Chapter 32 The Resistance
"Eleanor had been in place to pick up Clara in the agreed spot," Mark rasped, his eyes wide with a mix of fury and fear. "She saw one of Thorne’s men grab her."
A rush of air hissed past Ethan’s ear, a deadly whisper. The sound was immediately followed by a splintering thud as a bullet tore into one of the thick logs of Aunt Bea’s cabin, a dark gouge appearing inches from Mark’s head. Mark’s powerful hand clamped on Ethan’s arm, pulling him violently to the ground. They rolled, finding immediate cover behind a stack of seasoned firewood, the scent of pine and cedar filling Ethan’s nostrils, a stark contrast to the metallic tang of fear now in the air.
Ethan’s heart hammered against his ribs. The thought of Clara was a raw wound, fresh and bleeding, but the sound of the bullet, a near miss, was a more pressing matter. He had to get inside the cabin.
"Stay down!" Mark yelled, his voice strained, seeing Ethan scramble away from behind the cover of the woodpile.
Ethan scurried across the porch, ignoring the whine of a near miss that clipped the corner post. He dove through the cabin door, the old, weathered frame groaning, almost splitting as he threw his weight against it. He stayed low, hugging the uneven floorboards. He scrambled to the back room, his mind laser-focused on one thing: the closet. That’s where he knew Clara’s Aunt Bea kept her .308 deer rifle, a serious piece of hardware for a botanist, but Bea had always been practical.
His hands clawed at the closet door, ripping it open. The rifle was there, nestled amongst old coats and gardening gear. He pulled it out, the cold steel a sudden comfort in his hands. Staying below the level of the splintering windows, his fingers fumbled for the ammunition box he knew was tucked behind a boot. He loaded the magazine, the methodical clicks of each cartridge a counterpoint to the raging battle outside.
He could hear the sharp, rapid fire of David’s assault rifle ripping through the air, a ferocious symphony of defense. David, the youngest of Bea’s allies a hunter, had been a Marine, and his combat instincts were honed to a razor’s edge. He was keeping the immediate threat at bay. Then, the deep, thunderous report of the ten gauge in Mark’s hands echoed through the valley, a primal roar that spoke of their desperate stand.
The rifle loaded, Ethan slammed the bolt home, chambering a round. His jaw was set, eyes narrowed. He moved to the nearest window, staying out of sight, a hunter awaiting his prey. Peeping over the sill, he saw movement at the edge of the trees, a shadowy figure attempting to flank David’s position. He broke the glass with the barrel, the sharp crack making the man look directly toward him, momentarily disoriented. Ethan squeezed off a shot. The man dropped, disappearing into the undergrowth. One down. Fury, cold and precise, settled in his gut.
He moved to the front door, shouting, "Mark! Safer inside! Got you covered!"
Mark didn’t hesitate. He burst from behind the woodpile, a surprisingly nimble figure for his bulk, scrambling across the porch and into the cabin. Ethan and David provided covering fire, David’s automatic weapon spitting a continuous stream of lead.
"Your turn, David!" Ethan called out, reloading his rifle with practiced ease.
With Mark now inside, adding his firepower to Ethan’s, they bought David the precious seconds he needed. Moving with a fluid grace of a hunter, sprinted to the relative safety of the cabin, diving through the door.
“How many?” Ethan asked, scanning the tree line, his rifle ready.
“Five or six, best I can tell,” David responded. He snapped a new magazine into the weapon and rested its stock on a nearby window sill, eyes scanning.
“I put down one,” Ethan said, chambering another round. “Maybe two, he looked like he was hit hard.”
Up until that point, the shots had been primarily single, aimed shots, but as the assault intensified, their attackers switched to automatic weapons. The change was immediate and terrifying. Bullets ripped into the thick logs of the cabin, gouging deep furrows, sending splinters flying. The windows and frames were torn to shreds, glass raining inward like deadly hail. Various objects inside the house were hit as well, a lamp exploded, Bea’s cherished grandfather clock chimed once, mournfully, then shattered. David, Mark, and Ethan stayed low, the cabin groaning under the relentless barrage.
Then, a voice, amplified by a bullhorn, cut through the din. “You can surrender now, or we’ll send in an incendiary. Burn the place down around you.”
Ethan’s blood ran cold. He thought of his own cabin, still in flames. But Aunt Bea’s cabin… this place was sacred. It held her life’s work, the meticulous journals, the preserved botanical samples, the irrefutable evidence she had painstakingly collected against Thorne. It was their link to Bea’s legacy.
“We can’t let them burn down Bea’s cabin,” Ethan insisted, his voice tight with a desperate edge. “They already got mine.”
“I ain’t gonna surrender,” David spat, his face grim, eyes hard. He had seen what Thorne’s men did. Surrender was not an option.
“So, what do we do?” Mark asked, pragmatic despite the chaos, wiping a smear of dust from his brow.
“Give me a minute to think,” Ethan responded, his mind racing, sifting through possibilities, evaluating risks. He was a wildlife photographer, not a soldier, but his instincts for survival and protection were fierce. He had to protect the evidence, protect his friends, and most of all, get to Clara. After a short, agonizing pause, a plan began to form, reckless but potentially effective. “Can you two flank them?”
“Sure,” Mark said, already nodding, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. David just gave a curt nod, already anticipating the move.
“Slip out the back, then. I’ll keep them busy talking. They probably want me alive.” Ethan knew Thorne’s motivation. He had seen Ethan working with Bea, then with Clara. He was a witness, a threat. And he knew Thorne would prefer him as a captive and a bargaining chip.
David and Mark moved swiftly, ghost-like figures sliding through the splintered back door, disappearing into the dense thicket of pines that bordered the cabin’s rear.
Taking a deep breath, Ethan called out, his voice strong and clear, projecting through the shattered windows. “What do you want with me?”
The bullhorn crackled. “Thorne wants us to bring you to him. He’d prefer you are alive.”
“How do I know you won’t just shoot me?” Ethan countered, stalling for time, his ears straining for any sign of Mark and David making their move.
“Thorne wants you alive. You’re no good to him dead.” The voice held a grim assurance.
“You already have Clara,” Ethan said, the words a raw protest, a deliberate bait. He needed them to confirm it, to acknowledge the weight of their crime.
“He wants you too,” the voice sneered. “You know too much, Mr. Kincaid. Just like your little analyst girlfriend.”