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The employees of Bitterroot Campground gathered around Quint. He read the list of duties, assigning people to the different areas that needed attention. Being a Friday morning, he expected a line of campers coming in all day looking for a spot to enjoy the weekend, and it was imperative the sites be ready.
"Phil, I want you to take over the gun range. Make sure any garbage is picked up and trash cans emptied. I need you to put a sign up stating only paper targets will be allowed. We're getting too much junk being used and left there. Also, Sam and J.T, bear hunting starts on Tuesday, that means the hunters will be sighting their rifles. One of you needs to put two more metal garbage cans close to the benches. Hopefully, campers will use them to pick up after themselves, but I want both of you prepared to include the area in your daily check. Maintenance crew — I want all mowing around the entrance done before we open from now until the end of the season." He lowered his clipboard. "That's it. Meeting over. Get to work."
He walked toward headquarters when someone called his name. He turned around and found Jared jogging toward him.
"Thought you might like to know I spotted something in the woods on the Northeastern side of the campground, about five hundred yards from the last loop for full hookups." Jared took off his snapback and rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead. "It looked like some kind of dark colored tarp or maybe a tent."
"That's on my property," said Quint.
"I wasn't sure where the property line starts and ends but thought you'd like to know."
"I appreciate you keeping your eyes open. I'll check it out." Quint looked at the clipboard for Jared's assignment and decided to switch things around. "Go ahead and take over in the office. I'll be back by lunchtime to relieve you."
Going into headquarters, he put the chart on his desk, picked up the shotgun from the wall mount and headed back outside. He carried a pistol on his hip, but the big gun made more of an impression when confronting someone face to face. It wasn't the first-time trespassers had tried to camp on his land to get out of paying a fee.
He slid onto an ATV. Taking the outer loop around the grounds, he kept the rifle balanced on his lap. He never worried about campers viewing a weapon in plain sight. It was Idaho and open-carry came with the territory.
Wild animals had a tendency to get curious and invade people's food supplies they left unsecured. Drunken guests would often fight around the campfire, even family members, all in the name of fun.
While he let the campers enjoy their stay, there were rules to follow so others could relax during their time away from home. He had no problem forcing others to mind the rules in an attempt to make sure everyone had a good time.
He slowed down, quieting the ATV as he rode past Katelynn Pierce's travel trailer. Glancing over, he took in the condition of her spot. She hadn't taken out any folding chairs to sit beside the empty firepit, no clothes hung on a line between trees, no fishing poles leaned against the truck, and the curtains of the trailer remained closed.
Hell, she hadn't even put the jacks under the trailer to stabilize the RV.
Maybe she was one of those yuppie types who camped and never communed with nature, instead choosing to sleep her vacation away. He glanced at the license plate on the front of the truck. Washington. Probably came from Seattle.
Continuing to the back of the campground, he arrived at the old woodshed and parked the ATV. He preferred to walk up to visitors and not give them any warning.
He packed the rifle in his left hand and trudged through the underbrush, skirting around the pine trees, making sure to avoid the sticks littered on the ground and adding any extra noise.
The woods, both familiar and comforting to him, also became the perfect hiding place if someone wanted to stay hidden.
Fifty yards in, he spotted the tent.
Keeping his gaze up, he scanned the area around him. The occupants had worn a path in the thick bed of pine needles on the floor of the forest to his left. He swung the butt of the rifle to his right side and caught it with his other hand, slipping his finger into position against the trigger. His unwelcomed visitors had at least been here a few days to leave evidence on the mountain.
He'd let his guard down during the chaos of the days leading up to fully opening the campground because he knew damn well nobody was on his land prior to camping season.
On the outskirts of the clearing, he stopped and tilted his head, straining to hear anything that would alert him to someone inside the tent. When no movement or noise came, he said, "Hello, the camp."
Several minutes passed. Without any sign of the trespassers, he stepped into the clearing and approached the makeshift campsite. He kept the shotgun at his hip, finger on the trigger.
Close to the tent, a rancid odor permeated the air tinged with a sick sweetness. He held his breath and lowered the barrel of the rifle. Whoever was inside the cheap nylon material was dead.
He unzipped the opening and bent over peering inside. His throat closed and he turned, staggering away from the sight. The nightmare inside the enclosure remained in his head, and he gagged.
Bending over, he lost the contents of his stomach. Once he started gasping for breath, he couldn't stop. Dry heaves constricted his body until tears rolled down into his beard. His inability to swallow hampered by the memory of the dogs snapping, biting, thrashing while their jaws locked on to his leg and his arms.
There were too many dogs.
He shook his head, clearing his memories. Damn them.
His past triggered by the present. He could never outrun his enemies.
There were two men out of the six responsible for stealing him and the other five boys out of state care when they were fifteen years old that were still alive. Still after him and the others.
Two men who were responsible for the years he was held hostage in Mexico and forced to train dogs for the fighting ring.
Two men who wanted to kill him and the three others who'd survived. Two men who wanted retribution for the man they'd killed when escaping. And, later, for the bodies of the men they'd murdered on the mountain. The two men remaining wanted their secrets kept hidden surrounding the crimes they committed with the dogfighting ring and the only way they could guarantee their freedom was to kill him, Will, Anders, and Mark.
They'd already let the dogs kill Joney back in Mexico the day Quint had escaped, and last winter, they killed Two-crow.
He wanted the fuckers dead.
He and the others would never be able to live their life without looking over their shoulders if Michael Jaster and Sam McCloud remained alive.
He stared at the tent, knowing he had to take care of the problem before one of the summer campers or an employee decided to check out the private campsite. Turning away, he walked a few paces and gained control over his stomach.
Pulling out his cell phone, he called Mark. Everyone would need to know what he'd found.
"Yeah?" answered Mark.
"We've got a problem." He looked around the area making sure he was alone.
"Shit," muttered Mark. "What now?"
"I'm standing by a tent erected on my property about a hundred yards from the campground." He breathed through his mouth, but the smell of death permeated his body. "They left something behind."
"Not another—"
"No." Quint jaw hardened. Last summer, they'd killed one of his employees and left a dead dog behind outside headquarters. Considering his employee had the same hair color and build as him, he suspected he was the intended target. "Only a dog."
Both of them knew it wasn't only a dog. The dead animal signified their biggest fear. They'd been pushed up against canines inside a ring with only one winner walking away. Nobody could understand what he'd lived through, except the others who'd lived through the experience.
"I'll call the others and head over there," said Mark.
"I'm going to take care of this mess." He looked back through the woods toward his ATV where there was a shovel waiting to finish the job he never started. "Things are going to get busy around here. Why don't you drop by after eight when the gate closes?"
"You sure?"
He looked down at the rifle in his hand. "Yeah, I've got this."
He disconnected the call and walked back through the woods. Living in the Bitterroot Mountains, nobody called the police unless they failed to take care of the problem themselves. Used to taking care of business on his own, he'd bury the dog and the tent. He and the others had their own crimes they covered, and he wanted to make sure nobody suspected a thing.
As long as he kept his activities to himself, covered his tracks, and ran a reputable campground, he would remain free long enough to kill and bury the last two men after him and the others.
Running short on time, he dug a hole and buried the mutilated dead dog wrapped in the tent. The burial site deep enough a wild animal wouldn't get a whiff and dig up the carcass.
He headed back to the ATV sweatier and more tired than he should be. His stomach continued to churn. Dealing with the dog, a message only McCloud and Jaster could be responsible for, pushed him too far. He needed a drink.
Riding back, he noticed Katelynn Pierce still hadn't taken advantage of the camping spot. He revved the quad and headed straight to headquarters. She wasn't his problem.
Sure, she was a sexy woman. But she appeared to have as many problems as he had at the moment. He had no spare time to help her set up the camp and show her the ropes when he had to save his own ass.
Besides, one more night, and she'd be gone.