4

Ivy came through the gate, followed by the dog that had been following her. She would keep him inside with her; otherwise, the poor thing may fall prey to something bigger and nastier. She slid the gate shut and latched it tight, locking it from the inside.

She turned to head for the house with the dog on her heels, but she stopped short when she heard a noise. There was someone there. She lifted her rifle and cocked it, ready to fire. She stepped carefully, being sure not to make a sound. A lifetime of creeping around had made her apt at silence.

She peeked around a large semi cab and saw a man over by the wood stack. His back was to her, and judging by the way, he was idly collecting wood. She would bet he didn’t know she was there. She had the element of surprise. Ivy crept up behind him and pressed the muzzle of her rifle to the back of his head. He instantly tensed, now he was fully aware of her presence.

“Turn around slowly,” She ordered.

He dropped the wood, put up his hands in surrender and slowly turned to face her. Suddenly his scared expression turned to one of amusement. “You’re just a girl.”

“A girl with a gun,” she didn’t like that cocky smile on his face. He didn’t consider her a threat. The worst part about being a girl was that no one thought her scary. “Who are you?”

“Dillon.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Squatting.”

“This is my home. I want you to get out.”

Dillon laughed. “It’s dusk; I’m going nowhere.”

“You’ll go, or I’ll shoot you,” she warned.

He looked her over suspiciously. “Are you alone here?” He asked, watching her reaction. “You are.”

He took a step toward her, and the dog began to growl. “As you can see, I’m not alone. I have…” she had yet to give the dog a name, “Amos.”

Suddenly his arms came up in a flash, and he took her rifle and turned it on her. “You keep the dog; I’ll take the gun,” Amos growled, ready to attack, so Dillon turned the gun on Amos bent on putting him down.

“No!” Ivy screamed, and she shoved him off balance. The rifle went off, and the bullet went astray, missing Amos.

***

Gunfire brought everyone to their feet. They grabbed their weapons and rushed outside to Dillon’s aid. Across the yard, Gabriel could see Dillon struggling over a rifle with a young woman. He should have been able to take her if it were not for the big black dog attacking his leg. It had chomped its jaw shut on Dillon’s leg and was tugging and shaking its head back and forth, pulling Dillon off balance.

Gabriel lifted his weapon, trying to get a good shot at the dog or the woman, but he couldn’t not without hitting Dillon too. So instead of shooting, he rushed over and started beating the dog with the butt of his rifle, clubbing the mutt until it whimpered and limped off. He then elbowed the woman in the chest, and she staggered back, but damn, his elbow hurt. He looked down to see blood on his sleeve. Looking up, he noticed the barbed chain she had wrapped around her torso draped over one shoulder.

She took hold of a leather-bound handle and quickly uncoiled the chain and whipped it at him like it were an extension of her body, keeping Gabriel and his men at a distance. Cyrus aimed his machine gun at her, but before he could fire, she snapped the whip in his direction, cutting his hands and knocking the gun from his grip. She was better than she looked. Gabriel had never seen a weapon like this.

She snapped the whip, and the pointed tip cut across his leather chest armour, cutting right through it, but thankfully, it protected him regardless, absorbing the brunt of the attack. This weapon was dangerous if it could slice through armour. Again she snapped the whip, and it wrapped around Dillon. She pulled and dragged him in front of her. She wrapped the excess chain around his neck and pulled snugly. There was pain in Dillon’s face as the barbs of the chain dug into his flesh.

“Back off!” She barked. “Or I’ll pop his damn head right off.”

“Let’s not be rash,” Gabriel tried to reason with her as he put his rifle on the ground at his feet. He gestured for the others to do the same, and they did reluctantly. “Think about this. There is one of you and six of us.”

“Soon, there’ll be five,” she snarled, tightening the chain around Dillon’s throat. She was focused on Gabriel and hadn’t noticed Monroe pulling his knife. He flipped it so the blade was in his hand, and then he threw it. The blade embedded itself in her shoulder. She cried out in pain and released her hold on the chain. The slack allowed Dillon to get free, and he elbowed her right in the face sending her stumbling back. She fell and hit the back of her head on the rusted-out old car behind her. She went down hard and didn’t get back up.

The men picked up their weapons, and Gabriel rushed to her side. He knelt down and checked to see if she was still breathing. She was alive but not conscious. “Dillon, are you ok?” He asked, looking up at his son as he wriggled his way free of the chain.

“A few scratches, I’ll live.”

With his son out of danger, Gabriel took a closer look at the woman before him. She was very young, maybe Dillon’s age. She wasn’t very big, but she seemed strong. She was thin but not scrawny; she was clearly well-fed, which meant she was a good hunter, or maybe someone else was feeding her. It was possible they would be expecting someone else. “Is she alone?” He asked, looking at his son.

“Yeah, I think so. It was certainly the impression I got.”

“Oliver, take Cyrus and Dillon inside and check those cuts. We don’t want anything festering,” Oliver was a useful team member; he often acted as their medic, patching up any wounds they may sustain.

“I should check you out, too,” Oliver suggested.

“I’m fine my armour took the brunt of it,” he said, looking at the girl. She was a pretty little thing; her hair was long, a mass of red silk curls she wore tied back in a ponytail. Her skin was fair but lightly tanned. Her eyes were shut now, but when they had been open, they were a magnificent light, almost silver colour. She was beautiful and dangerous, an interesting and unusual combination.

“What do we do with her?” Tanner asked, standing beside Gabriel.

“Get the rope. We’re going to tie her up.”

“Why don’t we just shoot her and be done with it?” Monroe suggested.

“There may be others. We may need her as a bargaining chip,” Gabriel looked over at the dog lying by the fence, whimpering. He’d hurt it. Gabriel felt a little guilty; the poor thing had just been defending its master. “Monroe, go check on that mutt and see if it’s going to survive.”

“You have got to be kidding me?”

“Go,” Gabriel ordered. “If it’s going to live, then tie that thing to the fence. I don’t want it loose,” as Monroe wandered over to the check on the dog, Tanner went inside to find rope; Gabriel took the chain in one hand and lifted the unconscious woman over his shoulder. He carried both inside, dropping the chain by the door. He dropped her onto one of the couches and pulled off her cloak, tossing it aside. She was heavily armed. In combination with the barbed chain whip, she carried she had a sawed-off shotgun strapped to her thigh, two Glocks, a huge hunting knife, the rifle Dillon had taken from her, ST grenades and extra rounds in the pockets of her cloak.

He removed the satchel she had been carrying and handed it to Tanner, who now held a rope in his hand. She was wearing body armour, studded leather chest pieces, tall black leather boots that could also act as shin guards. Around her forearms, she wore studded leather forearm guards. Everything was strapped snugly. Beneath her armour, he saw faded jeans and a white long-sleeved shirt, nothing heavy, a thin piece of cotton.

Gabriel removed her armour and lifted her up once more. Tanner pulled out a chair from the table. Gabriel held her in the chair while Tanner tied her to it, making sure the bonds were tight. Once she was secure, Gabriel picked up her satchel and rummaged through it.

“Oh my god,” he said with a smile as he removed one of the nine bottles he found within. “We got booze… real booze,” he broke the seal and took off the lid to smell it. It smelled great. They had food, they had water, they had shelter and now booze; it was a good night.

Oliver patched the guys up with some ointments they bought in one of the towns they passed. Once all was well, they sat down to a meal and a drink, splitting two bottles of scotch between them. While the boys were talking, Gabriel was silently watching the woman, wondering if she would wake or not. It was possible she had a brain hemorrhage. She hit her head rather hard; it was possible her skull was filling with blood at that moment.

Gabriel wasn’t one for hurting women, but when that woman was threatening his life or the life of his men, he’d be the first to pull the trigger. He would have shot her too if he had been sure he wouldn’t have hit Dillon. Perhaps after her nap, she could be reasoned with. If not, he could always shoot her later.

“Why you so quiet?” Monroe asked. Monroe was seated right next to Gabriel on the couch. His gaze followed Gabriel’s, and he smiled. “She’s pretty when she’s not kicking our ass. Maybe we could have a little fun with her?” He said suggestively. “She doesn’t even have to be awake.”

Gabriel glared at Monroe for even suggesting it. “We have rules; we don’t rape women.”

“Then I say we sell her,” Cyrus suggested, “look at her, you have any idea how much we could get for a woman like her?”

“We’re not going to sell her either. We’re not slave traders.”

“We kill people for money, but this is where you draw the line?” Cyrus complained.

Gabriel’s mother had been a slave in a brothel. He had never known his father. He had been born into slavery, spent his youth cleaning up after drunks and johns until he was older than he started throwing out drunks and johns that were beating on the women. The day he was bigger than his master was the day of his emancipation. The master had just finished raping and beating Gabriel’s mother, and Gabriel had had enough. He beat his master to death that night, and then he ran. He got into mercenary work visiting his mother often until the day a john killed her. He wouldn’t force anyone into that life. He knew what it was like.

“We’re not going to sell her. That’s final,” he said, looking back at her. He wondered what she was capable of; after all, she put up a hell of a fight for someone surrounded and outnumbered. If Dillon was right and she was alone, perhaps she would consider an alternative to death. Only time would tell. She had to wake up first.