Kane- Tooth & Nail Read online

  Once this was over, he would notify Fort Drum that one of their soldiers was doctoring the inventory and making money on the side selling military hardware to the bad guys. Straight to the brig, and see you in fifteen years.

  He was setting the lids back in place when someone snarled, “Who the hell are you?”

  Kane still had the knife in his fist, but he kept his hands well out to the side in a surrender stance as he slowly turned around. “Listen,” he said. “I’m not stealing anything.”

  “Didn’t ask you if you’re stealing shit,” the man retorted. “Asked who the hell you are.”

  Now facing the guard, Kane saw a man of average size and build, hair hidden beneath a battered Boston Red Sox baseball cap. An unkempt beard that looked rough enough to burnish copper shrouded his vaguely vulpine features. His brown eyes narrowed to suspicious slits as he glared at Kane. In his hands, he held an M-4 carbine, no doubt obtained from one of the crates. Kane didn’t see any ammunition lying around, but it was still a safe bet the rifle was loaded.

  It was also pointed right at him.

  Kane’s mind raced through his options at turbocharged speed. It took him less than two seconds to decide to bluff his way out of this.

  He injected cold authority into his voice as he rasped, “They call me Reaper. I work for Nazareno.” He hoped dropping the kingpin’s name would buy him some play. “You want to tell me why you weren’t watching the guns? Give me a good explanation, and maybe I won’t have your eyeballs burned out of your skull with a blowtorch.”

  The mention of Nazareno clearly struck a chord with the sentry. He swallowed hard but didn’t lower the rifle. “I was taking a shit,” he said defensively. Then his voice hardened. “And speaking of shit, I think you’re full of it.”

  “Yeah? What makes you say that?”

  “Nazareno doesn’t know about these guns.”

  Kane’s lips peeled back from his teeth in a wolfish grin. “He does now. That’s why I’m here. Dunkirk is cutting Nazareno in on the deal, and my boss sent me here to check things out.”

  The sentry seemed unsure. Kane knew the story had a whiff of bullshit, but the sentry no doubt knew that if it turned out to not be bullshit and he actually shot one of Nazareno’s enforcers, he would suffer an agonizing death that might very well include swallowing his own burnt intestines.

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth?” the sentry asked.

  Kane sighed as if dealing with a dimwitted child. “How do you think I knew about the bear trap inside the door?”

  “Could be you just got lucky.”

  “Or maybe Dunkirk told me about it so I wouldn’t step on the damn thing.”

  “Maybe,” the sentry allowed. But he still kept the M-4 leveled.

  Kane cursed silently. The bluff had been worth a shot, but it clearly wasn’t working. Time to try something else.

  There was no way to draw the Desert Eagle before the sentry drilled holes in him. That left the knife. The infamous Twenty-one Foot Rule theorized that an attacker wielding a blade could cross twenty-one feet of ground before a gunman could draw and fire their weapon. Kane estimated that he and the sentry were just about that far apart. Problem was, the sentry didn’t need to draw a gun. He already had one out, ready to rock. No way could Kane close the gap before the M-4 started popping off rounds.

  But maybe the knife could…

  He immediately turned the thought into violent action.

  Exploding into motion, he whipped his arm forward. The blade sailed across the shack in a tumbling blur of metal.

  The millisecond he felt the knife leave his hand, he threw himself to the side.

  The sentry got off a single shot that sizzled through the space Kane had just vacated and punched a hole in the wall. Then he started yowling in pain.

  Kane was not an expert blade thrower. He practiced enough to be proficient but not enough to be precise, and the Ka-Bar was not designed to be a throwing knife. He had aimed for the sentry’s throat, hoping to split his Adam’s apple.

  Instead, the knifepoint struck the man high on his cheek, cutting through the skin to skid off the facial bone beneath. Deflected, the blade sliced open the sentry’s ear, cleaving through the cartilage. He didn’t drop the M-4, but he let go of it with his left hand so he could slap a palm over the bloody injury.

  Having dodged a literal bullet, Kane reached for his Desert Eagle, but the holster hung beneath his jacket, making a fast draw impossible. The sentry recovered from the shock of his wound quicker than anticipated and swung the M4 toward him with one hand.

  Kane abandoned his hope of getting the Desert Eagle out in time and instead rushed forward. He had covered half the distance when he saw the sentry’s finger tighten on the trigger. One-handed, it would be a wild shot, but at a distance of only a dozen feet, Kane wasn’t taking any chances.

  He launched himself into a power-slide that carried him beneath the muzzle of the rifle as it spat flame. He sensed rather than felt the superheated air above his back as the bullet scorched past.

  Then he crashed into the sentry’s knees like a defensive lineman sacking a hesitant quarterback. The man tumbled down and the carbine clattered from his grasp, but as he fell, the sentry managed to slam an elbow directly into Kane’s spine.

  Pain flared through his system, not permanently crippling, but momentarily debilitating. Seizing his advantage, the sentry brought up his knee and gave Kane a shot in the ribs. Nothing cracked, but his pain levels spiked even higher.

  Growling like a wounded, angry animal, Kane reached over his shoulder. His hand knocked off the man’s baseball cap and grabbed a fistful of greasy hair. Heaving like a bucking bronco and pulling the sentry’s hair at the same time, he managed to throw him off. The sentry crash-landed just outside the door.

  Both men scrambled to their feet. At six-foot-four, Kane towered over the sentry by several inches, and he saw the fear in the man’s eyes as he realized he was woefully outclassed.

  Still, that didn’t stop him from swinging as Kane stalked forward. The warrior batted aside the blows and grabbed the sentry’s jacket with his left hand. As he pulled him close, dragging him back inside the shack, he slammed a brutal punch into the sentry’s midsection. He followed up with a thundering strike to the jaw that sent the man tumbling sideways.

  Kane let go of the jacket as the sentry tripped over the fallen M4 carbine. He tried to regain his balance, but it was no use. At the last possible second, the man saw what was about to happen and let out a strangled “NOOOO!” that cut off abruptly as he fell face-first into the bear trap.

  His nose flattened against the paddle and triggered the powerful spring. The metal jaws snapped shut. The serrated steel teeth chopped through his skull just behind the ears, shearing off the back of his head like a machete taking off the top of a coconut.

  Kane picked up the M4 as the sentry twitched spastically, but there was no need for a mercy shot. The body still shuddered as bioelectrical impulses short-circuited, but with half the man’s head missing, there was no doubt he was dead.

  Kane retrieved his knife. There wasn’t much blood on the blade since the ear isn’t the juiciest appendage, but what little there was, he wiped off on the dead man’s jacket before sliding it back into its sheath.

  He slung the M4 across his back, then bent over to free the sentry’s corpse from the trap. He dragged it out into the sunlight, not really caring whether he left any DNA evidence on the body. This was a lawless town, and he seriously doubted there would be an investigation into the man’s death.

  Out of the shadows of the shack and in the full light of day, the lethal wound was even more gruesome. Not that Kane cared; he had seen enough gore to last a lifetime.

  He turned away from the body to study the shed. He wanted to burn the damn thing down, but he didn’t want to risk a forest fire. He would come back after he had taken down Sheriff Dunkirk and freed Vesper Lake from the crushing vice grip of the cartel.

 
Yeah, he decided, after he brought blood and thunder to the cartel presence in town and cleaned out the corruption rooted there, then he would worry about destroying the guns.

  He closed the door and secured the padlock.

  Something growled behind him.

  It was a low, rumbling sound, and Kane felt some primal alarm awaken deep in his bones. The combat adrenalin, not yet fully evaporated from his blood, was now replaced by adrenalized fear. It chilled his veins like arctic ice.

  The urge for flight was strong, but Kane’s willpower was stronger. He leashed his natural instincts and instead turned to face the threat.

  A huge grizzly bear stood less than twenty yards away.

  On all fours, the grizzly measured at least five feet at the shoulder, and Kane put its weight somewhere north of 1,200 pounds. The huge head was lowered, now near the ground and angled forward aggressively. The bear’s mouth hung open, its menacing growls flowing over teeth that were at least two and a half inches long. Drool slobbered from the muzzle as the black nose twitched, scenting the air, filling its nostrils with the scent of fresh-spilled human blood. Strings of saliva stretched toward the ground like thick spiderwebs as the bear’s salivary glands kicked into overdrive.

  Kane swallowed hard, knowing he was face to face with Gasper, the man-eating grizzly.

  The bear huffed, then reared up on his hind legs as if to display his dominance over the human he now faced. Even with his heart pounding, Kane noted the majesty of the beast, which easily towered ten feet high.

  The grizzly raised its snout toward the sky and let out a challenging roar, clacking its jaws together in a warning. The right paw swiped at the air like boxer feinting a jab. He glimpsed the wicked, curved, four-inch claws that would shred him to confetti and rip out his spine in seconds flat if the bear decided to attack.

  Kane’s hand crept toward the Desert Eagle. No way in hell would he get it out in time to stop Gasper’s charge if that was what the grizzly decided to do, but maybe he would be able to bring it into play as the beast took him to the ground. Better to die fighting than just lie there and get ripped apart.

  The bear dropped back down on all fours and shuffled forward a few steps, growling ominously once again. It stared at Kane with the hard eyes of a predator, challenging, threatening, and domineering. It projected brute strength in that killer’s gaze.

  Kane knew the conventional wisdom about not looking a wild beast in the eye, but with his back to the wall and nowhere to run, he had no other play.

  He locked stares with the grizzly, showing no fear and letting the man-eater know that this man would not be backing down. Then, well aware there was a razor-thin line between balls and stupidity, he did the exact opposite of what the bear would expect him to do.

  He walked right at the beast.

  Gasper lifted his head and let out a challenging roar but made no move to charge. The violence in the grizzly’s black eyes was now joined by curiosity as he stared at the human moving toward him when he should have been running away.

  With slow, deliberate movements, eyes deadlocked with the bear’s, Kane stepped to the sentry’s corpse. He crouched, never breaking the stare-down, and slid his hands beneath the body. Next he stood up, levering with his arms, and rolled the dead man toward Gasper. Then he stepped back to signal to the grizzly that the body was an offering. This was mine, the gesture was intended to say. But now I give it to you.

  Kane halted when he felt his back once again pressed against the wall of the shed. His hand delved beneath his jacket to grip the Desert Eagle, but he fervently hoped he wouldn’t need it. If it came down to that, he was pretty much screwed. With a whole lot of luck, he might be able to kill the bear, but not before Gasper extracted his pound—or several pounds—of flesh with those giant claws.

  Kane kept the desperation and fear that were slithering through his guts on a short leash, doing his damnedest to make sure the grizzly couldn’t smell them.

  The bear, his head low and swinging from side to side like an executioner’s pendulum while he made snort-snuffle noises with his nose, stepped forward with cautious but purposeful strides, flattening the blueberry bushes beneath his massive paws. The dark eyes switched from Kane to the corpse and back again as his brain, less than a third of the size of a human’s, tried to decipher the man’s intentions.

  The grizzly took his time crossing the clearing, plenty long enough for Kane to intimately familiarize himself with the pounding rhythm of his heart slamming inside his chest. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but he gritted his teeth and stood his ground.

  Gasper nudged the corpse as if to confirm the man was dead, then looked at Kane again.

  Kane stuck to his plan of staring the beast square in the eye. Wasn’t like he could do anything else anyway. Only ten feet separated him and the grizzly now. If Gasper lunged, Kane wouldn’t have time to get his gun out before the bear ripped his face off.

  The grizzly gave the corpse a sniff, then looked at Kane again.

  “Go on,” the warrior muttered under his breath. “Just take it.”

  The bear’s head snapped up at the sound of Kane’s voice, and he gave the man another long, hard, black-eyed stare.

  Kane knew enough about wild animal behavior to guess that the grizzly was probably trying to decide whether he needed to kill the human. Gasper had clearly identified that this was Kane’s kill, and in the wild, if you wanted to take another alpha predator’s prey away from him, you typically had to kill him. The fact that Kane was voluntarily offering him this kill probably confused the bear.

  After what seemed like an eternity but was probably only a minute or so, the grizzly decided it didn’t need to tangle with Kane in order to get a meal. He lowered its head, opened his jaws wide, and sank his teeth into the back of the dead man’s neck. He gave Kane one warning growl as if to say, “Don’t mess with me right now, man,” then shook the body fiercely, whipping it back and forth, snapping the vertebrae to make sure the sentry was really dead.

  Satisfied the sentry wasn’t just playing possum, the bear dragged the body into the woods. The corpse would be dinner, but Gasper clearly preferred a private meal.

  Relief flooded through his hyper-adrenalized system as Kane watched the grizzly go. A little smile touched his lips as the beast vanished into the woods with his prize. “Bon appetit, buddy.”

  He waited ten minutes before he slipped off the knoll and circled wide to begin the journey back the way he had come.

  Back to the cabin.

  Back to Luna.

  Chapter Eight

  Dribble Creek Camp

  Luna didn’t get out of bed until noon. The combination of staying up late, the passionate sex, and the overall feeling of peace and comfort she felt in Kane’s presence despite his clearly troubled spirit worked to lull her back into a deep sleep after he left. Outside, the leaves rustled and the birds sang the squirrels chattered, but inside the cabin, there was only the gentle breathing of a contented soul at rest. If she had helped Kane exorcise some of his demons last night, he had returned the favor, and he didn’t even know it.

  Hunger finally pulled her out from under the covers. She got dressed and then, stomach rumbling, she scrounged for breakfast—or was it lunch?—and found some eggs in a cooler, along with a package of sliced ham.

  A loaf of bread sealed the deal, and one hot cast iron skillet later, she had whipped herself up a breakfast sandwich. She would have liked to melt some cheese over the top, but it looked like Kane hadn’t bothered picking any up at Baldy’s. Maybe she could go back into town later and remedy that. She would just have to dodge the sheriff’s boys. Better yet, maybe Kane would accompany her, and if Nick or Paul showed up, he could kick the crap out of them all over again.

  She took the sandwich outside and ate on the deck, washing it down with a Coke. It was a little cool despite the sun, but it helped wake her up. Plus, she found the earthy aromas of the forest soothing.

  She stared at the moun
tains and chewed slowly, her thoughts turning inward and plunging below the surface into a deeper—and at times darker—place than the shallow comfort zone where most people chose to live out their lives. She considered herself a wild and free spirit, but she also fancied herself something of a philosopher. Not the structured theories of Freud or Jung or Nietzsche, but a philosophy of her own creation. When it came to deep thinking, as in all aspects of her life, she played by her own rules.

  For example, most people dismissed love at first sight as nothing more than lust, but she believed—knew—you could fall in love with a total stranger. That was why she had approached Kane last night at the bar. She had taken just one look at him and felt something deep inside her stir, something that went beyond physical attraction. At that moment, perhaps sensing his emotional wounds, she had felt something for him and had acted on it.

  For most people, sex was little more than animalistic coupling. They called it passion or lovemaking or intimacy, but in reality, it was rarely more than the pursuit of carnal satisfaction. Climax was the goal, orgasm the destination, physical release the desired outcome. Luna knew there was nothing wrong with that, but she also knew it paled in comparison to the mating of two souls.

  She had believed that all of her adult life, but never experienced it…until last night. Kane had bared his soul to her. Let her glimpse his wounds, his scars, his doubts and darkness and demons. Her soul had responded by letting down its guard. As their bodies joined, so did their broken spirits, and in the consummation, they each found healing.

  Lost in his own brokenness, Kane probably didn’t know that he had healed her every bit as much as she had healed him. Maybe when he got back, she would tell him about her past, about the abuse, about the horrors of her childhood that had taught her to stand up to men with fire and defiance. Maybe she would tell him she had killed her father with a ceremonial tomahawk when she was seventeen because she refused to suffer even one more violation at his sick, perverted hands. Maybe she would even tell him about burying her father’s body in these very woods.