Chapter 8 - The Stand at Silver Creek
The aftermath in the cabin was a blur of frantic motion. Emily tore the heavy dishcloth from her apron and pressed it hard against Hawk’s shoulder. The bullet had passed clean through, but it was bleeding heavily.
"Press down, kid," Hawk grunted, waving off Prophet who was trying to help him up. "I ain't dead yet. Diesel, secure the pig."
Diesel was currently zip-tying Chief Miller’s hands behind his back, hauling the unconscious cop up by his collar. "He's out cold, boss. What about the deputies on the road?"
"They heard the shot," Prophet said, peering through the shattered window. "They're moving up the trail. We got about two minutes before we have a shootout on our hands."
Sarah pulled little Leo close to her side. The boy was trembling, staring at the blood pooling on the floorboards. Emily reached out with her free hand and gently touched his cheek.
"It's okay, Leo," Emily said softly. "Uncle Tommy sent us. We're going to get you out."
The boy looked at her, his eyes wide. "You're Tommy's girl? He talked about you. He said you made the best cherry pie in the world."
Emily swallowed the lump in her throat. "I do. And I'll bake you one as soon as we go home."
"Nobody is going home if we don't clear that trail," Hawk growled, forcing himself to sit up. He looked at Diesel. "Get the ledger out of the pocket watch. The microdot. It has every bribe, every gun run, every dirty dollar Miller ever took. Call the FBI field office in Helena. Skip the state police. We end this today."
"Boss, they're not going to let us just walk out of here to make a phone call," Diesel warned.
"They will if they know it's over," Emily said. She stood up, leaving Prophet to hold the pressure on Hawk's wound. She walked over to the sofa and picked up her father’s heavy leather jacket.
She traced the winged skull patch, feeling the history, the brotherhood, the blood that had been spilled for it. She slipped her arms into the heavy leather. It was massive on her, but as she zipped it up, she felt an armor she had never known she possessed.
"What are you doing?" Hawk demanded.
"Finishing what my dad started," Emily said. She walked over to Miller’s unconscious body and pulled the chief's radio from his belt. She pressed the transmit button.
"To the deputies walking up the trail," Emily said, her voice echoing over the static. "This is Emily Carter. Chief Miller is down. We have his ledger. We have the microdot proving he burned down a warehouse twelve years ago to cover up a smuggling ring, and we know he murdered my father. The FBI is being called right now."
Silence on the radio. Then, a hesitant voice. "Miller?"
"Miller is going to federal prison," Emily said sharply, channeling every ounce of her father's authority. "You have thirty seconds to drop your weapons and walk down to the highway. If you are on this trail in thirty-one seconds, forty Hells Angels are going to come down there and show you exactly what happens when you mess with their family."
She released the button. The cabin held its breath.
For ten agonizing seconds, nothing happened. Then, they heard the distinct sound of a shotgun being dropped onto gravel. Then another. Footsteps started crunching down the trail, away from the cabin, in a frantic retreat.
Prophet smiled grimly. "They're running."
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Hawk looked at Emily, standing in her father's oversized cut, the radio in her hand. For the first time since she had walked into that parking lot, the hardness in the old biker's eyes melted away completely.
"Your dad," Hawk said softly, wincing as he shifted his weight, "would be so damn proud of you."
