Page 60 of Sins of the Fathers
“I will,” Dawson promised.Or die trying.
“Then let’s get going,” Denny said. “Time’s a’ wastin’.”
They piled into Denny’s truck. It had room for all four, plus Grady on the return trip. Given where they were headed, neither the Mustang nor Gibson’s Corvette could handle the mud and poor roads.
Denny drove, with Dawson riding shotgun and the two agents in the back. They’d mobilized quickly once the decision was made. Denny gathered items for spells and dealing with the fae, while the others selected weapons and protections. Denny seemed confident about dealing with the faeries, and Dawson wondered what his uncle knew that he wasn’t sharing.
Any other time, Dawson would have asked. Now, his worry for Grady stifled his curiosity.
None of the other kidnap victims have been found alive. Have I already lost him? Is this a “retrieval” instead of a “search and rescue”?
Just the thought that Grady might be dead made Dawson’s chest ache, robbing him of breath.I wasted four years away in the Army. We could have had that time together. I want to have a lifetime together, grow old and retire and go fishing and watch sunsets.
He choked back tears and focused on shifting grief into fury.This fucking witch has cost our family everything—Mom and Dad, Uncle Aaron, Frank, and Rebecca. Almost got Knox. I will not let her have Gray.
And if I’m too late…I will burn her and her accomplices to ash.
“Don’t borrow trouble,” Denny said quietly, without taking his eyes off the road. “We won’t know until we get there.”
Dawson nodded silently, staring at the downpour through the windshield. The wind swayed the trees, and lightning split the clouds. Thunder echoed, far too close for comfort.
They had narrowed their targets before leaving Denny’s house. Satellite photos revealed only a couple of houses on the mountain that Grady indicated had bad mojo. Not surprising if others had even the slightest sense of the malicious energy.
Two of the properties were located low on the mountain and looked too large, modern, and upscale to be right. The third matched the cabin from Dawson’s vision—an old cabin halfway to the peak. It didn’t photograph well, and Dawson chalked that up to magic.We only get one shot. I hope to hell we’re right.
Their rain slickers and boots offered limited protection in the storm. Denny parked a mile from the cabin, and they climbed out of the truck. Tucker and Denny brought duffels full of equipment, and they all carried enough weapons to launch a small war.
A few minutes before midnight. Are we too late?
Wind and rain had turned the ground to mud. A torrent of water poured down a swale beside the dirt road. Dawson wondered what sentries might be guarding the cabin. In the distance, he saw a dim light from the windows.
Hang on, Gray. We’re coming.
“This place stinks of blood magic,” Gibson murmured, a reminder that the TBSI agent was also a witch.
Dawson caught a glimpse of a gray figure among the trees, and he gasped. When the ghostly image turned toward him, he could see the face clearly. “Grady?” Shock nearly took him to his knees. Dawson’s thoughts went blank with grief.He’s dead. We’re too late.
Gibson’s hand closed on his shoulder. “That’s not Grady. It’s not even a ghost. It’s a fetch.” Gibson made a dismissive gesture, and the apparition vanished. “This is why it’s handy to have a necromancer around.”
“But fetches are death omens,” Dawson said, barely able to breathe. The cold rain numbed his body, but nothing could dull the pain in his heart.
“Or they’re sent by someone with power who wanted a distraction,” Gibson said grimly. “They’re a type of fae. I can see the ghosts that are gathered here. Grady isn’t one of them.”
Dawson felt dizzy with relief and tried to catch his breath. Denny stopped and flung out an arm to stop the others.
“Step carefully—faerie ring,” he growled and pointed to the mushroom circle.
A shot rang out, hitting a tree behind Denny. Dawson and the others ducked and scrambled to avoid presenting clear targets.
“Federal agents! Put down your weapons. We will shoot to kill,” Gibson shouted into the darkness.
Another shot fired, and Tucker shot back. The gunman fell from the cabin porch as four others loosed a barrage of bullets. All around them, the wind drove the rain hard enough to sting, lightning streaked across the sky, and thunder boomed far too close. One jagged streak hit a tree in the distance with a resounding crash. The air smelled of ozone and wood smoke.
Dawson heard a bullet whizz by and felt a tug on the material of his jacket, only to realize that the new hole in the fabric indicated a near miss.
“Cover me,” Denny told him, falling back into the shadows to prepare the ritual items he’d brought in his pack.
Dawson shifted to return fire and shield his uncle. Gibson and Tucker kept up a steady volley, and the number of shooters dwindled until the night went silent.
