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About Not a Hero

Sons of the Survivalist: 1

Cherise Sinclair is my go to author when I want a satisfying read. Heat, emotion, suspense. She’s got it all.

~ NYT Bestselling author Lexi Blake

In the Alaska wilderness, four streetwise boys became men—and brothers. Now the crazy ex-military survivalist who plucked Gabriel and three other boys from an abusive foster care home has died. But the sarge leaves them a final mission: Revive the dying town of Rescue.

Gabe is done with being a hero. Wounded in body and soul, the retired SEAL simply wants to remain holed up in his isolated cabin. He sure doesn’t want to be chief of police in some defunct town. Nevertheless, he has his orders.

Audrey needs a place to hide. After the Chicago librarian discovers a horrendous crime, she wakes to an assassin in her bedroom. Injured and terrified, she flees, covering her trail every inch of the way. New name, new ID. New home. As Audrey learns to survive in Rescue, she begins to fall for the town…and the intimidating chief of police who protects it.

Can the shy introvert and the deadly police chief find a life together? Despite the discord in town, Gabe is finding his own peace…with the quiet young woman who seems to have no past. She’s adorable and caring and so very lost. But how can he trust someone who lies to him with every breath she takes?

Acknowledgments

I had so much lovely help with this book that I’m not sure where to start.

Bianca Sommerland and Monette Michaels—where would I be without you guys to keep me on the plot path? Love you!

The reason y’all can read this book without tripping over typos and bloopers are due to the fantastic Red Quill’s editors and my wonderful beta readers, Marian Shulman, Lisa White, and—despite just getting out of the hospital—Barb Jack.

Big hugs go to my Alaska beta readers, Jennifer Foster and Kathleen Cole, who provided so many wonderful details about living in Alaska and also kept me from making idiotic Outsider errors.

Prologue

Don’t wait for someone to hand over a red cape and call you a hero. Jump the fuck in. ~ First Sergeant Michael “Mako” Tyne

Heading out to play baseball with Kana and Miguel, two other foster children, ten-year-old Gabriel MacNair heard whimpering. The sound came from the master bedroom.

Pausing, he reached for the knob and stopped. No, dummy. Although he’d only been in this foster home for two weeks, after a year in the system, he knew better than to go into a foster parent’s room…and that went double for this man.

Phillip had big hands and a mean temper.

Inside the room, Phillip cursed, then growled at someone, “Shut your trap, you ugly little shit.”

“Don’t touch me! Get off!”

That was Derek’s voice.

Gabe sucked in a breath. All three foster boys in this house were almost Gabe’s age and as streetwise as he was. He liked them. Derek didn’t talk much at all, and he had a mean-looking scar on his face, but when Gabe’d first arrived, the boy had scooted over and shared his bench. He was okay.

But…if Gabe opened the door, Phillip would probably hit him. Hard.

There was a slapping sound and something ripped. Derek screamed in fury.

Fear thick in his throat, Gabe tried to turn the knob. Locked. He swallowed. Okay, okay, he could do this. He’d always helped Gramps in the locksmith shop. Gramps said Gabe could pick a lock before he could walk.

Grief slid over him. Why’d you have to go and die, Gramps?

Taking the jackknife from his sock, he silently slid the blade past the lock’s strike plate, edging the spring latch from the jamb. When it gave, he tucked his knife away and shoved the door open.

“Hey, Phillip, can I—” The weak excuse died on his lips as he stared in shock.

Phillip had Derek shoved face-first on the bed. The man’s fat dick bobbed out of his unzipped jeans. Seeing Gabe, he turned red with rage. “Get the fuck out of here!”

Terrified, Gabe took a step back.

Shirt half-ripped off, Derek was kicking, struggling.

Can’t leave. Heart pounding so hard it hurt, Gabe yelled, lowered his head, and charged. His skull hit Phillip right in the gut and knocked him against the wall. “Run, Derek!”

Wheezing, Phillip shoved off the wall and backhanded Gabe to the floor. “Pissant brat.”

Gabe slammed into the floor and tumbled against the dresser. Head spinning, he tried to stand. And fell.

Derek scrambled up onto the bed and launched himself at the man.

Ear-splitting shrieks came from the doorway as the other two boys tore in from outside—and attacked.

Kana, a big kid with long black hair dove at Phillip, hitting him at the same time as Derek. Phillip tossed them back.

Miguel, the short Mexican, swung his bat. The wood hit Phillip’s dick—and the scream was terrifying.

Phillip dropped to his knees, holding his junk.

Panting, Gabe made it to his feet. Man, they were all so screwed.

Miguel looked like he’d puke, and Kana backed away.

When Derek staggered, Gabe slung an arm around him to hold him up.

“Jesus, what kind of clusterfuck is this?” A huge man stood in the doorway, filling the frame completely. All muscle. Short, dark brown hair going gray. Eyes sharper than Gabe’s knife narrowed on Phillip who was holding his naked dick. The stranger’s jaw tightened as he looked at the bed, then Gabe and the others. “Who was the pervert after?”

Derek edged closer to Gabe, but bravely raised his chin. “Me.”

“Goddamn city isn’t safe even for rugrats.” He studied them. “Which one of you attacked the asshole?”

Holding his aching jaw, Gabe forced out the answer. “Me.”

“Me.” “Me.” “Yo.” Four kids; four answers.

Gabe braced himself to be hauled away. The others were doing the same.

Instead, the guy’s mouth curved into an approving smile. “You boys got guts. And already made yourselves into a team.”

Phillip leaned toward the bedstand, fumbling for the phone. “You hit me with a god-damned bat. They’ll lock you little bastards up forever.”

Lock us up? Fear chilled Gabe’s skin. His knees wobbled.

The stranger’s gaze went icy. He took two steps, slammed his huge fist into Phillip’s jaw, and knocked the jerk out cold.

Turning, the big man put his hands on his hips and looked them over.

Shakily, Gabe braced his legs and stared up. Why’d he do that? What did he want?

With relief, Gabe felt Kana’s shoulder rub his on the left. Miguel moved to stand on Derek’s other side.

The man nodded, like he was pleased or something. “Name’s Mako. I’ve been next door, visiting an old buddy. He said this here is a foster home?”

That was a safe enough question. Gabe nodded.

Mako glanced at Phillip. “Is the pervert your father or uncle?”

“Uh-uh.”

Mako frowned. “How about the rest of you? He a relative?”

The three shook their heads.

“Guess that’s good. Do any of you got family around here?”

“No,” Miguel muttered while Derek and Gabe shook their heads.

Kana snorted. “If we did, we wouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah, guess not.” The man’s face tightened. “When the asshole wakes up, sounds like you’re going to be in trouble. True?”

Gabe blinked back tears because it was true. No one believed what kids said—not if a grownup said different. If Phillip told the social worker that the foster kids ganged up on him or tried to steal something—jeez, he could say anything—then they’d get dumped into a group home.

Gabe’d heard awful stories about those places. Got to leave before Phillip wakes up. He eyed the door and then realized Mako’s gaze had followed his.

“You’ll run.” The man’s eyes narrowed.

No one answered.

“The streets are no place for kids,” he muttered. “An’ if shit hits the fan, y’all will be like ducklings in a lake of hungry bass.”

Miguel made a worried sound. He was the youngest and really nice.

Saying stuff to scare kids wasn’t right.

Gabe tried to stand taller. “You shouldn’t try to scare us.” When the ice-cold gaze came to rest on him, he almost fled right then. Instead, he forced out the words. “We don’t have any choice, mister.”

“It’s Mako, kid, or Sarge works.” The man ran his fingers through his hair and scowled. “This’s fucked up.”

He stared at them a minute, then sighed. “My home is a long way from here, and that’s where I’m headed now. If you come with me, I’ll raise you till you can stand on your own two feet.”

Silence.

The other three looked at Gabe, waiting for him to decide, as they had since the first week he’d arrived. As if he knew what he was doing, which was totally a crock.

But if they trusted him, he’d better be careful. Couldn’t let them get hurt, and this guy was awful big. When Gramps was dying, Gabe had scavenged on the streets to get money for food and medicine. He’d seen bad stuff happen.

He studied Mako. Clean. Good sturdy clothes. Scary tough. Probably kinda mean. But his gaze was straight; his body was straight. No sign of drugs or alcohol.

And he’d called Phillip a pervert like he hated perverts.

“You’ll take care of us?” Gabe asked carefully. “Feed us an’…and send us to school?”

The man snorted. “Got no school in the wilderness, but you’ll learn, boy. And you’ll eat a far sight better than here. You’ll learn to hunt your own meat. Live off the land. And you’ll be safe when the world goes to hell.”

Was the world supposed to go to hell? That sounded kinda crazy.

Gabe glanced at Phillip, still not moving. Crazy was better than a…a pervert. Or being locked up in a group home. Getting a long way from here would be smart.

“I’ll go with you.” Gabe met the other kids’ looks and spoke for them all. “We’ll go with you.”

“Good enough. Let’s get out of here.” The man turned, and his voice drifted down the hallway. “Start thinking of new names for yourselves.”

Mako hadn’t been joking about a long way away. The sarge took them to Alaska.

Within a month, the other three had found their new names.

A bull moose charged Kana, making him dodge around trees forever, before Mako’d gotten a shot at it. The kid dropped onto the ground, panting and laughing—cuz Kana could laugh at anything. He stared at the monster-sized moose and slapped his chest. “I’m gonna eat him and get as big as him. I’m gonna be a bigga-badda bull.”

Bull had found his name.

When Miguel had trapped a rabbit using just stuff from the forest, Mako said he had the makings of a hunter. Miguel had stared at the trap he’d built. “Cazador. Me llamo Cazador.”

Miguel still hadn’t picked up much English, but the sarge knew Spanish. “You want to be called Cazador?”

Miguel nodded.

Mako crossed his arms over his chest. “Means hunter. Yeah, that’s a good handle, kid. You’re Cazador.”

The first time Derek saw a hawk launch from a branch and snatch up a mouse in its sharp talons, he knew what he wanted to be called. In all the years since, Hawk had never lost his fascination with the predatory birds.

Only Gabe had refused to choose a new name because Gramps had said Mama chose his name especially for him. For who she thought he’d be. Gabriel was a guardian angel, the messenger of God. She’d said she knew her son would someday be a protector. A hero.

He wouldn’t give up his name…or her dream for him.

Trying not to tremble like a coward, that’s what he’d told the sarge.

Mako had been quiet for a long time and then said, “Can’t argue with a mother’s hopes. God knows this fucking world needs more heroes.”

Chapter One

Gabriel had tried being a hero. Served as a Navy SEAL, a police officer, and as a mercenary. Yeah, no. He’d hung up his cape for good.

People didn’t want heroes.

And he was done risking his neck for anyone ever again.

Nope, he’d stay far, far from the job of hero and away from people, as well. Damn straight.

Stiffly, he rose from where he’d been kneeling on the porch. The ladder-back chair he’d made with hand tools was finished. Limping slightly, he carried it inside and set it beside the kitchen table. Not bad, but it’d taken him forever. He grinned ruefully. If he tried to make a living by building furniture, he’d starve.

Shaking his head, he headed back outside. Long winter, small cabin. He needed to be outside.

Spring had finally arrived on the Kenai Peninsula in Alaska. A couple of weeks before, the river near Mako’s old cabin had been an impressive flood of water with massive chunks of ice. Now, the water level was returning to normal, and the snow was disappearing.

Back on the porch, he stretched. His left shoulder and hip only throbbed resentfully, far improved from the stabbing pains he’d suffered when he arrived last fall. Back then, he’d moved like a gunshot cripple—because he was—now, his limp only appeared when he was an idiot and overexerted himself. Like ever since the snow began to melt.

He should go into Seward sometime. He hadn’t been there since he arrived last fall. He probably had mail piled up in the post office box.

The mail could sit and rot. After the disastrous ambush of his mercenary team, which could have been prevented if the company hadn’t lied to him, he’d quit and come here, to where he’d grown up.

The total isolation of Sarge’s old cabin was what he’d needed—to get away from people. He shook his head. How so-called humans could do such unspeakable things to each other, he would never understand. As a cop, he’d seen crimes committed for money, sex, and drugs. In the Navy SEALs and as a mercenary, he’d seen people fight over power, territory, religion, and race. The atrocities he’d seen…

The ambush of his merc team last fall had been the breaking point. His jaw tightened to the level of pain before he breathed out. Stop, dumbass. The past was the past.

There weren’t any people out here. The cabin was off the grid. No electricity, no running water. Rather rundown, despite the work he’d put into it over the winter. When Mako’d brought him and the other boys here—over twenty years ago—the log cabin had been one room with a loft. That summer, they’d doubled the size and started the first of their lessons. Construction techniques, obedience, respect, survival, and first aid.

Seven years ago, Gabe and his three brothers had talked the sarge into leaving this area and moving near Rescue where he had an old war buddy. Together, they bought a huge, isolated chunk of land and built five cabins, despite the fact that only Mako had lived there permanently.

Jesus, Gabe’d visited as often as he could wrangle time off—they all had—but he hadn’t been there when Mako really needed him. When he’d died last fall.

God. The swamping guilt and grief hollowed a place around his heart. October. It’d been a dark, ugly month. First, the ambush down in South America. His men shouting, screaming, falling, dying. He hadn’t known them long, but they’d been his, and he’d failed them. He should never have trusted the intel provided…or the company.

After surgery to repair the damage from the bullets, he’d been flown back to the States to finish his recovery. He’d wakened after the long flight, smelling the astringent odors of a hospital, hearing people in a hallway. Feeling the searing pain in his shoulder and hip.

When he’d opened his eyes, Caz and Bull were there. They’d looked devastated.

And they’d told him about Mako’s death.

Gabe swallowed against the thickness in his throat. Why did he still feel as if he’d lost a part of himself? The sarge had died in a car accident months ago.

Car accident, my ass. He’d killed himself. Said so plainly in the note he’d left.

- - - -

If you’re reading this, I’m dead. Soon now, I figure on taking a quick right off a high cliff—although it’s a waste of a good vehicle. Got a diagnosis a while back. Cancer. No surprise after that crap they sprayed on us in ’Nam. The docs say they can’t do shit, and I always said I’d check out when life lost its flavor—that time is now.

The nightmares are getting worse again, too. The PTSD—Jesus, who the fuck thought of such a stupid name—got better when I got you four. Raising you all gave me a mission. Staved it off—mostly. I’m sorry for the times it got the better of me and I scared you.

- - - -

Gabe shook his head. Yeah, Mako had scared the crap out of them off and on. The sarge’d been a Vietnam vet, and some triggers made him crazy. The sound of a chopper, the unexpected smell of diesel. Fireworks with staccato, sharp noises sent him diving for cover, or worse, running into the forest. Days later, he’d return haggard and silent.

But if he didn’t run and was fighting off a flashback, his temper would erupt.

Drill sergeants had cruel tongues.

Being clueless kids, they hadn’t understood, not at first, but Cazador, the smartest with people, had eventually figured out the sarge had PTSD from a war that had occurred before they were even born. Slowly, they’d discovered how to avoid the triggers…and what to do when shit happened anyway.

Gabe rubbed his face and the rough beard he hadn’t bothered to trim. He had his own nightmares of war and death now and a hell of a lot of respect for how well Mako had managed.

The sarge would be the first to understand why Gabe had holed up in the cabin…and would be the first to kick his ass out of it.

But Gabe hadn’t found any reason to leave.

Leaning against a porch post, he inhaled. The crisp green scent of spring smelled like anticipation. It was…annoying.

With his free hand, he massaged his throbbing shoulder. It didn’t hurt too much, considering the amount of work he’d done this week. The injuries were pretty much healed.

His mind, though? Not so much. Like Grayson, the sarge’s psychologist friend, had warned, the isolation had made it worse.

The land was thawing under the spring sun; he wasn’t sure he ever would.

But he’d found some peace, too, out here in Mako’s old cabin. Seemed like he could feel the sarge here now and then. Mako’d loved this place where dense spruce, birch, and cottonwood forest surrounded the cabin on three sides. A slope filled with alders led to the river where the sun sparkled off the last remaining ice along the riverbank. A few chunks still bobbed in the swift-running, turquoise water.

As he watched the water, the birds went silent. He heard the approaching noise of one—no, two—four-wheelers coming down the nearly impassible dirt road to the cabin.

Stepping inside, he pulled his old Mossberg shotgun off the rack and returned to the porch.

Just inside the clearing, two men dismounted from their ATVs and approached the cabin. One bear-sized man. One shorter, more slender guy who moved with the deadly grace of a lynx.

Jesus. Fuck.

Shoving back his hood, Caz eyed the shotgun. “Buenos días, ’mano. Are you shooting visitors now?”

Bull snorted. “He always did take after the sarge.”

Gabe’s brothers sauntered up to the porch.

With a grunt of irritation, Gabe went inside to put the shotgun back in the rack as the two pulled off their boots and coats in the entry. “What the hell do you two want?”

“Wanted to make sure you were alive.” Bull walked into the main cabin.

“I’m alive.” Gabe motioned toward the door in a not-so-subtle hint.

They didn’t leave.

“Nice try. Won’t work.” Bull pulled him into a one-armed hug.

Gabe froze. It’d been a long winter without people. But okay, okay, he loved his brothers. With a sigh, he hugged back. “Hey, bro.”

“I’ve missed you, viejo.” His other brother grabbed a hug too. A medic first, then a nurse practitioner, Caz had the biggest heart of them all and the hottest temper. “It’s been too long.”

Yeah, from fall until… “What month is it anyway?”

Caz shook his head. “May. Happy Cinco de Mayo in two days.”

May? It had been awhile. He snorted. “I’m surprised Zachary Grayson didn’t show up. Last fall, he said that if I didn’t leave after break-up, he’d come and dig me out.”

Bull grinned. “He called me last week, actually, to ask if you were out. His wife just gave birth, so he couldn’t leave right away but said you’ll be getting a visit in a few weeks, if you’re still holed up here.”

“Damned psychologist.” Yet it felt…good…in a way, to know that Grayson had worried about him even with a new baby in the house.

Wait. New baby? He counted backward on his fingers. “Jesus, she must’ve been pregnant last fall.” Back when Grayson’s stalker had almost shot her. The thought shook him to the core, and he pulled in a harsh breath.

At ease, MacNair. Baby was born. Everyone was good. He looked at Bull. “So you’re here to answer his questions on how I am?”

“Nope. We want to talk to you about a problem we’re having.” Bull walked over to the kitchen area.

The two extra people made the cabin feel much smaller. “I don’t do problems. Not anymore.”

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