What You See (Sons of the Survivalist #3) - Cherise Sinclair Page 0,110

his feet, he aimed the pistol at her.

Gryff sprang from nowhere and latched onto his arm. Murderous growls filled the air as the dog shook the man’s arm as if it was a rodent.

Gasping for air, almost crying, Frankie scrambled away on hands and knees.

“Cunt!” A PZ swung a baton at her head. On her knees, she swayed sideways and slapped his arm to one side. Turning her hand over, she gripped his forearm and yanked him toward her. Then drove her knuckles into his throat. He fell.

Scrambling to her feet, she caught a kick to her ribs that sent her backpedaling until she could regain her balance. Eyes wild, the bastardo swung his knife in a move that would’ve cut her face open. Sidestepping the blade, she captured his wrist, twisted, and threw him headfirst into a tree.

Another man bent to pick up the fallen pistol. She snap-kicked him in the face, and her stomach lurched at the crunch of a bone. As he fell, she punted the handgun into the underbrush.

A knife swung at her, and she raised her arm to—

Bull grabbed the man’s wrist, broke it, and elbowed him in the face. The man landed on his back, out cold.

Turning, Frankie braced for the next PZ.

They were all down. Groaning. Whimpering. Crying. Some holding broken arms and legs. One was throwing up. A few lay too still, either out cold or…

Her mind fled the alternative.

Holding her arm again, JJ leaned against a tree as Gabe, Caz, and Bull walked through the downed fanatics, tossing firearms and knives into the underbrush.

Whining, Gryff ran to Bull, obviously worried he’d be in trouble for fighting.

“You did good, buddy.” Bull ruffled the dog’s fur. “Good dog.”

“You were amazing, Gryff.” Frankie joined them, bending to give the dog a hug and whisper in his furry ear, “You saved me.”

When she straightened, the dog’s ears were up, the tail waving proudly.

“How bad are you hurt, Frankie?” Bull swept her with a quick gaze, then pulled her against him and rested his cheek on the top of her head. “Fuck, you scared me—saved me from getting shot, thank you—but fuck. How badly are you hurt?”

“Not bad. Mostly my calf.” Her voice cracked. She’d never felt anything as reassuring as his arms around her. She was starting to shake.

“Let’s see. Yeah, you’re bleeding.” He pulled a bandana out of one of the pockets on his personal armor and wrapped her leg tightly enough to make her squeak.

When he straightened, she gripped his arm so she could give him a quick survey. Nothing pouring blood, nothing obviously broken. She went up on tiptoes and kissed his jaw. “Thanks.”

“Always.” He turned at a call from Gabe.

Frankie took a step and realized something was missing. Her jo. Wiping sweat and blood from her face, she spotted it off to one side. Dark, wet streaks smeared the wood. Breathing through her nose, she picked it up.

“Done, mamita.” Caz had finished tying a bandage around JJ’s arm. They headed toward Gabe.

“Fucking bitch.” A PZ on the ground grabbed JJ’s ankle.

Yanking her leg out of his grip, JJ kicked him in the gut.

“Güey.” Caz shook his head reprovingly at the puking man. “Such poor life choices.”

It wasn’t funny, but Frankie started to laugh, half-hysterically, and had to grit her teeth to stop.

“Move out.” Gabe signaled something to Bull, then took the lead at a fast walk, limping worse than before.

Caz and JJ followed Gabe.

Gryff at his side, Bull watched them move out, then motioned to her. “I’ve got rear guard. Go in front of me, sweetheart.”

Frankie kept her mind on moving forward. Her injured leg was on fire, and…cazzo, more and more aches kept rising. Shivers coursed across her body until it was hard to hold her staff.

She’d never wanted to be safe and snuggled down in her New York condo so much in her whole life.

Yet…

She heard Bull’s soft footsteps behind her. Guarding from the rear. The man who’d risked his life for Kit and Aric, for the PZ’s victims.

For her.

And she knew there was nowhere she’d rather be than with him.

It had been a fucking long walk back to Chevy’s place, Bull thought.

In the back of Hawk’s helicopter, he helped Caz strap Frankie’s friend down on the cushioned stretcher. The trip out hadn’t done her any good, and she was still unconscious, dammit.

What would Frankie do if her friend died?

“Hang in there, Kit,” Bull murmured.

“Sí,” Caz agreed. He turned to Hawk in the pilot’s chair. “Get her there quickly.