“The nearest sheriff station is 40 minutes away. These gentlemen will be here in three.” The black SUVs crested the hill at the end of her driveway, moving fast, but not recklessly. Professional, just like she’d expected. Martha had chosen this property for its isolation, its defensible position, and the clear sightelines it provided.
What she hadn’t expected was to ever need those advantages again. She’d hung up her weapons alongside her grief 20 years ago, when the last of her causes had ended, and the last of her friends had died. She’d come to Montana to tend flowers and forget the weight of lives in her hands. But watching three young men bleeding in her driveway, she remembered something her first commanding officer had told her in a field hospital outside Kandahar.
You can retire from the war, Thompson, but the war never retires from you. The SUVs slowed as they approached the motorcycles, and Martha could see figures moving inside. She counted at least six men, probably more. They’d come prepared for wounded bikers, not for a 73-year-old woman who’d once held a perimeter against 30 insurgents while evacuating a medical unit.
Ma’am, Rico spoke for the first time, his voice tight with pain and fear. Please just hide. We got ourselves into this mess. Martha looked down at him, seeing not a biker, but a scared young man who reminded her of a hundred soldiers she’d patched up and sent back into hell. She’d sworn she was done saving people, done fighting other people’s wars.
The lead SUV stopped 50 yards from the house. Martha chambered around. Some oaths, it seemed, were harder to break than others. The three men who had beaten the bikers were already two mi down the dirt road when Martha finished checking pulses. Two of the injured were unconscious but breathing steadily. The third, a man with graying temples and a leather vest declaring him road captain, managed to focus his swollen eyes on her face.
“Lady,” he wheezed through split lips. “You need to get out of here. They’ll be back.” Martha wiped blood from a cut above his eyebrow with surprising gentleness. What’s your name? Jake. Jake Morrison. He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it, clutching his ribs. Those bastards took our bikes, our patches. They’re not done with us.
Who were they? Jake’s laugh turned into a cough that brought up specks of blood. Wolves MC been trying to muscle in on our territory for months finally decided to make their point. Martha nodded, filing away the information with the same methodical precision she’d once used to catalog enemy assets in Beirut. Can you walk? Don’t think so. My legs.
Jake looked down at his left knee, which was bent at an angle that defied anatomy. I’m going to move you and your friends into my house. Then I’m going to make some calls. No cops, Jake said quickly. This is club business, Martha’s smile held no warmth. I wasn’t planning to call the police. It took her 40 minutes to get all three men inside using an old wheelbarrow from the barn and a stubborn determination that surprised even her.
Jake remained conscious throughout, gritting his teeth as she maneuvered him onto her living room couch. The other two, younger men she learned were called Diesel and Crow, she arranged on air mattresses dragged down from the attic. While they rested, Martha moved through her house with purpose.
From a false bottom in her bedroom dresser, she retrieved a satellite phone that hadn’t been used in 8 years. From behind a loose board in the basement, she pulled out a waterproof case containing three passports, each with her photograph, but different names. And from a hidden compartment in her kitchen pantry, she took out something she’d hoped never to touch again.
