinny speakers.
A man in a black coat advances toward the tree, and Miles drops him with two shots.
Another shooter takes position behind the fountain, and Varen's rounds punch through the stone, sending chips flying.
I lean out from behind the booth, sight down my barrel, and fire. The first round catches a shooter in the shoulder, spinning him. The second hits center mass and he drops.
A bullet splinters the wood inches from my head, making me duck back instantly.
Adrenaline sharpens everything down to a single focus in such a familiar way, I fall into lockstep with my natural instincts.
Three more shooters moving in from the east side.
I track the closest one, lead him slightly, and squeeze the trigger. He goes down hard.
"Dane!" Varen's voice cuts through the chaos. He's pinned behind the cider stand, reloading. "They're trying to flank from the north!"
I glance that direction and see two figures creeping along the building line, using the shadows for cover. I fire twice, forcing them back, but I'm too far to get a clean shot.
Varen breaks from his position, sprinting across the open square with his shotgun raised. He's fast and reckless, and the covering fire from the townspeople keeps the shooters' heads down long enough for him to close the distance.
When the shotgun booms twice, one of the flankers drops, but there are more filing in behind him.
When my gun clicks, the slide locked back in place, I drop the clip and reload quickly. It's muscle memory at this point. I glance at Sloane, knowing I can't stay here with her anymore, and pray she keeps her head down when she comes to.
A shooter appears at the edge of the booth, swinging his rifle toward me, but I'm faster. I put three in his chest before he can return fire and step around the corner to lay more cover fire for Miles this time, who's trying to take out more men swinging in from the north.
The square is littered with bodies now, both theirs and—God—some of ours.
I see Gideon slumped behind his ornament stand, blood spreading across the snow, but I can't see where he's hit.
And Mira's dragging someone to safety behind the bar.
I can't tell who it even as she's dragging, but the blood trail isn't encouraging.
These men are offering their lives and perhaps their livelihoods for me, defending their town with pride and honor.
But guilt gnaws at me as I realize this is what I brought to their town, this violence.
I move farther into the fray and strengthen my resolve. This won't be over until we put Cal Maddox in a wooden box six feet under, so I'm not stopping until that happens.
"Dane, here!" I hear someone shout, and I turn over my shoulder to see Travis locked in a fist fight with another man.
But I'm patient until he drops to his knees, taking the shot only when Travis is clear of my aim, and I drop the man to his knees clutching his throat as blood spurts out.
Travis nods at me and stands up, stepping over the man as he picks up his gun and runs back toward the battle.
Call it war, or call it self-defense. One way or another, we're going to stop these bastards from destroying our peaceful little town.