Clint was alone with the kids when Axel returned, an unconscious boy in his arms and the girl by his side. He took note of Axel’s scraped and bloodied knuckles and suspected he’d encountered Barron somewhere along the line.

“Where’s the other one?” Axel asked urgently.

“Taking a call in the other room.” Clint looked at the child who, at first glance, didn’t seem to be breathing.

“We need to get him to the hospital now,” Axel said. “He’s barely breathing, and his pulse is weak.” His face tightened. “We don’t have time to wait. Take that guy out. I knocked out Barron and locked him in a closet.”

“Go,” Clint told him. “Get the boy to the hospital. I’ll take of things here.”

“Alone?” Uncertainty filled Axel’s eyes.

“I can take care of myself,” Clint assured and kissed him quick. “Now get going.”

Axel started for the door when the other man suddenly reappeared. “Hey…what the fuck’s going on? Where’d you get that kid?” He came forward cautiously, glancing between Clint and Axel. “What is this?”

Clint walked forward. “Not what you think, motherfucker.” The gun was in the man’s face before he could react. “Go,” he ordered Axel. “I’ll call Cochise and Cruz, have them meet me out here. You just get that boy to the hospital.”

Axel nodded and motioned to the girl, then paused. “Barron is in the back room where we found the boy. There’s…dead bodies in there. Kids. Barron’s in the closet, the door wedged close with the chair.” The horror and anguish in his eyes cut Clint to the core; if he’d known it would be this bad, would he have brought Axel along?

Axel and the girl left.

“Barron…?” the man whispered. “What did he do to Barron? Who are you?”

“Believe me,” Clint muttered. “You don’t want to know.” He looked around. “Where do you spend your time in this place? Because I know it isn’t in here, freezing your ass off with the kids. You have someplace warm, don’t you?” The man didn’t answer, and Clint dragged the hammer back. “Show me.”

The man’s defiance cracked, and he had Clint follow him back through the door to the hall that they’d entered through. He led the way past the desk that sat across from the outside entrance door and into a medium-sized living room with comfortable furniture, carpeted floor, and a large fireplace that popped and crackled with roaring flames. And the room was warm. Very warm.

“You worthless pieces of shit,” Clint bit out sharply. “How fucking hard would it have been to give the kids a warm room? Keep them in clean clothes? Feed them food fit for humans?”

“I told you before,” the man mumbled. “We have to economize.”

Clint’s finger pressed against the trigger, aching to paint the walls with the fucker’s brains. But he couldn’t bring himself to let him off that easy, not after the hell he’d created for these kids. “Is the cook in the kitchen?”

“Yeah.”

“Take me there.”

In the entrance room, Clint stopped long enough to yank the phone cord from the wall and the phone itself. He took out his knife and sliced it in half and used one half to tie the man’s hands behind his back, then rolled up the second half and stuffed it in his pocket. The man grunted in pain when Clint twisted the cord extra-tight, pinching off blood flow. His face twisted in agony and Clint pushed him forward, down the hall again to the huge room that housed the kids.

“Fucker,” Clint murmured callously. “You haven’t begun to know what real pain is.”

 

•♦•

 

Axel sped along the icy highway as fast as he could without endangering their lives. The girl held her brother in her lap and whispered to him non-stop. The child’s breath was quickened and short, and sounded like someone blowing bubbles in their drink—but at least he was breathing. But his sister couldn’t wake him up and at times he went so quiet that Axel thought he’d stopped breathing.

“Please don’t die,” Kelly cried softly against his stringy hair. “Please, Raimi, you’re all I have. Don’t leave me, sweetheart, please…”

The girl didn’t think she was tough, but Axel had seen tough kids. Had lived with two of the toughest kids he would ever know, and this girl was definitely one of the tough ones.

Axel dug out his phone, keeping his eyes on the highway, and made a call. “Devlin,” he said when the line picked up. “It’s Axel. I need you to listen. I’m on my way to the hospital with a very sick child. He’s barely breathing, lungs sound like they’re filled with water, and he’s burning up with a fever.”

“When he was awake,” Kelly offered. “He said his chest hurt really bad, especially when he coughed.”

Axel relayed the bit of information. “I need you to be there, ready to take him in as soon as we arrive. I’m not…I’m not sure how much longer he’s going to last.”

“It sounds like a critical case of pneumonia. His lungs are filled up and surrounded by fluids, which is causing the pain in his chest and his inability to breathe properly. He needs to be treated immediately. How far away are you?”

“Half an hour, maybe,” Axel said. “The roads are icy.”

“All right. Don’t put yourself in danger, but get here as soon as possible.” Devlin asked the boy’s age and approximate weight. Axel explained about his malnourished state and where they’d found him. He didn’t go into grisly details, just that living conditions—if one could call it that—were horrendous and that the boy had been exposed to extreme cold for an extended period of time. “I’ll get the ER team set up and ready to admit him the moment you arrive. Bring him through the emergency entrance.”

“Is there anything we should do for him right now?” Axel asked anxiously.

“Just get him here,” Devlin murmured, a deep concern in his voice that frightened Axel.

He ended the call and placed the phone on the dash. “They’ll be ready for us at the hospital,” he told Kelly. “Devlin…he’s a good man and he’ll make sure your brother gets the best care possible.”

“He’s a doctor?” Kelly whispered and wiped her eyes.

“An intern, but yeah. If your brother has to stay in the hospital for a little while, he’ll be the one looking after him.”

Kelly laid her head against the window and pressed her lips to her brother’s hair. “How did you guys know about the orphanage?”

“Clint—the cowboy I was with—he helped rescue some kids from sex traffickers. Some of them had come from the orphanage.”

Kelly stared at him, tentative hope in her eyes. “Who…who were the kids that were rescued?”

“Uh…Jacob, Eric, and David—though I’m not sure if David came from the orphanage. And I think the oldest girls’ names were Nina and Kim.”

Kelly’s chin trembled, and fresh tears formed. She closed her eyes tight, her face against her little brother’s head, and whispered brokenly, “They’re alive.”

 

•♦•

 

The foul odor struck Clint anew when they entered the large room. He wondered how long it would be before his stomach stopped churning after being in this shithole. He shoved the man across the room as they headed for the kitchen, his weapon drawn and ready.

The smells coming from the kitchen weren’t as vile as those in the other room, but they weren’t pleasant either. If Clint had the patience and fortitude, he’d lock all these fuckers up in an ice-cold cell, make them shit in the corner and eat this same fucking slop until they froze to death, asphyxiated by the smell of their own shit and vomit, or choked to death on the disgusting gruel.

A swinging door led into the kitchen and a radio played country-rock music, the volume turned low. Dishes rattled, and feet shuffled across the floor as the cook hummed along to the current song. Clint pushed the door open with the tip of the gun barrel and nudged his captive to enter.

The cook—Vinny—had his back to the door and wasn’t aware of their presence in the room. He was Clint’s height and moderately overweight; very thick and heavy. He wore a white t-shirt with matching pants and apron. His black hair was cut short, nearly to his scalp.

Clint let the door swing closed, which made just enough sound to grab the cook’s attention. He cast an absent glance behind him, catching a glimpse of the other man without fully turning around. “What’s up, Olson? Any special requests for lunch?”

“Yeah,” Clint drawled. “Your ugly-ass head on a platter.”

Vinny jerked around and stopped short when he saw the gun aimed at his “ugly-ass” head. His wide eyes darted to Olson. “What the fuck…?” He gripped the edge of the counter. “What’s going on, Olson? Who the fuck is this?”

Clint answered. “Your judge, jury…and executioner.”

The cook frowned. “What? Why…”

“Call me crazy,” Clint said. “But I’m a little put off by the abuse and rape of innocent children.”

Vinny’s frown deepened. “This is about those little fuckers out there?” He started to add more then screamed amidst an explosion of gunfire as his right ear blew off the side of his head. He went down hard, knees cracking against the tile, his screams escalating as he clutched his gushing wound.

“Yes,” Clint answered casually. “It’s about them.”

“Fuck!” Olson cried out and stumbled away from Clint. “What the fuck?!” He backed toward the wailing cook as Clint slowly advanced.

“What’s this?” Clint veered to the large stove where a huge canning pot sat on a low-flame burner, the contents simmering. It was immediately evident that this was the source of the unpleasant odor stinking up the kitchen and oozing out into the hall. Clint looked inside the pot. The yellowish muck bubbled near the top, the ingredients of the foul concoction unidentifiable. “Let me guess…” Clint looked at the two men. “Lunch for the kids?” He sauntered their way. “Of course, being a cook, I’m sure you’ve tasted it a few times to make sure it’s just right?”

Vinny the cook huddled on his knees, shaking, gagging on his erratic cries. He fumbled for the hand towel that hung from one of the drawer handles by his head and wadded it up, stuffing it against the side of his head. Tears of pain streaked his twisted face and he hunched over, squeezing his eyes shut in sheer agony.

“I asked you a question.” Clint raised his foot and hooked the man’s chin with the tip of his boot and forced his head up. The slight movement wrenched another sharp cry from the cook. “Do you taste-test the food you serve these kids?”

Vinny choked and coughed as Clint slid the toe of his boot down over his juggler and added pressure. “No,” he croaked, and through his pain, disgust pinched his face. “Fuck…no.”

“Well, how can you know if it’s edible?”

He gagged on his own spit. “I don’t…care.”

Clint withdrew his foot and the cook’s chin dropped to his chest, his breath raspy and quickened. Squatting in front of him, Clint used the gun this time to lift his face. “Bet you’d care if you had to eat it.”

Vinny’s bloodshot eyes darted to Olson as the other man made a sudden break for the door. Clint’s hand snapped around and he fired off a quick shot. Olson screamed and hit the floor, his shin bone splintered and bleeding all over the tiles, bits of bone protruding through his flesh. “Fuck! Guuhh!”

Clint looked at the cook then rose to his feet. He reached down and grabbed a fistful of the man’s shirt and apron and heaved him off the floor. “Come on over here and take a whiff of this shit.” He hauled him to the stove and Vinny fell against the appliance. Clint snatched the bloody towel from his hand and tossed it aside, then gripped the back of his neck and forced his face over the top of the large pot. Blood streamed across Vinny’s cheek and dripped into the goopy liquid.

“Don’t…” the cook rasped.

“What’s wrong? Doesn’t it smell good?”

Vinny’s face twisted and he strained against Clint’s hand.

“Why don’t we heat it up a bit more?” Clint cranked the knob to max heat and flames licked up around the base of the pot. In seconds, the contents came to a full boil, the bubbles popping and spitting scalding muck on Vinny’s face.

“No…” Vinny’s eyes pinched shut and he tried to turn away from the stinking, boiling mess.

“Now, for a little taste.”

“No!” Vinny screamed as Clint shoved his head into the foul gruel, his protests abruptly silenced as the scalding contents engulfed his skull. He thrashed in wild panic, tipping the pot. Clint released him and stepped away as the man tumbled to the floor and brought the pot down with him, his screams resuming as he whipped his head back and forth, frantic hands slapping at the sticky, blistering hot goop coating his face and head and running down his neck and chest.