Brotherhood Protectors: Soldier's Heart Part 2 (Kindle Worlds Novella) Read online

  She realized that, too. It wasn’t as if Soldier hadn’t once been trained to sniff out cadavers. But she needed this to be real, to be something the dog had done right.

  “Good boy.” She practically slalomed the rest of the way, moving as fast as she dared over debris and around rocks. “Good Soldier, good boy.” Behind, she heard Hank stumbling after, a short curse as he banged into something, but she didn’t stop, couldn’t look back. Instead, she kept her gaze screwed to her dog and, as she closed, she saw what Soldier worried and nosed.

  It was a hand, palm up, the fingers slightly curled like the legs of a dried-up spider.

  No, no, no. Pulse thumping, she staggered the last few steps. As she came even, Soldier greeted her with an enthusiastic swish of his tail and a short, high yip of excitement.

  “Good—” Everything dried up then. She recalled Josie once said that, no matter the outcome, the dog needed praise for a job well done. But she couldn’t force out the words.

  “Sarah?” She heard Hank’s footfalls and then a harsh intake of breath as he got a good look. “Oh holy shit.”

  5

  The girl was tiny, almost elfin. Head bowed, she slumped against a brace of tree trunks, arms by her sides, both hands resting palm up, and legs outstretched. A long curtain of jet-black hair, clogged with pine needles and twigs, spilled from beneath a watch cap to hide her face. Her black jacket was worn and scuffed, with a dingy silver tongue of duct tape dangling from a long rip on the left. Probably the coat, which seemed too thin for the cold, had sagged, and she’d tried a repair, maybe using a roll of emergency tape from a fanny pack resting on her left hip. A pair of black jeans showed similar tears and snags as if she’d been bushwhacking, off-trail and through thick brush, for days.

  There was an odd bulge on her right side, which Sarah thought had to be from a scarf because the fringes, perhaps once tan or beige but now a deep purple, showed. There’d been enough blood to soak the scarf and then seep into the snow, and Sarah thought, a little crazily, it looked just like a cone of raspberry-flavored shaved ice. More blood had dripped from a wound on the girl’s left arm. From the ragged groove just below the hump of the girl’s shoulder, Sarah thought the bullet had plowed through fabric and flesh but missed bone.

  The girl looked as if she’d decided this was the best spot for a rest. Maybe she’d promised herself not to fall asleep or stay too long, or perhaps she’d dozed off only to jolt awake and then find, to her horror, she hadn’t been able to get up.

  “Sarah,” Hank said, “is she—”

  “I don’t know.” On her knees now, she stripped off her right glove and slid her fingers to the girl’s neck. Closing her eyes, she felt past the throb of her own pulse bounding in her veins and concentrated.

  For a terrible few seconds, there was nothing . . .

  And more nothing . . .

  “Sarah.” Hank’s hand slid to her shoulder. “Sarah?”

  6

  The cabin door creaked. There came the scratch of dogs’ nails on wood, followed by Hank’s whispered greetings and the heavier tread of his footsteps as he stopped on the other side of the blanket they’d strung near the woodstove. “Sarah?”

  “Yeah.” She kept her voice low, hushed. “Come on around, Hank. She’s still out.”

  As Hank slipped around, the dogs took the opportunity to slink past. “Guys!” Hank hissed. He made a grab, but Daisy quickly scuttled under the cot while Soldier slid to sit opposite Sarah. “Sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” She studied Soldier, noted how the big dog rested his muzzle on the cot and then turned his chocolate-brown eyes to her with a look of almost human concern. “Leave them be. You find anything in the pack?”

  He shrugged. “Couple power bar wrappers, that roll of duct tape, empty wrapper for an emergency blanket she must’ve lost along the way. A flint and striker that don’t look as if they’ve been used if she even knew how. Given the snow, finding fuel would be hard. Of course, there’s no ID. Went up the tower and glassed the woods close by. If there’s someone down there, I sure didn’t spot him. The only thing I did see was smoke from a fire, west of here and maybe a mile or so out from Gunny Peak. What about you?”

  How about nothing good other than she’s one smart kid lucky to be still alive, and I’m a frigging veterinarian? “Two gunshot wounds. Arm’s the oldest, a flesh wound that grazed her skin and muscle but missed bone. It’s already scabbing, though the edges look bad, probably an infection.” She gestured at a large bandage wrapped around the girl’s middle fashioned from gauze, surgical tape, and an ace wrap. The wrap was already stained with a rust-colored blotch the size of her fist and one, she thought, certain to grow larger. “This one’s pretty fresh, as in maybe less than a day.”

  “The rifle we heard?”

  “Could be. Bullet hit her in the back, right flank but at an angle.”

  “Like the shooter was uphill and firing down?”

  “Maybe? I’m a vet, Hank, not a forensic pathologist.” Though she had taken a couple of courses in veterinary forensics investigating animal cruelty and abuse cases. The work had been heartbreaking. What some people did to their animals was unbelievable, and she’d seen quite a bit, including gunshot wounds. “Bullets can take all sorts of weird trajectories once they hit tissue, but if I had to guess, I’d say, yeah, she was downhill, back turned, maybe running. If she’d gotten drilled close in, her liver would be gone, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You can see the bruising between the entrance and exit wound where the bullet plowed through. I think it probably missed anything major. When I took down the bandage she made, nothing gushed, and there’s clot. There’s also a lot of crap, fibers mostly from her clothes and then the scarf she used to make a pressure bandage. So, she had the right idea, and she was lucky she had the duct tape, too, except she’s also a setup for an infection.” If she lives that long. “I don’t think it punched through into her gut. She could be bleeding internally. I just don’t know. But, Hank, who goes around shooting kids in the back?”

  Although she could almost imagine who might and even the why. She slipped her eyes over the girl’s features: the crescent moons of her closed lids, the slightly flattened bridge of her nose and delicate cupid’s bow of her lips. Having peeled up the girl’s lids to check her pupils, she knew they were a deep chocolate-brown. Now that the girl was warmer, her skin had lost some of its chalky pallor and taken on a washed-out, slightly tawny tone.

  Chinese? Korean? Maybe Vietnamese? The only Asians Sarah knew were a Vietnamese family who had run the same Chinese-Vietnamese place near the Kalispell Hotel for more than thirty years and made Mongolian beef to die for. But that’s the point, I guess. The Asian population in this part of Montana was so diminishingly small as to be nonexistent. So, she could think of only one or two possibilities why this girl was wandering around the mountains within spitting distance of the Canadian border, and neither was very good.

  “We’ve got to get her down the mountain, Hank.”

  “I’m all about that, except there’s no way you and I can do this. Even if we could make a stretcher, we don’t have the right equipment to manage the snow. Plus, it’s already past two. We’d never make it to my truck before nightfall and it’s only going to get colder.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I’ll go. If I hoof it, I can radio in from the truck, call mountain rescue.”

  “You will never make eleven miles before dark.” In good weather, sure, but never slogging through snow and ice on homemade crampons constructed of chain and bungee cords.

  “But it’ll be close. They can send a helicopter. The plateau’s level enough for them to land. How many flashlights you got?”

  She saw where he was headed. “Four, plus the two headlamps and plenty of spare batteries. The Coleman will also work to mark out a landing area. I can clear away some of the snow, too.” It would give her something to do besides fret.

  “All right, then. I’d bett
er get going. You sure you’re going to be okay by yourself?” Then his mouth turned down in a grimace. “Dumb question. Not like you haven’t been up here on your own for months, and you’ve got the dogs. How are you set for weapons?”

  “A gun?” She frowned. “Well, I’ve got a shotgun.” She’d almost decided against packing in the Remington because of the weight. This was bear country, though. Still, she hadn’t touched the weapon in months.

  “That’ll do. Where is it?”

  She pointed. “Back storage room but, Hank, come on. You’re being paranoid.”

  “Fine, then I’m being paranoid.” At her expression, he sighed. “Sarah, get a grip. Someone shot that kid, twice. If she’s the reason we heard those shots a couple nights ago, that means she covered over ten miles through rough backcountry on her own. That second wound means someone’s on her tail, too. So, keep the gun close where you can get at it fast, okay? And do me a favor?” He moved to the front door. “If it’s me, don’t shoot?”

  “Oh, ha-ha.” As he turned the knob, a little claw of fear hooked her heart. Maybe it was because Hank still wore Pete’s T-shirt and chambray, but she couldn’t help thinking of when Hank’s brother walked out her front door and never came back. But that’s stupid. This isn’t remotely similar. Snow or not, failing light or not, Hank had taken this trail dozens of times. Besides, Hank is not his brother. It’s only a few hours down. By nine tonight, this will be over one way or the other. The girl had made it this far. Certainly, she could last a few more hours. “Be careful, okay? I mean it. The first rule of rescue—”

  “Is not to need it yourself. I got it.” Instead of the smile she expected, a flicker of hesitation showed. “Listen, it probably won’t be me at the door. Soon as I get to the truck, I’ll radio and, ten to one, they send a chopper.”

  “Oh.” She felt a small prick of disappointment. Stop it, you nut. What, you expected him to turn right around and run back up here? Of course, he wouldn’t. Besides, Hank had work. She dragged up a smile that kept trying to slip. “So, I guess I’ll see you when I come into town on Wednesday? I’m scheduled to train Soldier with Josie then.”

  “Sounds good, and then”—again, that hesitation—“we’ll talk, right?” He stirred air between them. “About this?”

  “Yes.” Hank was a good man. She owed him honesty, and she needed to understand those pictures, what they meant. What Hank was keeping from her. “One disaster at a time, okay?”

  “Let’s hope we’ve run through our quota for the day.” Shouldering his pack, he squared his hat, turned for the door, stopped. Looked back with an expression that struck through to her heart: real fear. For her.

  “Please, be careful, honey,” he said. “Don’t forget about the gun.”

  7

  “I don’t know, Mac.” Slipping back behind boulders, Gabriel handed Mac her spotting scope. “It still could be a whole lot of nothing.”

  “That they’re hunters?” She snorted. “Get real.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you that you’re just being paranoid?” She was, too, a little, though he was nervy himself and for good reason. Actually—craning a look back toward the woods and the waiting wolves—eight reasons, counting that alpha male. The pack had dogged them since they’d broken camp and moved east toward Dead Man, chasing that rifle shot.

  Not that anyone thinking to check would know they were here or where to look. Shifting his eyes to the right of the woods and about a mile northwest, he spotted a thin trickle of gray smoke. That had been Mac’s idea, choosing a different location on a bare outcropping for a fresh fire with wetter wood instead of dry punk. Normally, he’d have been nervous about leaving a fire unattended, but the fire was small. Combined with its location, the snow, and the cold, the possibility of touching off something much bigger was remote, almost infinitesimal. Plus, wet wood meant a lot of smoke—and that meant anyone who did think to look would assume any other hikers were out there.

  This presupposed, though, anyone was keeping an eye peeled.

  He thought these guys just might.

  #

  Mac saw them first, from a mile back on that same outcropping. He hadn’t seen them at all through her spotter’s scope. Swept right past, registered no movement at all.

  Even when she told him exactly where to look, he hadn’t truly seen anything but specks at the very limits of her scope’s magnification. He hadn’t been sure how many there were until they’d moved closer, and even that had been hard because the guys were in a winter camo. Mac, though . . . she nailed them, and now he saw she’d been right about their numbers—and even that they had e dog.

  Only how? He studied her profile as she glassed the terrain below. How could she possibly have done that?

  “I think we’ve got a reason to be paranoid, Gabriel, and we have to make a decision about what to do. I mean, sure, they could be hunters, but seriously?” Sighing, Mac turned away from the view and slid down next to him. “They’re in the wrong place and going in the wrong direction, and the numbers are weird. Six girls in crappy jackets and two guys in winter camo? And a muzzled shepherd? What is wrong with this picture?”

  “Nothing? They could be dads out with their girls?”

  “Three girls apiece?”

  “Fine, girls and some friends. Girls hunt.”

  “Well, duh.” She favored him with that get-real look again. “But without weapons? What are they going to use, harsh language? Only the guys are packing, and they are really loaded for bear. The pistols I can wrap my head around. Everyone wants a little insurance when they’re up close, but those guys both have ankle and hip holsters. Plus, who honestly goes hunting with an M-4?”

  All good points. (Although, how had she pegged the weapons so precisely? True, their silhouettes were different. An M-4 was shorter, the carbine chubbier. Thing was, he’d been infantry and still hadn’t been sure until just now what those guys were packing. Mac? Like she had telescopes attached to her eyeballs.)

  “No hunter I know.” An AK or even an M-16 or AR-15, he could understand, although no hunter truly needed a military-style assault weapon. A .30-.30 Winchester was just as good at stopping wild hogs or deer—or bear, for that matter, if you knew where to place that shot and kept shooting until you were dry. The assault rifles were a craze, a prestige symbol, that was all. While a round from an AK was heavier and flew farther, the M-4 was not only more accurate and had better optics, but its bullet was faster, smaller, and did a hell of a lot more damage, both when plowing through meat and coming out the other side. Most times, you couldn’t tell the difference between either round’s entrance wound. Exit wounds were another matter altogether. He’d seen M-4 exit craters bigger than his fist. “Honestly, an M-4 doesn’t make a whole lot of sense unless you want to skip a step and make yourself some hamburger on the spot.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. You also have the problem of the bullet cavitating so much, you risk busting through gut and fouling your meat. And then there’s the dog.”

  “You mean, that it’s a shepherd?”

  “That it’s muzzled.”

  “Could be excitable.”

  “Not this dog.” She handed over the scope. “Take another look. That like any hunting hound you’ve ever seen?”

  Even at this distance, the shepherd was a beauty, a sable with a broad chest and muscular haunches but also one of the largest dogs he’d ever seen, almost the size of a Malamute. The dog stuck close to the guy bringing up the rear, too, always heeled and never deviating more than a pace or two.

  “Hunh.” He looked at Mac. “That dog’s like Velcro’ed to the guy.”

  “Exactly. Dogs socialize. Unless they’re specifically trained otherwise, they wander, right? Go up and down the line, like to get a pat on the head, wag their tail, look happy? Not this guy. He looks pretty intense. I’ll bet he’s muzzled because he’s just as likely to give you a new butt-crack, you look at him cross-eyed.”

  “You know a lot about dogs?”


  Her eyes took on that shuttered quality. “I knew an MWD. His name was Six. Good dog. His handler and I were friends.”

  Was. Were. MWDs had a useful working life of about eight to ten years. People who were still alive kept in touch. Both the handler and this dog, Six, died?

  “So, I’ve seen my share of working dogs, and that boy?” She hooked a thumb over a shoulder. “He’s on the job, or I’ll eat my hat.”

  “Fine, he’s on the job. That’s a surprise? They’re hunting. We did hear a shot.”

  “Really. Up here?” She leveled a look. “What could they possibly have been shooting? Do you realize how far they’d have to pack out game? They would have to. You couldn’t come back for it. So, where is it?”

  “We heard one shot, Mac. People miss.”

  “Gabriel, those guys and that dog are guarding those girls . . . no, stop shaking your head and listen. For starters, the dog’s bringing up the rear. Why? So its handler can keep an eye on the girls. Second, neither of those guys has said word one to any of those kids in the half hour plus we’ve been watching. The girls aren’t even talking to each other, and what teenagers don’t talk?”

  She had a point. “Okay, fine, you got a point.”

  “I have several, and you know it.” Swiveling on her toes, her spikes crunching ice and snow, she eased up for another look then crooked a finger. “Come here. Take another look at those girls and then the guys. What else is wrong?”

  The party had stopped. The girls stood perfectly still, shoulders slumped, heads hanging as the guy on point unhooked a radio from his waist and said something, seemed to listen, said something else. At the rear, the dog had settled onto his haunches next to his handler who stood, alert, his head on a swivel, one hand on the stock of his weight. Gabriel’s eyesight wasn’t as good as Mac’s, and his right eye was still a little blurry, but his mind filled in what he couldn’t quite see. He’d bet good money the handler’s trigger finger rested alongside and not in the trigger guard.