Cassidy Read online

  The California spring sun was warm. Sweat stung his eyes. The barn loomed big and red—and damned scary.

  Truth was, he’d already surprised himself plenty. It had taken nerve to track Rachel and Judith across the country to the compound, thirteen thousand acres locked behind an eight-foot high concrete fence in northern California. But he’d done it. Seeking permission to enter the cult’s compound near Boggs Mountain turned out to be another scary thing, but a father’s desperation turned Jude into someone else entirely. He used to be the quiet, meek face in the back of the crowd. He didn’t know who the hell he was now.

  Damn. That lady needs real help. My help. With a backward glance over his shoulder, he pushed his glasses up his nose and borrowed the line from a real hero. Todd Beamer’s courage on 9-11 had always inspired him.

  “Let’s roll.”

  Summoning his nerve, Jude made certain Jerusha wasn’t looking. Neither were the kids. Instead of marching right up to the barn like a real man, he turned away from it and slunk toward the long dormitory for married couples at the opposite end of the yard.

  At the end of the dorm, he turned right, crossed over to the row of private homes and headed north. Jude crossed the yard between the single dwellings and ducked behind the granary where he turned east. It was the long way around, but it wouldn’t raise suspicion.

  At the granary, he picked up a couple of empty buckets to add credence to his subterfuge, his heart a banging drum in his chest. Why the hell am I doing this?

  But he kept going. With the granary behind him, he headed along the far side of the garden, as if he’d been sent to collect the daily portion of carrots for the mass meal called supper. Only he didn’t stop to load up, even though the women working in the garden looked expectantly at him. He didn’t offer a single, “Good morning, sisters,” like he should have. He just kept going, before he chickened out or someone caught him.

  His very intelligent brain screamed, You’re no hero.

  Like he didn’t know that?

  But that Jiminy Cricket conscience of his kept squeaking, But you can do something.

  God, I hope Hank and Greg take their time coming back.

  Jude second-guessed himself every step of the way, wondering why he had to be the one. Hadn’t that woman brought any help with her? Was she truly alone? Armed? Her uniform suggested some kind of organized help to take down the cult might finally be on its way. Was it? Should he just hang around, wait and see?

  But Cain is coming now. Hurry!

  I am hurrying! Hank and Greg hadn’t left for no reason at all. They went for their master. Only then could the discipline begin. Jude rounded the stone silo on a dead run along the backside of the barn.

  He used to like barns. Not anymore. Not this one. Dairy cattle were kept there once, but along came the cult’s troublemakers and misfits, runaways, and rebels. The cattle were moved to the south compound. The barn had become a place where discipline was meted out. None of it pleasant.

  In the mighty order of the prophet and world-class liar, Cain, there were four levels of chastisement: penance, punishment, branding, and censure. They all took place during secret meetings with the Elite, Cain’s henchmen and henchwomen. Always in the dark of night.

  First, penance, when a reluctant follower was assigned to work the fields. Fourteen-hour days of backbreaking work had a way of wearing stubborn members down, and tired people made compliant people.

  Second, punishment. Work got harder. Days got longer. Cain didn’t believe in common conveniences like electricity or tractors inside the cult. He encouraged hard, backbreaking work. Said the soul could only reach its highest glory when the body was broken.

  Men were turned into beasts of burden, forced to pull either the carts that hauled crops in from the fields, or the plows that broke hard ground. A woman might be sentenced to the hot house where mighty kettles of water were heated for laundry, baths, and slaughter. There they also prepared animal skins for leather, or boiled slaughtered pigs and chickens for skinning.

  Third, branding. Jude rubbed the scar on his palm. His throat closed remembering the gleam in Cain’s eye when he’d declared Jude to be less than worthy. His sin? Showing up at the cult’s gates in rags and begging to be allowed inside.

  Hank and Greg let him inside the compound wall, all right. Dragged him in was more like it. They’d strapped him to the two-by-twelve, ten-foot-long plank in the barn. Made him prove his pure intent. Greg held his arm in the vice-like grip, but Hank did the actual branding. Both men seemed proud of themselves afterwards. Jude only recalled the smell of his burning flesh, throwing up not so much from the pain as the inhumanity of what those two bullies had done to him.

  It was a hard price to pay at the hands of cruel men, but it served his purpose. The raised welt of a crescent moon burned on his palm declared he’d never be good enough for the prophet’s inner-circle. It provided camouflage, and Jude was all about blending in. He was only there for Judith, and Rachel, if she’d let him be.

  But there was another type of discipline, this one not meted out within the dusty walls of the barn. Censure. His wound had cracked and bled, but it had healed. People tolerated him. He still had a place to sleep and food to eat. Not the Censured.

  Their humiliation was passed in full view of all members so all would know their crimes. So all would get that self-righteous opportunity to turn their backs on their brother or sister. Or their spouse. From the moment Cain declared a person a sinner, they were labeled invisible, like lepers of biblical times.

  It was the duty of the Censured to maintain that separation between the so-called pure and the impure, to declare their unclean status so others steered clear. The Elite spat on them. Children were encouraged to throw stones. Jude never understood how a spouse could turn from their dearly beloved just because Cain told them to. Yet it happened.

  Standing at the barn’s side door, he summoned his last nerve, his mouth as dry as the warm Californian air.

  Jude eased his muscular frame inside the barn, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the dim light. Just as he suspected, the woman was bound to the branding board. She’d been placed near the farthest wall from the door, her arms bound at the elbow, her forearms and hands free for whatever discipline Cain might decide.

  Jude went purposefully to her side and placed a hand on her shoulder to announce his arrival. He startled her anyway.

  She jumped, her petite frame jerking against the board. “Shit!”

  “Sorry,” he muttered, more sorry for her than he could tell. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Let’s get you out of here.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Her demeanor surprised him. With her fists clenched and her jaw tight, she looked ready to fight and yet, her lower lip trembled. He smoothed the hair off her face to get a better look. She didn’t look military. Didn’t look tough enough to be there, either. Even with the damp manure clinging to her cheek, the soft brown eyes of a beautiful blonde blinked back at him.

  “I’m Jude Clark, and I’m not here to hurt you. Who are you?” Actually, Jude Cannon, but Clark will work for now. You don’t need to know who I really am.

  She angled her head to peer up at him. “C-C-Cassidy. Cassidy Dancer.”

  Noticing the blood in her hair, he worked his fingers through the back of her head until he felt it. A large goose egg with a jagged cut rested beneath the dirty tangles in his hands. It had been years since he’d held a woman’s head like this, and the smaller small size of Cassidy’s skull reminded him how fragile her gender was. How lovely. She shouldn’t have been struck, much less dragged in here like a side of beef to wait on the prophet. What made some men so brutally cruel? So damned indecent?

  “Listen, I don’t think you’re hurt real bad,” he whispered. ”Can you walk?”

  “Hell yes,” she hissed. “Get me out of here.”

  He leaned over her waist to unbuckle her restraints. Damn. These belts weren’t just buckled. They were locked. He
should’ve brought that scythe with him.

  The rumbling engine of the truck sounded outside the barn. Damn. He’d wasted his one opportunity to do some good.

  “Listen to me, Cassidy Dancer. I don’t know who you’re working with, but things will go a lot easier if you fake it. Act like you’ve lost your memory or something. Faint. Can you do that?”

  “You... you’re leaving me?” she asked breathlessly. She was scared, and he was afraid for her. He already knew how bad it could get, but he couldn’t stay.

  He glanced worriedly at the door. In one second, all his hopes of finding Judith would be destroyed forever. “I’ve got to, but... but they won’t hurt you if they think they can win you over.”

  “Win me... over?”

  A tear glimmered in the corner of her eye, but he knew better. He was no hero. He was a coward who didn’t know the first thing about fighting or rescuing people. Above all, he had to keep his cover. It meant everything. Hers was already blown, but he had to find Judith. Cassidy was just... was just...

  Damn. He bowed his head, the clock ticking and his options gone. Cassidy was just a very frightened woman in the wrong place at the wrong time. She shouldn’t have to endure what the prophet had in store for her. The anguish of his dilemma stabbed him.

  I have to go! Now!

  “Go,” she said bravely, nodding toward the other door as if she’d heard his thoughts. “Take off. I understand. I’ll be okay.”

  Jude felt the depth of sadness in her eyes, but he also saw something else. Cassidy might be afraid, but there was still fight left in her. Even tied to a board and in damned desperate straits, she was braver than he was. He made a vow right then and there. “Trust me,” he whispered, his eyes on the door. “Play dead when they come in here. I’ll come back for you. I’ll find a way.”

  If she answered, he didn’t hear it. Before the door opened to the prophet, Jude was hidden in the shadows once more, feeling more like the dog he was than the hero he wished he were. Very quietly, he closed the side barn door behind him. He’d gotten out just in time. He was safe.

  The loud voice of the insidious self-proclaimed prophet Lucien Cain reverberated from inside the barn. “Well, well, well. Who do we have here?”

  Chapter Two

  “Damn it!” She might have been restrained, but Cassidy could still cuss. “Stop it! You’re hurting me!”

  The man she knew as Lucien Cain peered into her face. One of his goons braced the board she was strapped to on its end so she faced the prophet as if she were standing. Only, she wasn’t. Her toes couldn’t touch the floor, and the belts bit into her arms. Goon One had a handful of her hair, twisting her head to meet Cain’s commanding stare.

  She stifled the urge to spit in his face because she could also smell fire, and it wasn’t the outdoorsy kind for roasting marshmallows. No. This fire smelled of iron and heat, of metal cooking, like a fry pan left too long on a stove burner. Or a cattle brand.

  The prophet towered over her. She had no choice but to look up. He had to be more than six-foot-six. Maybe taller. He had thinning gray hair, oiled and combed back. Angular build. Thick lips. Gaunt cheeks. Kind of skeletal. His faded-blue eyes, the same color as the ocean on a sunless day, flat as if the light had been drained out of them, burrowed into hers.

  Goon Two handed Cain a plastic zip-lock bag he’d taken from her pants pocket. She’d learned a few tricks from Rourke, and they were all in that bag: extra ammo, her handy-dandy Swiss army knife, lip balm, and Advil.

  “She’s not a Fed,” Goon Two said calmly. “This stuff isn’t government issue. None of it.”

  Cain scanned the bag full of evidence, then her. His expression changed the second he spied the gold logo on her black polo. The TEAM. An odd light flickered across his features. He reached for her.

  She cringed, expecting a slap, but when his fingers brushed over her breast, she wanted to kick the crap out of him. He stared her down, his index finger traveling the centerline of her body, between her breasts to her belt. This creep was all about intimidation, and no one got away with that. Not with Cassidy Dancer. Every muscle strained to wreak havoc on this slimy man and his evil minions, but she couldn’t budge.

  Cain toyed with her belt buckle while he asked Goon Two, “What exactly is The TEAM?”

  “A private company out of Virginia. They handle security for the Feds. Other stuff, too.”

  “Like?” Cain raised a brow, once again fingering the logo over her left breast, damn him. He rested the back of his fingers on her shirt, as if he had a right to touch her. She’d never been this helpless before. He had all the power.

  Goon Two lifted a shoulder. “Like bodyguards and private investigating. I couldn’t hack into their server. Had to Google them, so there’s not much to tell. Looks like they’re a big-time covert ops business, stateside and abroad. They work a lot of federal jobs, and partner with Special Forces. She’s one of them.”

  “She’s Special Forces?” Cain lifted a brow, sarcasm thick in his tone.

  I wish! I’d show you!

  “Must be. She’s here, isn’t she? You might want to go easy on her. We don’t need anymore like her snooping around.”

  “Nothing is so big it can’t be overcome, Greg,” Cain purred. He removed his hand from Cassidy’s shirt and handed the bag back to Goon Two, now known as Greg.

  “She had this in her shoulder holster.” Greg handed Cain her SIG.

  She cringed to see it in this despicable man’s hands. It was the nicest little gun she’d owned in a long time, and her fingers itched to use it now. Just three shots. That was all she needed. Maybe six if she took time for double taps. She’d show them who was powerless.

  Finally, Goon One let loose of her hair. He still stood too close.

  Cassidy leaned her head against the board. He was there to hurt her, to make her do what Cain wanted. Breaking into this looney bin was probably punishable by death and burial in an unmarked grave. Both of these men had reason enough to kill her on the spot.

  She attempted to stare Cain down, but as dizzy as she still was, it took all she could muster to keep her head upright on her neck. Two of him danced in front of her, sometimes four. Maintaining a mean stare took effort.

  Maybe that chicken-shit Jude was right. Maybe her best option was to play the part of a helpless woman. Not her forte, but she could do it. For now.

  She closed her eyes and let her body go slack. With a stupid, ultra-feminine huff that in no way resembled the real Cassidy Dancer, she faked a faint and dropped her chin to her chest. She was, after all, a member of the inferior gender, according to Cain’s self-proclaimed philosophy. Maybe these guys actually believed the poison they spewed.

  “Shit.” Goon One reclaimed his hold on her hair and tilted her head upward. “She’s out.”

  The smell of his bad breath filled her face, but Cassidy stifled her response to cry out, curse like crazy, or hold her breath. They needed to believe she was out for the count. She remained as limp as a noodle. No problem.

  “Hank, do you believe our little soldier girl really passed out?” Cain asked softly.

  Cassidy felt a wimpy hand on her cheek and a thumb under her chin. It had to be Cain’s. Her stomach lifted up the back of her throat. He was a suspected pedophile. A pervert. Some creep who assaulted innocent little girls and stupid women under the guise of prophetic revelations. And the bastard had his hands on her.

  He lifted her head and blew a breath into her face. A distinct odor of cumin and chili filled her nose. He’d had tacos or burritos for lunch. Dis-gust-ing!

  She refrained from reacting, though, as hard as it was. Didn’t even breathe. When he blew another breath, she knew precisely why he did that. As much as the thought of his lips on hers repulsed her, Cassidy remained still. He had to believe.

  “Discipline will answer all of your questions,” Goon One, Hank, grumbled. “You want me to get started on her? I can have her talking like a magpie if you wait.”

 
For too long, Cain’s breath remained in her face. Small, smelly huffs wafted over her cheeks and into her nose. Again, intimidation. The jerk was a pro at it. He just wanted her to think he might kiss her. At least, she hoped that was all he wanted.

  “This woman is a soldier. She came here looking for someone. Who’s she after?” Cain asked. Slowly, he removed his hand from her chin and stepped back. “Do you know?”

  Cassidy let her head drop forward. I’m no soldier, you morons. I’m the woman who’s going to kick your asses. A little later.

  “Not sure,” Greg answered quietly. “None of the Gentiles could’ve gotten a word out. We took care of them as soon as you gave us the sign.”

  Gentiles? We took care of them? That didn’t sound good.

  Cain grunted. He walked a full circle around her, muttering all the way. She stilled her wild thoughts. They’d only get her blood pressure up and her mouth flapping. For once, she needed to play it smart. Maybe she could convince him that she was unconscious and nothing more than a weak-willed woman? Maybe they would just walk away and let her sleep it off?

  “Say the word,” Hank muttered. “Me and Greg can make this gal disappear, too. He needs the practice.”

  “Was she alone?” Cain asked.

  Cassidy’s ears pricked to hear that answer. Rourke might have followed her. He did crazy stuff like that—watched out for his guys and gals. Had he been caught, too? She hoped not. As much as these men despised women, they’d go harder on a strange man caught inside their perimeter.

  “Sister Melissa didn’t see anyone else,” Greg replied.

  “But this one got as far as the south compound.” Irritation tightened Cain’s tone.

  Greg placed a hand on Cassidy’s bicep, his fingers squeezing hard, feeling the muscles she commanded to remain flaccid. “I’m surprised Sister Melissa was able to subdue this one with just a shovel. This woman is no weakling.”