Cabin 1 Read online

  Not all jobs were sexy Senator’s daughters, celebrities, or presidential detail. We helped our own; always had.

  “Where’s Gunner?”

  “He met with the family we just booked in. They’re settled. He was in the shower when I left.”

  Gunner, a few years older than Ax and I, and second in line to the Steele throne, had taken the loss the hardest. Bought a new arsenal of guns, added an extra hour a day to his already two hour workout regimen, worked day and night to forget, and spent the remaining time at the range destroying targets, one after the other.

  Ax, on the other hand, would randomly disappear for hours at a time, sometimes days at a time, into the woods. A jug of water, a few MREs, a can of Deet, a KA-BAR… and a look in his eyes that suggested he was about to wrestle a grizzly bear. My bet was on Ax—every single time.

  We were all dealing with our Dad’s death in different ways and I couldn’t help but wonder when, or if, the grief would go away.

  Ax looked around the crowded bar as Willie Nelson started singing about Pancho and Lefty. “Crowded tonight.”

  We glanced around at the laugher, empty pitchers, at the carefree cowboys and cowgirls, blowing off steam after a hard day’s work. We watched as three ropes wound so tightly, each of us were about to pop.

  Explode.

  … And then I did.

  As Feen and Ax started discussing work, I habitually tuned them out and decided it was as good a time as ever to take that piss I’d been fighting off since arriving. As I edged away from the stool, my gaze shifted to the trio of Stetsons, then to the quick, side glance Suzie flittered in my direction—a split-second before one of the rednecks reached forward and grabbed her goddamn tit.

  ‘I saw red’ is an expression I’d heard a few times—it doesn’t fit. Not for me, anyway. For me it’s more of a flash, a blind rage that takes over, blurring everyone and anything that comes between me and my target.

  I lunged forward with tunnel vision as the world around me went silent. I grabbed the fucker’s forearm, twisted with one hand, and with the other, slammed his face into the wooden bar. The pop of his nose breaking echoed off the walls.

  His buddies didn’t like that very much.

  I did.

  The next few seconds were like most bar fights I’d been in—instant chaos. Good thing I thrived in chaos. The rednecks jumped up, sending their drinks on the floor and their barstools flying backward into the screams that had erupted through the bar. The biggest one locked eyes on me. A grin crossed my face as I released the titty grabber, once consumed with Suzie’s nipple, now consumed with the blood pouring out of his nose.

  I felt that tingle in my balls, that rush of excitement that I so badly craved every day. Just didn’t expect to find it in the form of a few drunk cowboys. Regardless, there we were, and I was so fucking ready.

  I missed a swing by a mere inch, and barreled into him. We caught the corner of a table, flipping it, along with its drinks, onto us. The table pinned my right side, allowing the cowboy to send a decent elbow into my ribs. Yowza. The blow of pain sent my adrenaline through the roof and I answered back with an uppercut to the jaw. We wrestled out from under the table—guy started clawing my skin like a damn girl. That pissed me off. He had a solid grip on my T-shirt, so I finagled myself out of that bear trap—God forbid he went for the leather jacket—and jumped to my feet.

  I waited.

  I waited for him to stand up to fight me like a man.

  Kicking a man when he was down was for pussies, and if there was one thing the Steele brothers weren’t, it’s pussies.

  Cowboy Joe jumped up, blood streaming out of his mouth from where I assumed I knocked out a tooth. I decided that new look would fit nicely with the can of Skoal in his back pocket.

  Someone bumped into me once, and again, and I realized all hell had broken loose in the bar. A good ol’ southern bar fight. Hell of a way to cap off the night.

  Cowboy lunged forward, and tried another swing. I ducked, and connected my cheekbone with his knee.

  Ouch.

  Fucker got me with a punch, then barreled into me with the force of a Mack truck. His arm wrapped around my neck and he attempted to pull me down to the ground where he felt like he had the advantage. Well, the floor was sticky—with God knew what—and then there’s my new jacket, so I decided at that moment that this thing was over.

  As he reared back to try for another blow, I sent my forehead into the center of his nose.

  The cowboy locked up like a plank and hit the ground.

  K—fucking—O.

  As I watched my unworthy opponent’s head bounce off the hardwood floor, the chaos around me started to register. About that time, a body flew past me, followed by Feen, who lunged into his opponent, who might as well have been a rag doll at that point, and continued his fistfight with the other cowboy. And Ax? He had the other one, Mr. Titty Grabber, straddled on the ground, pounding him over and over, reminding him never, ever to touch another woman without her blessing again.

  I was pretty sure no one in that bar would forget that lesson for a long while.

  Just then—

  Click.

  I froze as the all-too-familiar sound registered through the screams and shouts. No one else heard it, hell, no one else saw it. I did. I heard it, because I was trained to. I was very, very familiar with the sound of a bullet sliding into a chamber. I was also very aware that it was two inches from the back of my head.

  I raised my hands and turned around, and stared into the barrel of a Smith & Wesson. Now, I’m a secure enough man to admit it—my balls might’ve leapt into my throat. It wasn’t my first time with a gun in my face, but a first by a tweaked out drug runner who’d decided to show his buddies who was boss. Drugs took good ol’ fistfights to a whole new level. It was a totally different fight.

  Pupils dilated to the size of saucers, the tweaker incessantly licked his lips as his finger tightened around the trigger.

  Shit.

  I shifted to the balls of my feet ready to attack.

  Turned out, I didn’t need to.

  Gunner, hair still sopping wet from his shower, flew through the air like a leopard attacking its prey, barreling into the tweaker. The two tumbled to the ground as the gun flew into the air. I caught it by the hilt.

  The bar was quiet then, so eerily silent you could hear a pin drop—guns tended to have that effect on people. Everyone was on the ground… everyone except for four former Marines.

  I felt my brothers step behind me, felt the brick wall of intimidation, adrenaline, and sheer terror they brought at my back. Eyes turned to us, wide, scared. Shocked.

  I walked up to my brother, who’d just saved my life, and to the redneck who was about to take it.

  Moments before Gunner choked the tweaker out cold, I bent down with a grin the size of Texas, and whispered, “Nobody fucks with the Steele brothers.”

  3

  Gage

  The cool, crisp air whipped around me, mixed with dust and dried leaves as I barreled down the dirt road on my Harley. My leather jacket flapped at my sides as I glanced at the line of motorcycles behind me, the dust storm twirling under the full moon then fading into the dark mountains that surrounded us. Feen, then Ax, then Gunner, each on their blacked-out bikes. Each still buzzing from the bar fight—and from the three free shots after, courtesy of Suzie—and each ready to get the hell home and call it a night.

  The tilt of the moon reminded me it wasn’t even midnight yet, and I began counting how many more drinks I’d need to fall asleep. Which, to my surprise, was followed by a pang of guilt as Feen’s words echoed through my head.

  “Less booze, Gage.”

  I cranked the music—good ol’ classic rock—in an attempt to numb my thoughts. I wanted to forget, not worry about anything else. Not that night.

  I inhaled deeply, trying to calm my racing thoughts.

  It was fall in the Ozark Mountains. Even under the dim glow of the moon, vivid r
eds, yellows, and oranges stood out against the dark mountains. It was my favorite season, hands down. Nature was as part of my family as our beating hearts. Ice, wind, rain, or scorching heat, we were out in it. Loving every second of it. But this season was different.

  Very different.

  It was one year to the day we’d received the call that Dad had died of a massive heart attack on his way into work.

  That afternoon my brothers and I were on the first flights home.

  It felt like yesterday.

  God, I wanted to forget.

  I took another deep breath and shook my head, willing the memories, the conspiracy theories, the flashbacks to dissipate as the compound—our compound—came into view. A three-story, eight-thousand square-foot log cabin mansion nestled between soaring oak and pine trees atop one of the tallest mountains in the area, sparkling with lights. Steele Shadows Security was founded by our Dad, six years before he died. A retirement plan, he called it. Something to do once he retired from the NSA—the National Security Agency. Our father, Duke Steele, proudly served his country, in the form of working fifteen hour days his entire life. It had paid off. He’d worked his way up, all the way to executive director of the organization.

  Duke was a no-bullshit, tell-it-like-it-is kind of leader. He got the job done. Always had.

  He was a good man. A better father.

  As I climbed the paved driveway lined with antique lampposts, I gazed at the massive structure at the top of the hill. The crown jewel of the compound, as we’d begun calling it shortly after we inherited it, that was comprised of the main house which included a gym, basketball court, indoor and outdoor pool, a theater room, and three elevators. Speckled around the house were an outdoor shooting range, indoor shooting range, an athletic complex with boxing rings, a handful of storage facilities, horse stables, and perhaps most importantly, three cabins to house clients who needed extra protection. Dad came from money—a lot of money—then amassed a fortune himself throughout his career. It wasn’t until after he died that I realized how much money we had. The kicker of it was that I’d give every penny—every fucking penny—just to spend another day with him.

  But, we couldn’t. We had to get used to that.

  Like a schoolhouse for wayward boys, my brothers and I lived in the main house, each with our own wing. Why? Because none of us had families of our own to take care of. Because our stepmom needed us.

  Why? Because we all needed each other.

  Then, anyway.

  I parked in my designated stall of our six-car garage, as the boys rolled in beside me like roaring thunder through the night. A little rough around the edges with a few swollen eyes and busted lips, we walked into the house to the low melody of a piano. A haunting tune the color of black smoke.

  “Dammit,” shaking his head, Feen muttered under his breath.

  “How was she when you left?” I asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Fine, as in…?”

  “Fine as in sitting on the deck with a bottle of wine.”

  “Did you actually go outside and check on her?” Unable to hide my accusatory tone, I yanked a beer from the fridge.

  “No.” He narrowed his eyes and looked me over. “Just like you didn’t, either.”

  “Grab me a Shiner, will ya?” Ax nodded to the fridge. I tossed one to him as he continued, “She was crying.”

  “Crying?”

  “Yes, the shedding of tears in response to an emotional state.”

  We wrinkled our noses as if the thought was so foreign we couldn’t bare it.

  “How do you know this?”

  “Box of tissues next to the wine. Here.” Ax tossed his beer to Gunner, then I tossed him another.

  We popped the tops and sipped as we gazed out of the rounded kitchen doorway into the main entryway, deciding how to best approach an emotional woman grieving over the death of her husband. I, well, all of my brothers for that matter, prided ourselves for being able to tackle any situation. A crying woman? No way. We were known around town as four bull-headed, callous, cold-hearted sons of bitches. I’m assuming spoiled would be thrown in there too, if whoever said it didn’t mind their teeth getting knocked out. We were known as American mercenaries. Trained to never show emotions, suck it up, and move on. We took care of our own by agreeing to sacrifice our lives to save theirs. Not by stroking their hair and listening to them cry it out. No we were stone cold, by all counts. Not here-you-can-cry-on-my-shoulder, let-me-help-you-through-it, would-you-like-a-tissue kind of guys. I knew women. Hell yeah, I knew women. Just not how to handle the enigma that was their crazy rollercoaster of emotions.

  Especially once a month.

  Christ.

  There we were, standing in the kitchen like a bunch of numb nuts trying to figure out how to console Dallas Steele, or perhaps willing someone else to do it.

  Reading my thoughts, Ax cocked his head. “Where’s Celeste?”

  Gunner nodded enthusiastically—Yeah, let her handle this shit.

  I shrugged. “Don’t know. Been here as long as you have.”

  Ax rolled his eyes and swigged his beer.

  Well, fuck.

  “Come on guys.” Maybe it was the kick in the ass from Feen earlier, but I led the way into the entryway where in the far corner, under the shade of the grand double staircase sat Dallas, eyes closed, fingertips flying over keys as white as the silk house dress that covered her pale skin. As if sensing us, her blue eyes drifted open, rimmed red above dark circles. Her long blonde hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, with loose strands falling over her slender shoulders. Dallas Steele was forty-seven years old but looked half her age. A timeless, stunning beauty. That wasn’t why Dad had fallen in love with her. Dallas was a child prodigy, a classically trained pianist by the age of twelve, and a talented painter, who graduated from Harvard with a double degree in computer science and politics. That wasn’t what sealed the deal for Dad, either. It was her ability to hit a bullseye fifty yards away that did him in. Well, that and the fact that the woman had almost as much money as he did, and he didn’t have to worry about her taking his. Dallas was a confident southern woman who never left the house without her nails painted and hair curled. She was a pistol, and had been as good of a stand-in for a mom that anyone could ask for.

  Her eyes met mine and the house went silent.

  A frown pulled her face—as much as it could around the Botox, anyway.

  “What the hell happened to you guys?” Add intuitive to the list. Dallas pushed away from the piano and crossed the foyer, her eyes fading from grief to concern.

  At least, I thought that’s what that was.

  Ax tipped up his beer. “Gage here can’t handle his women.”

  “Gage here can’t handle a man disrespecting any woman.” I corrected him.

  “What happened?” She crossed her arms over her chest, her tone sharp as usual.

  “Guy got a little too touchy with the bartender.”

  Dallas’s perfectly sculpted eyebrow cocked as she turned to Feen for verification. After a quick nod, she turned back to me.

  “Good for you, then. Hope you taught him a lesson. Now, let’s get some ice for that nasty baseball forming on your cheek.”

  “Nasty baseball? They have that on pay-per-view?”

  She ignored my weak attempt at a quip and scanned the rest of her stepsons with an assessing eye. “All of you, follow me. Now.”

  We fell in line, as most did when Dallas demanded anything, and made our way back into the kitchen. After retrieving ice packs, antibiotic cream, and bandages she knew we’d throw away the moment she left the room, Dallas slapped a bottle of whiskey on the kitchen table and began tending our wounds.

  “Aside from the fight, how are you boys doing?”

  Boys—our titles since she’d married Dad. I sank into a chair.

  Her question was met with silence, which was met with slitted eyes and pursed lips.

  “I know you boys don’t tal
k about your feelings but…” she blew out an exasperated breath. “We’re all we’ve got now, and I want you to know that you can talk about things. Anything. You lost your dad, I lost my husband. We’re in this together. Shit happens, life happens, and we make it through, and—”

  “Except shit didn’t happen, Dallas.” Feen’s voice cut her words like a knife.

  “Feen, come on…” Ax muttered in desperation to stop the onslaught of conspiracy theories that was surely to follow. It was not the time. Hell, it never was.

  “Come on, what?” Feen snapped back. “Come on and accept the fact that dad was murdered?”

  “Jesus, Phoenix.” I stood, recognizing the pitch, the heat of the words, spiced up by the three farewell shots we’d had at Frank’s.

  “Let him speak.” Dallas demanded.

  “Everyone in this room knows Dad didn’t die of a heart attack.” Feen glowered at each of us, daring us to challenge him.

  I grabbed the whiskey bottle and chugged three good gulps, then handed it to Ax. He did the same, as did Gunner.

  Feen continued, “Dad was murdered. Shit didn’t just happen. Someone killed him.”

  In her ever-calm voice, Dallas responded coolly, “The medical examiner said it was clear that Duke died of a heart attack. There wasn’t a question.”

  “Exactly!” Feen slammed his beer onto the counter with such force I was shocked the thing didn’t shatter. “Exactly. There wasn’t a question. No one asked a single goddamn question. There was no investigation, nothing.”

  My skin started crawling. I shifted my weight. We’d all thought the same thing and spoke about it on a few drunken nights. Other than that, tucked it under the rug with the rest of our feelings. The story, as we understood it, was that Dad suffered a heart attack, drove off a steep cliff, rolled twelve times when his car caught fire. He was pulled from the wreckage by the trucker who was behind him, ten minutes later. Dad was burned so badly he was unrecognizable. The coroner noted smoke inhalation in his lungs which meant he didn’t die instantly. The man suffered until he took his last breath.