“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.
