The sharp tang of wood stain teased Hayley Brent’s nostrils as she dipped her two-inch-wide brush into a can of thick sable-brown liquid. Deftly, she removed excess stain against the lip of the can, then brought the brush to the work in progress. The tip of her tongue caught between her teeth—a mannerism her brother, Craig, often teased her about—she pressed the wet bristles into a deep groove in the wood and smoothly swiped the stain from one end of the groove to the other. Taking a step back, she scanned the entire carving up and down. Her heart rate kicked up a little faster. This piece was her magnum opus thus far in her career. Could she hope it would be her breakthrough?
The immense and graphically detailed chain saw carving of an eagle clutching a salmon in its talons loomed four feet taller than her five-foot-eight-inch height. Last week, just before Craig left for Seattle to do research for a writing assignment, Hayley had finished the carving process with the chain saw. From then until yesterday she’d labored on the detail work with a chisel and sandpaper. Now she was in the homestretch with stain and sealant. A lot of sweat and effort was invested in this commissioned piece for a deep-pocketed and influential customer in the Lower 48. If this guy was enthused with the carving, her name as a chain saw artist would be made. She could count on shipping many more pieces south to the contiguous United States from her home in the Alaskan interior. A dream realized.
As Hayley reached her brush toward the can of stain, a deep-throated bark shattered her concentration and she gave a little jump. Frowning, she laid the brush flat across the stain can’s open top and went to the screen door of the cavernous, well-ventilated shed where she did her work. As always, her breath caught at the wild beauty of the Alaskan wilderness.
To her left, a boreal forest of white-barked birch trees and stately black spruce framed the sturdy, compact cabin she and her brother considered home base from late spring through mid-fall. Straight ahead, splashes of blue and gold vied with vivid greens in the myriad jumble of plants and shrubs that ushered the eye toward a small, sparkling aqua lake. There, her dock led to the yellow Piper Cub floatplane that was the only transportation in or out of her remote location. Now, at the end of September, nature was putting on its last great show before snow and ice swept in and dominated for at least the next six months. By then, she would be in Fairbanks for the winter, but for now, she meant to finish her vital project and enjoy the peace and solitude.
A rumbling growl drew her gaze to the right. Her deep-chested Alaskan malamute stood stiff and still in the meadow. The breed-distinctive plume of his tail curved across his broad sable back, hairs bristling. His triangle-shaped ears stood pricked to attention. Something wasn’t right.
Hayley’s gut clenched. “What is it, Mack?”
The dog darted a glance at her with almond-shaped brown eyes, then returned his attention to the pristine blue sky above them. Not some critter in the woods, then. Was somebody flying in? She wasn’t expecting anyone.
Hayley stepped out the door, her sturdy work boots crunching on the gravel lining the edges of the work shed. Denim jeans and a long-sleeved shirt beneath a padded vest covered most of her lean frame, but the fall breeze brushed chilly fingers across the exposed skin of her hands and face. A strand of tawny hair escaped her ponytail and swept across her mouth. She tugged the hair away as she gazed upward, straining her ears for plane engine noise. There it was. Faint, but growing louder in the south. Might be someone passing over, but the engine rumble sounded low to the ground as if the plane might be coming in for a landing.
Suddenly, a red-and-white aircraft broke into view over the tops of the trees, sparking an explosion of throaty barks from Mack. The unfamiliar plane dwarfed her Cub. This long, big-bellied type of aircraft would be capable of transporting the carved eagle, but no such arrangements had yet been made. Hayley’s gaze riveted on the tail of the plane. No identifying numbers or letters. Lack of a call sign often meant one of two things—poachers or smugglers. Dangerous people. Hayley’s gut clenched.
With one hand, she shaded her eyes from the westering sun and stared up into the cockpit. The plane skimmed low enough that she made out the figures of two men. The one seated in the copilot position seemed to get agitated at the sight of her. As the man gestured toward the pilot and then pointed at her, he waved a bulky black item in the air: an automatic assault rifle.
Ice congealed in Hayley’s lungs. Nearly everyone in the state of Alaska owned guns, but full automatics weren’t the norm. Those were mostly in the hands of the military, law enforcement or crooks. These guys weren’t soldiers or cops, and they were not happy to see her.
In seconds, the plane shot beyond her property and continued toward a wall of forest half a mile away. Evidently, the pilot had never intended to land his craft in her lake, but he clearly meant to land somewhere close at hand. The nearest body of water to hers was a slightly larger lake about a mile away, where a warehouse-like building sat moldering on the bank. The structure used to serve as a way station for a regional dogsled race, but when the route had been redrawn a decade ago, the building was abandoned. There was no good reason for anyone to land a plane there. Hayley’s jaw clenched. No good summed up what these guys were all about.
She took off for her cabin with Mack loping at her heels. Would her presence be a deterrent to their agenda? Hopefully so. Or would they come after her? Surely not.
Poachers and smugglers preferred to keep a low profile, not draw attention to themselves by attacking people. Then again, they didn’t like leaving witnesses to their activities. No matter what, she needed to alert the authorities about an unmarked plane landing in a location where there couldn’t possibly be a legitimate purpose. Then she needed to grab the engine key for the Cub and get out of here while law enforcement did their job.
Clomping across the cabin’s generous porch, she reached the door and pushed inside. Warmth with a hint of cedar scent greeted her as she strode to the bulky wooden desk on the far left side of the living room space and picked up her satellite phone, a necessity in these environs where cellular service was spotty to nonexistent.
Hayley punched in the emergency numbers and waited and waited and...nothing. She glared at the phone. The handset was turned on, but it wasn’t connecting to a satellite. That never happened. What was going on?
Airplane engine buzz grew louder outside. Hayley’s heartbeat stalled, then ratcheted into overdrive. The armed intruders were returning. She darted to the picture window and peered out. The large floatplane was nearing touchdown on her lake, meaning the route to her Cub was cut off. What should she do?
Hope for the best; prepare for the worst—one of her brother’s cliché sayings that often drew an eye roll from her, but today sounded like sage advice. Heart thumping, she turned toward Mack. The dog eyed her with focused intensity, waiting for her word.
“We may have to bust out the back door and run for the woods,” she told him. “Let’s get ready to move.”
Mack answered with a solemn woof as if he understood everything she said.
Hayley hustled to the closet and pulled out her hiking backpack. Wilderness Alaskans kept an emergency pack filled and ready. She set the bulging pack on the floor behind the sofa and quickly stuffed the satellite phone into a side pocket. Then she returned to the closet, grabbed her down-filled parka and tossed it on top of the pack. The temperature dropped dramatically after dark, and who knew how long she might have to hide. A hiking pack and a jacket—little enough preparation for the worst, but she was out of time.
Outside, the plane’s engine was already ratcheting down. Whoever these people were, they had landed on her property carrying assault weapons Hayley’s pulse hammered in her throat as she pulled her bolt-action Winchester Model 70 Featherweight rifle off the gun rack and loaded it with .30-06 cartridges.
Please, God, help. I don’t want to have to shoot anyone. She was proficient in handling the rifle, and a more than adequate shot, but she’d never fired at a person before. Could she bring herself to do it?
“Hello, the house,” a pleasant baritone voice called from outside. “Permission to approach.”
Holding her breath, Hayley peered out the window. From the plane’s cockpit, two people gazed out toward her cabin, but neither was the person trying to communicate. The craft’s passenger door stood open, and a tall, dark-haired man was stepping off the dock into her meadow. The man was too far away for her to make out his features, except that he had a close-cropped beard and a muscular build. He was dressed in black jeans and a dark brown jacket. An ebony strap around his shoulder indicated the presence of a firearm at his back, but both of his hands were empty and raised to shoulder height, palms out.
Tension eased in Hayley’s gut. Could she have overreacted? Maybe these guys were no threat. Her jaw firmed. No, a lone woman in the Alaskan wilderness couldn’t possibly overreact to armed strangers trespassing on her property.
Hayley pulled her front door ajar but didn’t step outside. Instead, she sheltered behind the thick wooden panel. Growling, Mack moved forward, but she grabbed his collar and held him back. The dog went still, though his coarse fur bristled against her fingers.
“I’m armed,” she called out. “I have a dog, and I’ve been on the satellite phone.” No need to tell them she hadn’t gotten through to anyone.
“All of that is understandable,” the reasonable-voiced man answered. “Let me come on up and—”
A masculine yell brimming with profanity interrupted the man’s words. Hayley peeked around the edge of the door. Breath fled her lungs as her pulse jackhammered in her ears. One...two...three...no—four men leaped out of the red-and-white plane onto her dock and charged toward the cabin, weapons trained. The man who’d been talking to her whirled on his buddies, reaching toward them and hollering as if trying to stop their rush. But the foursome barreled past the dark-haired spokesman, nearly knocking him off his feet. Their automatic weapons erupted in a stream of bullets.
The cabin’s picture window exploded inward. Glass shards stung Hayley’s torso, and particularly her exposed hands and face. The rifle fell from her grip. She threw herself to the floor, hauling Mack down with her. Whatever she did now had to happen fast. These guys meant to kill her.
Heart in his throat, Sean O’Keefe grabbed for Wade Becker as the hothead and his cronies swept past him, blasting their guns in full-automatic mode. He missed the grab and staggered, nearly hitting the ground.
When the boss man had ordered their plane to turn around and land here so they could deal with the problem, Sean had talked fast. He thought he’d convinced him and the rest of the gang that it would be wise to go easy on the unexpected innocent witness to their rendezvous with the buyer. Subduing the woman and tying her up until they were gone should have been sufficient, especially when the crew planned to disband and disappear after this crucial deal. Why add murder to their rap sheets? But, as usual, Becker couldn’t contain his violent impulses, and this time a civilian was paying the price.
What could possibly be a worse ending to Sean’s undercover assignment with the federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives? He grimaced. The thing he needed to do next might make that cut. He was probably too late, but he had to stop the attack even if he blew his cover or got himself killed.
Sean shrugged his M16 rifle from his shoulder into his hands and swept a burst of bullets toward the heels of the lowlifes he’d been forced to rub shoulders with for the past five months. The foursome jumped and ceased fire. Whirling, they pointed their weapons at Sean’s chest.
Becker called him a foul name. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Sean met the man’s molten stare. “I’m not adding murder to my rap sheet just because you guys like to shoot first and think later. Assaulting the cabin was never the plan.”
“Plans change,” said a flinty voice behind him.
Sean looked over his shoulder to find Sherman Patterson standing on the dock. The man’s empty, inky stare reminded Sean of a python he’d once seen eyeing a rodent in a zoo. As far as character quality went, Sean would rate the reptile over Patterson any day. Even out here in the Alaskan wilderness, the guy wore an impeccably cut three-piece suit and designer loafers and every salt-and-pepper strand of thick and glossy hair was locked in place. A snake in a suit, and from day one of his undercover assignment, Sean had been looking forward to slapping the cuffs on him. But if the woman in the house was still alive, to get her out of here he might have to kiss that dream goodbye.
Sean schooled his expression to reflect indifference. “I’ll go up there and see if these trigger-happies—” he jerked his chin toward Becker and his bunch “—accomplished anything.”
The quartet of shooters scowled at him, but Patterson nodded. “Be my guest. Let us know if you run into her gun or her dog.” A thin smile flickered across the man’s sharp features.
Gut roiling, Sean trotted toward the silent cabin. Every hair on his body stood on end. If she was alive in there, he could take a bullet from her at any moment. But if she hadn’t returned fire by now, she was probably incapable of it. These thugs he’d been running with over the past excruciating months knew that fact as well as he did. He glanced at them over his shoulder. Becker’s quartet wore smug sneers on their faces. Patterson had retreated into the plane. Typical. Never one to risk his neck or get his hands dirty.
Sean reached the cabin and soft-footed up two stairs and across the porch boards. The front door hung open, peppered with bullet holes. Swallowing hard, he stepped over the threshold and peered into a living area. A hunting rifle lay at the foot of a shredded sofa, explaining why he hadn’t been shot while approaching the cabin.
His gaze searched the space. No one in view, neither dog nor human, but a few droplets of red speckled the floor. Sean drew in a stuttering breath. Clearly, someone in here was wounded, though they’d been able to move. Did he dare hope the woman and her pooch had escaped through the kitchen and out the back door? He scanned the kitchen area that formed an L with the living room. Shattered crockery covered the space, and the back door sported multiple bullet holes. Not likely she would have survived attempting that exit.
No blood speckles led in that direction. They did, however, lead toward the far wall of the living space. There, a closed door adjoined a set of rustic wooden stairs that gave access to the second story. Had she retreated up there?
“Ma’am,” Sean called out. “I know you have no reason to trust me, but I’ve come to help.”
Even as he spoke, rustles and thumps drew him toward the closed door. A few bullet holes marked the wood, but not as many as on the back and front doors. With debris crunching under his work boots, Sean moved in that direction. As he stepped beyond the sofa, his gaze passed over a bulging backpack and a heavy parka. She’d prepared to retreat, but Becker’s sudden aggression had thwarted her plan.
Sean reached the door and gripped the knob. It wouldn’t turn. The effort was greeted by a dog’s whine followed by a few hushed, unintelligible words. His heart jumped. The woman was alive—the dog, too. He needed to get beyond that locked door and usher them out of the cabin to take cover in the woods, and he needed to do it fast. Becker’s bunch could run out of their minuscule stock of patience and charge up here at any moment. He couldn’t take time to coax her into letting him inside. If that were even possible.
Sean drew back his leg and rammed his heel into the door on a sweet spot beside the knob. The locking mechanism gave way, and the door panel crashed open. The dog’s hindquarters were just disappearing through a small, square window in the far wall of the bathroom. The woman whirled from helping her dog get through the tight space and let out a hoarse gasp. Liquid brown eyes as wide as dinner plates stared at him. She pressed her back against the far wall, chin up, as if facing a firing squad with all the courage she could muster.
Light brown hair framed an oval face marked with several trickles of red. No doubt she’d been hit by glass shards from the shattered picture window. Her raised hands, too, showed blood smears. Sean’s gaze flicked around the room. Signs of blood in the enormous, claw-foot bathtub. Smart woman. If she and her dog hadn’t taken cover there, they probably wouldn’t have survived the barrage the cabin had absorbed.
“You need to go.” He made his tone low but urgent.
“Go?” She blinked at him as if his words had been gibberish.
“Now!” His semi-snarl brought a rush of color to her face, cutting through the shock and confusion.
She turned toward the open window and began to hoist herself over the sill.
“Not that way,” Sean said. “Grab your pack and your jacket and scoot out the back door. I’ll cover for you. Move fast.”
The woman swiveled toward him with a tentative nod. Sean stepped back to allow her to leave the bathroom. Shoulders hunched, she rushed past him. She snatched the jacket and shrugged it on but didn’t take time to zip it. Then she threw the pack over her shoulders and headed toward the back door.
Moving smoothly and quickly, Sean hefted her rifle and followed her into the kitchen. “Wait. You might need this out there.”
The woman paused and turned. He held the weapon toward her.
She reached toward the rifle, then froze, meeting his gaze. “Why are you helping me?”
“No time to explain.”
Jerking a nod, she grabbed the rifle even as booted feet sounded on the porch boards.
“What’s going on in there?” Becker’s nasally voice called. “Did we get her?”
Sean whirled toward the sound. The hothead’s shadow fell across the threshold. Without hesitation, Sean pressed the trigger on his M16. Bullets chattered into the floorboards, hopefully driving the assailant backward. A high-pitched yelp came from outside the door, and boots hammered the porch in hasty retreat.
A chill gripped Sean’s core. He was now these weapons smugglers’ declared enemy, not a pretend ally. He’d hoped to get the woman away before any of them investigated. Then he could say he’d found the cabin empty and do his best to keep them from going after her by convincing them she posed no threat wandering around in the wilderness. Considering how these guys had already proven their deadly intent, that strategy had always been a slim hope. Still, it had been worth a shot at keeping enough trust with these lowlifes until he finished his assignment. Not happening.
Sean turned on his heel and charged after the woman who was bounding out the back door. His long stride overtook her, and with a hand on her back, he pushed her into faster gear across the grass toward the tree line about ten yards distant. A large malamute raced up to them, then turned and ran alongside the woman. Behind them, multiple automatic weapons opened fire in a cacophony of lead. A bullet’s slipstream kissed his cheek as a high whine nipped his eardrum.
So far, their adversaries were shooting through windows and doors on the far side of the cabin, but soon they’d either come around the structure or barrel straight through it to gain an unobstructed view of their targets. Sean took a firm grip on the woman’s elbow and pulled her out of line with the back door and the kitchen window. The move temporarily put more of the bulk of the cabin between their bodies and the bullets chasing them.
A few more strides and the forest swallowed them. But Sean didn’t count them safe yet. These guys would come after them, and they would have no mercy.
Copyright © 2022 by Jill Elizabeth Nelson