The Last Resort Page 11

  The other man walked around the table. “He’s right, Joe. Give it to me. You can have it back later.”

  That burning stare turned briefly to Del. “I won’t forget this.”

  “Let me have it.”

  Spencer took a step closer, making sure even Osenbrock couldn’t miss his deadly intent.

  With a jerky, furious motion, Joe yanked the handgun the rest of the way from the holster and slapped it on Del’s outstretched hand. Then he wheeled around and stormed out of the lodge.

  There was immediately relaxation in his wake, although Spencer didn’t share it. Joe probably had half a dozen more weapons stockpiled in his cabin. Whether he’d go get one and commit cold-blooded murder in front of his fellow “soldiers” was another matter. This was all about ego, and if he really wanted respect, he had to make the fight seem aboveboard.

  Spencer straightened and reholstered his own gun. “Higgs must be wondering where I am. Let’s go unload,” he said as if nothing had happened.

  Leah stood ten feet away, her face parchment-pale, her eyes dilated. Her hands were clenched in small fists. He wanted to know everything that had happened, how it was that not only Del had stepped in, but the other two men, as well. But that had to wait. Right now appearances were everything.

  “Don’t you have a job to do?” he asked.

  Some emotion flew across her face, too fast to read, which was just as well considering they weren’t alone. She nodded, but also stole a look toward the front door.

  “Del,” Spencer said. “Can you stay?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “I need to refill the bucket,” she said tightly.

  “Throwing it at him was smart,” Del said unexpectedly, addressing Spencer rather than her. Still, he’d gained some respect for her, which might or might not be good.

  So the bucket hadn’t spilled because someone tripped over it. A pail full of soapy water explained Joe’s dripping wet hair, and some of his temper, too.

  Ignoring all the men, Leah circled around the table and picked up the bucket, then trailed Spencer, Zeigler and Wycoff into the kitchen. As she went to the sink, the other two women stared at the men.

  Walking out the back door and across the bare yard to the Suburban with Zeigler and Wycoff, Spencer asked, “How’d you two get mixed up in that?”

  “Del sent Lisa to get help. We were, ah, heading up to the lodge to take a break.”

  Shawn grinned. “What he means is, the women did some baking this morning. Blueberry pie and an apple-raisin cake. Decided we needed seconds.”

  “I’ll look forward to dessert tonight.”

  Higgs had the garage door lifted and the back of the Suburban open. “What took so long?” he grumbled.

  “Osenbrock was up to the same crap,” Spencer said as if unconcerned. “These guys and Schmidt told him he had to take it up with me.”

  Higgs’s attention sharpened. “He attacked Leah?”

  “Appears so. She fought back. Del came running. He sent Lisa to get these two.”

  The colonel flicked a glance at the other two men, then leveled a steady look at Spencer. “Can you handle him?”

  “We agreed to hand to hand in the morning.” He nodded at the packed rear of the SUV. “Let’s get this done. Be careful. Some of the boxes are heavier than they look.”

  He wasn’t sure what was in all the boxes, except the one crate he’d watched Higgs inspect. It held at least a dozen rifles. Markings on some of the boxes indicated they were the property of the US Government. A lot of those contained ammunition to replace what they’d used. Then there was the something mysterious that had had Higgs and his confederate talking quietly for quite a while.

  Given half a chance, Spencer intended to find out what other weapon had just been handed to a bunch of alt-right nutjobs.

  The men worked in silence, Higgs directing where he wanted each box put.

  “Getting crowded in here,” Wycoff remarked at one point.

  Higgs frowned at the Jeep. “We can move it out of here if we have to.”

  Spencer liked the idea but didn’t want to go on record saying so. Even if the key stayed on the nail inside the armory, he was confident he could hot-wire a vehicle as old as this one. The Jeep was a standard CJ-5, probably dating to the sixties or seventies.

  Five minutes later Spencer turned with deliberate incaution and bumped into Zeigler, who bashed a hip into a sharp corner of the old Jeep. Cursing, he barely held on to the box he carried.

  “Oh, hell,” Spencer said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Let’s get the damn thing out of there.” Higgs took care of moving it himself, parking it to one side of the armory. “We can throw a tarp over it if it looks like rain.”

  “I wonder if you could sell it to some classic car buff?” Wycoff suggested.

  Spencer laughed. “I doubt you could give it away. You know how common these were?”

  “Yeah.” Wycoff studied the rusting metal and tattered remnants of a canvas cover that had snapped on. “It’s no beauty, I’ll give you that.”

  They continued to work. Once the Suburban was empty, Spencer moved it to its usual parking spot out front of the lodge and handed the keys to Higgs.

  The two men were now alone.

  “Osenbrock is becoming a problem,” Higgs remarked.

  “Becoming? He’s an arrogant hothead.”

  The boss grunted. “I’d boot his ass out, except that would mean turning him loose. Resentment and a big mouth make for a dangerous mix.”

  “He’s a fighter,” Spencer said more mildly than he felt. “He believes in our goals.”

  Higgs’s brows climbed. “You plan to leave him alive?”

  “Depends how it goes.”

  “Whatever you have to do.” Higgs nodded and walked away.

  Spencer followed him only as far as the dining area, where Leah seemed to be finishing up. Sweaty and disheveled, she looked worse than the men who’d come to her rescue—but she was still on her feet, doing what she had to do.

  She was also beautiful, even now. In the intervening days, the discoloration and swelling on her face had diminished significantly, making more obvious the delicacy of her features. The pale, strawberry blond hair was sleek enough to fall back in place whatever she put it through.

  “Can I get some coffee?” he asked.

  He especially liked the glare that should have incinerated him.

  She grabbed the bucket and rose to her feet. “Anything else?”

  He barely refrained from grinning. “How about a piece of that cake?”

  Leah stomped into the kitchen.

  It was Helen who delivered the cup of coffee and a generous square of a rich, dark cake. He could see the apples and raisins in it.

  “Leah made this,” Helen said softly.

  “Did she?”

  She backed away. “If you need anything else...”

  “I’ll be fine.” He nodded, watching as she hurried away and out of sight. It was unlikely any of the women would go to prison, but he wondered what would happen to her without Dirk.

  Shaking the worry off, he took a bite of the cake. The taste lit up all his synapses, as rich as it looked. Sweet, but with enough spice to offer complexity. Damn, Leah could cook, too.

  She appeared ten minutes later, hesitating when she saw him but then advancing. “Do you want a refill?” She nodded at his cup.

  “Sure. That’s fabulous cake. Helen says you made it.”

  “My grandmother taught me. It’s my go-to recipe when I have to contribute to potlucks.”

  He nodded and lowered his voice. “You’re really all right?”

  “Yes. He...was dragging me out from beneath the table when Del came running. He tried to talk Shawn and—”

  At her hesitation, Spencer supplied the n
ame. “Garrett.”

  “Garrett into having some fun with him. He suggested you wouldn’t take on all three of them.”

  Enraged, Spencer ground his molars. “They didn’t consider going for it?” If they had...

  But she shook her head. “Joe said he’d seen Shawn looking. I had the feeling Shawn doesn’t like him.”

  She was right. With very few exceptions, these were aggressive men, angry at the world. Small as the group was, it had broken into cliques, the alliances shifting.

  Leah continued, “He sort of sneered and said he could get women without raping them. It was like he wanted Joe to blow.”

  “Joe’s got friends here, but not those three.” His voice still sounded guttural. If Joe had had Arne and Chris Binder and TJ Galt backing him, Leah would have been gang-raped. TJ wouldn’t have let a marriage certificate stop him.

  Slammed by how he’d have felt if he’d gotten back to find Leah huddled in a small, battered ball, forever damaged by that kind of assault, all the violence in his nature rose in outrage. That was a mistake none of them would have survived to regret.

  “Are you all right?” Leah still hesitated several feet away.

  “Yeah.” It was all he could do to clear his throat. “Coffee?”

  She took his cup, reappearing a minute later. As she carefully set it down, she asked, “Is anyone else here?”

  “No, I think we’re alone except for the women.”

  “Are you really going to have to fight him?”

  “Yes.”

  “He wants to kill you. Did you see the way he looked at you?” She shivered.

  “I saw.” He reached out and squeezed her hand quickly before releasing it. “He can’t take me down.”

  “You won’t underestimate him?”

  “No.” Hearing the front door open followed by voices, he said, “You’d better get back to work.”

  Without another word, she fled. Thinking about his last glimpse of her face, Spencer had a bad feeling he’d failed to reassure her. And the truth was, he’d spent most of his time in the military belly down, with an eye to a scope and his finger resting gently on the trigger of a rifle. He’d wrestled and boxed, sure, but had never tried out any martial arts.

  He didn’t picture Joe Osenbrock embracing martial arts, either, though. They required discipline he lacked. He was a brute force kind of guy. Joe lost it when he got angry enough or things weren’t going his way.

  Spencer had to count on cold determination defeating blind fury.

  * * *

  LEAH KEPT SNEAKING peeks down the table during dinner. Spencer acted as if nothing at all was wrong. He ignored Joe, but not so obviously that he was doing it as an insult. More as if... Joe just didn’t impinge on his awareness at all.

  Joe ate, but she doubted he knew what he was putting in his mouth. He barely took his burning stare from Spencer. Everyone else noticed, which made for awkward conversation and uncomfortable silences.

  Shelley Galt had reappeared for the first time in days to help with dinner and join them at the table. Leah could see immediately that she hadn’t been sick at all. She’d been beaten. She still moved stiffly, her left wrist was wrapped in an ACE bandage, and while the long-sleeve tee probably hid bruises, the foundation she’d plastered on her face wasn’t thick enough to disguise the purple, yellow and black that enveloped her cheek, temple and part of her forehead, wrapping around an eye that wasn’t yet quite all the way open.

  Leah knew exactly how that felt. Just looking at the other woman made her shake with fury. Once she saw Spencer’s gaze rest on Shelley’s face. His expression never changed, but she knew what he thought behind the mask.

  After dinner the group broke up more slowly than some times. As usual the women took turns refilling coffee cups or bringing second servings of one of the desserts. Helen was the first to be able to leave. Dirk took her hand and led her out the back door. That he didn’t mind people seeing him touch Helen, or his tenderness toward her, said a lot about him. Too bad he was part of a group planning some kind of major attack meant to shake the foundations of Americans’ faith in their government.

  Shelley left alone. TJ had told her to go, she said. No kindness there. Twenty minutes later most of the rest departed en masse, leaving Leah by herself in the kitchen. She peeked out to see Spencer and Colonel Higgs sitting across from each other at the table, engaged in a conversation that even an outsider could see was intense. What were they talking about? The morning fight? Or the attack that was to be the climax of all this planning and training?

  She sat on a stool in the kitchen and tried to think about something, anything, except Joe and Spencer slamming their fists into each other, twisting and tangling in combat. Would the other men surround them and cheer on their favorite, like middle-school boys excited by a fight? She shuddered, imagining the rise of bloodlust, and wondered if Joe’s death—or Spencer’s—would satisfy the audience.

  She knew, knew, that Spencer would never concede, not with her life at stake. As terrified as she was of being left to Joe Osenbrock’s mercy, that wouldn’t be the worst part. How could she ever accept Spencer’s death?

  She couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

  As a woman who cried when an animal hit by a car didn’t make it onto the vet’s operating table, she wasn’t used to wanting to hurt anyone. But there was no doubt in her mind.

  If Joe somehow won, she’d make him pay. No matter what it took.

  * * *

  THEY WERE BARELY inside the door of the cabin when Spencer groaned and snatched Leah into his arms. Leaning back against the closed door, he held her tightly, his cheek pressed to the top of her head. This had been one of the most hellish days he could remember.

  He should have taken her and fled already, to hell with his job. Yeah, he’d had two breakthroughs today, but the price was too high. He’d been so cocky, too sure he could protect Leah. He still believed he’d come out the winner tomorrow...but what if he didn’t? Or what if he won but was injured badly enough that he was unable to keep protecting her? Joe wasn’t the only threat.

  She burrowed against him. His resistance to making love with her had hit a low. He needed that closeness, that relief, and thought she did, too.

  “Leah,” he muttered.

  She lifted her head from his shoulder, letting him see the tears in her eyes. “I don’t want you to do this.”

  Desperately, he said, “Let’s forget it all, just for a while. Can we do that?”

  Even with her eyes shimmering wet, he’d swear she saw deep inside him. He made himself wait until she whispered, “Yes. Oh, yes, please.”

  He tried to start off gently. They’d never kissed before. His good intentions lasted maybe thirty seconds before one of his hands was on her ass, the other gripping her nape. His tongue was in her mouth, her arms locked around his neck, and she seemed to be trying to climb him. He ached to have her cradle his erection. Her taste, her softness, her acceptance and eagerness, her vulnerability and strength, combined to blast his good intentions to smithereens. He wanted to strip her, lift her up against the door and take her without any finesse. He actually started to turn her and gripped the hem of her T-shirt to strip her when he remembered that damn uncovered window.

  He couldn’t do it like this. A monumental shudder racked his body. The effort of persuading his fingers to release her shirt tore another groan from his chest. Wrenching his mouth from hers, he said rawly, “Bedroom.”

  Her green eyes were so dazed, he doubted she understood.

  Too frantic for her to wait, he bent to slide an arm beneath her knees and swing her off the floor. Since he started kissing her again, he blundered more than walked across the small living room.

  As he turned to fit her through the opening into the bedroom, some part of her body thudded into the door frame and she cried, “Ouch.” The next second she pressed he
r lips back to his and the kiss became deep and hungry again.

  Once he laid her on the bed and came down on top of her, they slid into the dip at the middle of the mattress. Spencer didn’t care. All he could think about was getting her clothes off. As he tugged her shirt over her head and groped for the fastening for her bra, he wished he’d thought to turn on the light so he could see her. Much as he wanted that, he couldn’t make himself leave her.

  He had to rise to his knees to untie her athletic shoes and peel her jeans and panties down her legs. While he was there, he took care of his own clothes. He barely had the sanity to remove a condom from his wallet. She was trying to touch him but wouldn’t have been able to see well enough to put the damn thing on. He felt clumsy, and realized the dark wasn’t responsible. His hands were shaking.

  Too much tumult, fierce need and the knowledge that they could fall any minute off the knife-edge that constituted their only safety, all combined to rob him of any patience. The incoherent, needy sounds she was making—moans, whimpers, he didn’t know—told him she was as ready as he was.

  Sliding inside her was one of the best feelings of his life. Tight, slick, she welcomed him by planting her feet on the mattress and pushing her hips up to meet every thrust. He set an urgent, hard pace that couldn’t last. Her spasms, the way she cried out his name, pulled him with her. His throbbing release seemed to last forever. He collapsed, unable to find the immediate strength to roll off her slender body.

  For all the joy and satisfaction he felt, Spencer hated that she hadn’t cried out his real name. That she didn’t even know it. She’d just made love to a man playing a role, not him.

  Whoever I am, came the bleak thought.

  Chapter Eleven

  Leah woke up to find herself alone in bed. She didn’t hear a sound. Not the shower or a whistling teakettle or the creak of a floorboard. Where was Spencer?

  They’d made love a second time, slower and more tenderly, his voice deep and almost velvety in the darkness, the Southern accent strong as he told her how beautiful she was, how soft. He called her strong, defiant, smart. He hadn’t said how he felt about her, but that would have been expecting too much. Really, how could either of them know so quickly?