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  CASSIDY

  IN THE COMPANY OF SNIPERS

  Book 10

  IRISH WINTERS

  COPYRIGHT

  CASSIDY; In the Company of Snipers, 10

  Copyright ©2016 by Irish Winters

  All rights reserved

  First Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, dialogues, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Cover design and author photo by Kelli Ann Morgan,

  http://www.inspirecreativeservices.com

  Interior book design by Bob Houston eBook Formatting

  Editor: Lauren McKellar, McStellar editing,

  http://mcstellarediting.blogspot.com

  Editor: Katie Johnson, [email protected]

  ISBN Paperback: 978-1-942895-20-6

  ISBN eBook: 978-1-942895-19-0

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016930784

  Irish Winter’s author websites are: http://www.irishwinters.com

  and irishwinters.blogspot.com

  DEDICATION

  To Army Rangers everywhere

  Rangers Lead the Way

  IN THE COMPANY OF SNIPERS

  This multi-book series revolves around ex-Marine scout sniper, Alex Stewart, and his covert surveillance company, The TEAM, home-based out of Alexandria, Virginia. An obsessive patriot and workaholic, he created the company to give ex-military snipers like him a chance and a decent job.

  In the Company of Snipers is a collection of love stories. Book 1, ALEX, reveals how The TEAM came to be, as well as how Alex and Kelsey met, fell in love and fought all odds to stay together. Each of the following books is a complete romance in itself where, in the course of an active TEAM operation, one agent will come face to face with his or her demons. They’re all patriots and warriors, dealing with what they’ve lived through or the mistakes they’ve made.

  By the end of the telling, it is my hope that you, my reader, will come to realize along with my heroes that...

  Love changes everything.

  Reviews for the series

  In the Company of Snipers

  ALEX, Book 1

  “These characters were so well written at times I felt like I was feeling the love, the loss, and the triumph right along with them.” Amazeballs Book Addicts

  MARK, Book 2

  “Irish Winters has outdone her first book, Alex!” My Secret Book Spot

  ZACK, Book 3

  “This is my first book by Irish Winters and I have to say I'm sold!” ThePleasureofReadingToday.

  “Fantastic. Around every corner it just keeps getting more intense.” Susan Sims

  HARLEY, Book 4

  “I have been so anxious to read Harley's book. He is one of the sweetest male heroes that I have come across in a long time.” ReadsAllTheBooks

  CONNOR, Book 5

  “Thrilling, suspenseful, heartbreaking and tender - you will not want to put this book down once you start.” Jen M.

  RORY, Book 6

  “WOW! Best one yet. From tears to smiles she had me right at the beginning.” Toni Harper

  TAYLOR, Book 7

  “Love this series and Irish Winters has become one of my favorite authors.” T. Beam

  GABE, Book 8

  “Ms. Winters gets better and better with every book in this series! This is action, adventure and romance at its finest!” LJ Vickery

  MAVERICK, Book 9

  “I LOVE Maverick!!! This story hit it out of the park for me. I didn't think anything would beat Harley’s book but Irish did it with Maverick. Grab a box of tissues, comfortable chair and fall in love all over again!!!!” Book geek

  “I find that I have to let everyone know this is one of the best series I have ever read!!!!” Jake Raleigh

  “This book is one of the best in this series, if not the best. It had such heart and depth. The songs Maverick wrote were wonderful.” Mea

  “Irish Winters, you have ruined me with Maverick, ruined me in the very best of ways.” Malissa Coy

  Chapter One

  She woke. Face down. Palms to the floor. Too weak to lift her head.

  With one eye swollen shut and blood in her nose, Junior Agent Cassidy Dancer’s blurry view was limited to a murky stretch of damp wooden planks. The vibrations beneath her aching body soothed as much as they worried her. Her last coherent memory consisted of—stars.

  Where am I?

  The floor moved; that was why the vibrations. It creaked. It rattled. Despite her poor bloody nose, it smelled. Really. Really. Bad.

  I’m in the back of a... truck?

  A glimmer of light reflected off the floor beneath her face, blinding her one good eye. Her brain struggled to explain, at last providing the disgusting answer. Her nose twitched to confirm.

  Damn. I’m in a horse trailer behind a truck. In a puddle and it’s not water. Ewww.

  The well-muscled biceps that could pump quick sets of push-ups on a good day failed her. She willed her body to roll out of the mess. Not going to happen. The command center in her brain no longer controlled her limbs. Even her eyes felt crossed and unfocused—not the sharp vision of a highly-trained covert agent at all.

  Never one to cry or whine, she cursed her agent-in-charge instead. “Damn you, Rourke.”

  Her scratchy voice sounded too weak for the tough woman she was. Her priorities changed. The filthy mess beneath her head galled her last nerve. Its sickening odor, mingled with the coppery smell of her own blood, roiled her stomach. The thought and feel of cow shit in her hair, on her cheek, and seeping up into her ear, and... argh! Too much!

  She squeezed her eyes tight and promised, I will not throw up. I will not—

  Wrong. She threw up. Not her finest moment. Summoning every shred of willpower, she borrowed Rourke’s drill sergeant method of motivation. Damn you, Dancer. Get your ass up and move. Don’t just take it, you wuss. DO something about it.

  She couldn’t—just plain, damned couldn’t. Every muscle in her finely toned body had turned to lead. Still, she couldn’t lie there in all that filth, either.

  Where there was a will, there was a way, right?

  And Cassidy Dancer was very willful, right?

  And everyone on The TEAM knew that, right?

  For some deep, dark reason she didn’t understand, cussing helped during desperate times. “Son-of-a-bitch,” she ground out, her teeth clenched, her very hardheaded spirit on task. At last, she—flopped over.

  Damn. Never had doing so little reaped so much agony. Pain raced down her spine all the way to her toes. A whimper escaped. Tears filled her eyes and dripped down the sides of that hard head, but she was out of the puddle. Hers and Mister Ed’s. Yeah. Damned good.

  The truck changed directions. First, to the left, then, to the right. Not her. She had the mobility of concrete and intended to keep it that way.

  Calming her wretched nausea took precedence until the trailer jerked to an abrupt stop. Its rear gate clanked, screeched, and fell to the ground, filling her box of a world with blinding sunlight. Someone climbed aboard. Heavy footsteps shuffled, stopping within inches of her nose. She kept her wits and feigned the smarts of a corpse.

  “She alive?” a man asked.

  Another male voice from the rear of the trailer grunted in reply.<
br />
  Two guys. Easy. I can take ’em.

  “Git her outta there,” the shuffler ordered. Hands gripped her ankles, dragging her across the floor. Her resolved faltered at being so easily manhandled. Damn. Maybe, I can’t take ’em. Yet.

  “Git her in the barn ’fore Jerusha and the kids see her,” Shuffler muttered.

  One pair of hard hands under her armpits and another pair at her ankles made the transfer. They didn’t lift her high enough, though. They dragged her, as if she were heavy or something. Either they were vertically challenged, or just plain rude. Her butt bumped along on the ground.

  Like it or not, out of the light and into the dark she went. The barn door banged shut. She expected to be dropped, but Shuffler and Grunter took her farther into the building, away from the door. When they finally lowered her, they took extra care that her boots were next to each other, her arms at her side. Odd.

  “Make ’em tight. He likes the belts extra snug,” Shuffler ordered.

  Her panic kicked into overdrive. Belts?

  Cracking her one good eyelid, she spared a quick glance at her captors. Shuffler was the taller and thinner of the two. Receding hairline. Wispy goatee. Grunter owned no neck, just a sagging double chin. Both wore jeans and the standard gray shirt of the cult.

  They crouched over her, fastening a series of belts around her ankles, thighs, hips, plain leather belts like the kind Dr. Frankenstein used when he created his monster. The kind with buckles. The kind a victim couldn’t wiggle out of. Another scenario emerged in the recesses of this very dark place where no one could hear her.

  Torture.

  Thunder erupted in her chest.

  “That oughta do it.” Shuffler lifted to his feet. “She won’t be going anywhere.”

  Grunter didn’t reply.

  The sound of their footsteps receding brought a small measure of relief. Cassidy blinked both eyes open, despite resistance from the swollen one. She needed all of her faculties, every last one of them, to get out of this latest predicament she had gotten herself into.

  Lines of cheery sunshine streaked between the wooden planks of the barn walls. Dust hung in the air as if time stood still, but she knew better. Grunter and Shuffler would be back.

  Get up. Move!

  Her mental commands had no effect. She could wiggle her fingers, just not enough to reach the buckles and get the hell out of there. Butch Cassidy Dancer had done it this time. She was in deep with no one to blame but herself.

  Resigned that she wasn’t going anywhere very fast, she forced a deep breath to quiet her rattled nerves. The fragrance of freshly baled alfalfa settled over her as she revisited the morning’s miscalculation. She’d thought she was so smart, even smarter than Senior Agent Rourke O’Neill. He’d told her to stay put, but had she? No, she’d seen an opportunity and she’d taken it. Her hard-charging mindset usually paid off in dividends. Covert surveillance rewarded risk-takers and fast-thinkers.

  Not this time.

  She’d not seen what smacked the back of her head, damn it, but whatever it was, it brought enlightenment she’d literally not seen coming, either. But really? How could she have known two Melissas belonged to this deranged cult? How bizarre that both were recently widowed and independently wealthy? How freaking coincidental was that?

  Rourke’s warning joined the noise in her pounding brain. One of these days, your bullheaded ways are going to get you in trouble, Butch. The smart ass. How many times had she heard that before? Like a gazillion, maybe? Butch Cassidy, his nickname for the outlaw he claimed she was, the rebel who thought she knew everything. He wasn’t too far off base. Most times, she did.

  Cassidy tried to recall her smart remark back at him, no doubt her usual, ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever.’ But damn. There she was, bloodied, strapped to a board, and lucky she could breath. Rourke might’ve been right. Today might be the day she’d gotten herself into more trouble than she could handle.

  But then again...

  Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she sent a mental command to the only one in the world who could rescue her sorry butt. Get me the hell outta here, Rourke!

  “If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands!” Jerusha clapped a happy pantomime to the five-year-olds at her feet.

  Jude Cannon kept his eye on the stern woman dressed in a long gray dress and singing. The song sounded cheerful, but she didn’t fool him. Jerusha Gordon might look like a saint to those adoring other parents’ children in her care, but he knew better. Those children were only there because their parents had no choice in deciding who taught their kids. They were in the fields, forced to menial labor while their offspring were supposedly in gospel class. Yeah, right. The gospel Jerusha taught was as sick and twisted as she was. Everything brought forth from Lucien Cain, the self-proclaimed prophet of the Palma Christi Cult, was.

  Jude had been sent back to the compound for a sharpening stone for his scythe when he’d caught sight of Hank Crews and Greg Gleason dragging the unconscious woman out of the horse trailer and into the barn. Whoever she was, she had no business being inside the cult compound, not the way she was dressed. Her tan and khaki camouflage pants looked more military than sisterly. Definitely, not cult issue. If she’d planned to blend in with that get-up, she’d blown it. Big time. She wouldn’t last long, not once the prophet got hold of her.

  Not my problem.

  Jude forced his eyes away from the barn, more important things on his mind than some nosey woman who didn’t know when to mind her business. Like Judith, his missing fourteen-year-old daughter, the real reason he was in this lousy excuse for a church. Named after him, she’d been unreachable for months, her whereabouts as much a mystery as her mother, Rachel’s.

  After prying into his ex-wife’s life and questioning her neighbors, Jude finally got his only solid lead—the notorious Palma Christi Cult, known for its strict so-called religious values, if that was what you wanted to call depriving adults of their right to freedom of speech, their finances, and most importantly, their children.

  Rachel’s neighbor remembered two nice men pestering Rachel time and time again until she’d finally invited them in. But then she couldn’t get rid of them. They kept coming back. They called themselves disciples of the Lord’s prophet, and supposedly brought peace and understanding in the form of an alternate religion. A better lifestyle.

  When they finally put the question of commitment to her, she’d sought her elderly neighbor’s advice. For the first time in her life, Rachel had declared she felt spiritually awakened. She wanted to repent. Not only wanted to, but needed to. Her salvation depended on it. Judith’s too.

  But then she disappeared. Judith too.

  Jude hadn’t slept a decent night since. He’d already wasted enough time at the south compound of this demented cult. Neither Rachel nor Judith were there. Since the bean fields were close to harvest, Jude volunteered to come north. He’d kept his eyes and ears open but had yet to locate his family.

  The barn called to him, reminding him that the stranger had nothing but trouble in store for her, some of it painful. Still, it’s not my business.

  Yes, it is, his prickly conscience whispered.

  “No, damn it,” he growled under his breath. “I’m only here because of Judith. That woman’s in here because she meant to be here. It’s her fault. Her problem. Not mine.”

  Cowardice rankled thick at the back of his throat. He’d been in that woman’s position not long ago. No one had helped him. Why should he risk his daughter’s life to help a total stranger? Besides, look at that gal’s commando-style clothing. She’s probably FBI or CIA. Someone’s probably coming for her. She’ll be out of here in no time.

  Jerusha’s clap startled him. He dropped his gaze in case she’d seen him watching the barn.

  But she’s in trouble now, his internal Jiminy Cricket scolded.

  For God’s sake, I can’t save everyone. But still...

  He glanced back at the barn. She sure looked like sh
e was alone. If her buddies were coming, they’d better step on it and get her out of there before Cain showed. The barn meant discipline, and not the good-stiff-talking-to kind.

  She’s helpless. Like I was. Damn it!

  Exasperated, he brushed a hand through his hair. The one thing Jude knew for certain was that he was no hero. If anything, he was the exact opposite, and yet... the prophet hadn’t returned. There was still time to act. He could be in and out of that barn before the prophet’s butt-kissing henchmen returned.

  There might be a way.

  “There were three on the bed, and the little one said...” Jerusha prompted, her back to Jude while she and her class strolled toward the corncrib and silo at the opposite end of the barn.

  A plan solidified. I might be able help her. If I’m lucky. Maybe.

  “Roll over. Roll over,” Seven children squealed with delight, trailing after their teacher.

  Jude hesitated. The question in his mind had more to do with bravery than luck. His bravery. He was a man of numbers, prone to precise planning after careful deliberation. An accountant. A bean counter. Nothing more. His days had once revolved around cost of goods sold schedules and subsidiary ledgers. Reconciling debits and credits. Forecasting trends. Profits. Losses. Nothing remotely related to the high-value commodities of risk and courage.

  Yet there he was. The only one around who could help that damned woman.

  His heart raced at what he knew lay in store fore her.

  The irony didn’t escape him. With his real life safely stored behind him in Florida, he’d set out alone to find his missing wife and daughter. He’d traded in his clean-cut persona for that of a transient. Opted for anonymity. Changed his name from Cannon to Clark. He’d left his old self behind, and hidden behind a ragged shirt, threadbare denims, and mismatched hiking boots.

  That was October. Seven months ago.

  Only his wire-rimmed glasses reminded him whom he was, and even they were broken, taped at the bridge of his nose to hold the lenses in place. They gave him the nerdy look others mistook for weakness, and he was okay with that. He was weak. Didn’t mind being perceived that way. He didn’t want to be strong or cruel enough to be one of Cain’s Elite, those few members of the prophet’s inner circle, the ones everyone else was afraid of. Neither was he on anyone’s radar. He intended to keep it that way.