Rock-A-Bye Rescue. Karen Whiddon

five to six months, an infant begins laughing and smiling, can sit up alone and eat solid food.

      “All right. I’ll be waiting. Do you have access to a vehicle with four-wheel drive or snow tires? It’s already looking icy up here.”

      “I’m sure the sheriff’s department does. I’ll be riding with them. See you in about thirty minutes.”

      Lila disconnected and faced her living room. She’d allowed it to get a bit cluttered. Okay, a lot cluttered, but weren’t all creative people a little messy? She started to pick up magazines and fold laundry but quit after a minute or two. While straightening clutter might spare her a little embarrassment for her poor housekeeping, a tidy living room wasn’t as important as preparing the crib for the baby—Eve, Miriam had called her—and mixing up a bottle of formula.

      “Come on, Chloe. Let’s get the nursery ready for our guest.” Moving to the spare bedroom, Lila began prepping the crib for her little charge. When she shook out the sheet, Chloe hopped into the crib and pounced on the flapping bedding. “Oh, no, you don’t. We need to keep this bed kitty-hair free.”

      The tabby stalked out of the room as if pouting, and Lila chuckled. “Sorry, Chloe.”

      As she tucked the crib sheet around the mattress, the images she’d seen in the news report replayed in her head. The raid had been a violent and emotionally charged event. Eve’s mother had been murdered. Lila’s gut twisted with sympathy and concern. Poor little lamb, losing her mother at such a young age. Little Eve would undoubtedly need plenty of TLC, and Lila’s heart swelled with affection for the infant she’d not met yet. She had an abundance of love to share with the motherless baby girl. She understood the pain of losing someone you loved, and she’d make it her mission to smooth the transition between homes for Eve.

      * * *

      Wayne Pitts sat on the hard seat in the back of the police department’s transport van and kept a watchful eye on Kent. He was ready to act on Kent’s signal.

      His older brother’s eyes stayed locked in a lethal glare on the US marshal who rode with them to the holding facility. From that jail cell, they’d await a preliminary hearing—or some such government crap. Assuming they got that far. Kent wouldn’t let things progress that far. He’d show them the way forward. He always had.

      Wayne’s body was growing stiff and sore from sitting with his hands cuffed behind him, and he chalked up his discomfort to The Enemy. The government’s lackeys had no right to take him or any of The Sword family from their compound. No one had authority over another man, except to whom he chose to give his loyalty.

      For Wayne, Kent had every bit of his loyalty. His big brother had been looking out for him since they’d been old enough to hide together in the linen closet when their father went on one of his drunken rages. Kent had taken care of Wayne after their father killed their mother, and they’d slipped out the back window while their father was passed out. They’d survived on the street thanks to Kent’s smarts and his good sense not to trust the government. After the cop had caught them living in an abandoned building, the government had tried to separate the brothers, but Kent would have none of it. He’d rescued Wayne from that horrible foster home and vowed to keep Wayne safe.

      Kent had moved them to the farm outside of town, and the brothers had begun building their own family. Kent took a wife, then another, and had led them all toward a greater Truth. He’d had the vision of The Truth in a dream. He’d seen the manipulation of the government and freed his family from the tyranny of Uncle Sam. The Sword represented strength, freedom, Truth...at all costs. The Enemy would not prevail. Wayne was certain. So he waited. Watched.

      Kent was working on a plan. Kent would see them freed.

      “How do you live with yourself?” Kent said in a low tone.

      Wayne was roused from his thoughts to follow his brother’s lead.

      The marshal returned a placid, bored look. “You were read your rights. That one about remaining silent? I’d use it if I were you.”

      “You have no say in my rights. I alone determine my rights.”

      The marshal said nothing, only curled his lip in a dismissive sneer that sent fire through Wayne’s veins. “Don’t you dare disrespect Master Pitts!”

      “Master Pitts, is it?” the marshal asked with a mocking edge to his voice.

      “Wayne.” Kent’s calm, stern tone silenced Wayne, even without taking his eyes from the marshal.

      “Where did you take my children?” Kent asked, his stare as icy as his voice.

      “They’re safe.”

      “Where? Foster homes?” For the first time, Wayne heard a note of emotion in his brother’s tone. A hatred for the abhorrent foster family that had taken Wayne in was one of many bonds he shared with Kent.

      Their guard gave Master Pitts a withering glance. “They’re safe.”

      “Not as long as they are in The Enemy’s hands,” Wayne said, unable to keep his peace.

      “They will be freed,” Kent said with only a slight side-glance to Wayne. “My family will find them. All of my wives and children will be found and sent to a better place.”

      The marshal took out a pad and started making notes. “You know all of this can be used against you. You’ve been warned.”

      “I will find my children, the innocents first, then my wives. And I will free them from the bonds of earth and man’s dominion.”

      The Enemy’s minion pulled a face that said he thought Kent was crazy.

      Wayne gritted his teeth, wanting to strike out at the impudent man. If not for the shackles binding his hands behind him and looped around the steel bar on the side of the paddy wagon, he’d dispense the kind of beating his father used to dole out.

      With a ragged breath, Wayne shoved down his rage. Wayne knew The Truth. Kent kept his word. Kent would do what he vowed, no matter the cost.

      “Could be kinda hard from behind bars,” the marshal mocked with a sloppy grin.

      Kent arched a dark eyebrow. “I wouldn’t—”

      The van shifted suddenly, slinging the men in the back from side to side as the vehicle fishtailed.

      Wayne and the other members of The Sword gathered themselves, grunting in pain where the shackles had jerked against their wrists. The marshal tapped on the small window between the front seat and the transport bay. “Everything all right up there, Stan?”

      “Black ice. Sorry. It’s getting dicey out here, so I’ll probably get off these side roads and try the highway. They’re more likely to have been salted,” was the muted reply from the front seat.

      “Radio the staties and ask which—”

      The van jerked again. Pitched hard left, then right. Rolled. Men and metal were tossed, crumpled, broken.

      When the world stopped spinning, Wayne blinked at the opposite side of the van, which was now above him. He lay on his back, and his arms ached, having been yanked in a tug-of-war between momentum and the handcuffs as they had flipped. His head throbbed, but he was conscious, in one piece.

      He searched the space around him quickly. Found Kent struggling against the metal shackles.

      The marshal groaned and rolled onto his side. His head was bleeding. His leg lay at a funny, unnatural angle. The other members of The Sword—Jimmy, Oscar, George and Burt—were in various states of injury. All of them were moaning and moving slowly.

      The scrape of metal drew his attention back to Kent. “Help me, Wayne. The bar is loose.”

      Sure enough, the steel bar their handcuffs had been looped around for transport had been dislodged as the van wall crumpled. Kent had slid his shackles to the loose end of the bar and tugged to free the final bolts from the twisted metal.