The PZs knew Frankie was here. How had they found out? Was it something Kit had let slip? Had they realized who operated the drone or seen Frankie sneaking around the compound? Maybe Nabera realized why she’d been asking him questions. What if Obadiah had recognized her?

The reason how didn’t really matter, though.

Nausea churned her stomach. Was this why the cabins had been burned?

She paced in circles on the lawn. Think, Frankie, think.

If they knew Frankie was here, they’d know Kit had called her here.

Kit had a broken arm.

They beat Kit up to punish her.

“Oh, amica mia, I’m sorry.” The sick feeling in her stomach grew stronger.

If Obadiah planned to take Kit and Aric somewhere else, was it to kill her?

Fear buzzed in Frankie’s ears, drowning out the sounds of everything else.

Keep it together. She mustn’t panic. “It’s up to me.” But all of her backup plans would take time to implement.

She had the originals of the guardianship papers—in New York—but the same problems would apply. Even if she could get the cops here to move quickly, if they showed up at the gate, the PZs would simply eliminate Kit and Aric. If they attacked, well, a SWAT team, if Anchorage had one, would be up against a bunch of armed militia guys.

Everything would take too long.

Kit was out of time.

She stopped pacing and stared at the blue-green lake. Bull would help. She hadn’t wanted to involve him when she had other alternatives—because he’d have insisted on helping. Risking his life. And her plan would’ve risked only her. But now…

Now it was a woman’s and child’s lives, and Frankie had no way to get them out. She needed his help.

She headed across the lawn and saw him standing by his deck. Waiting. He would’ve seen she was upset…and he’d given her space.

He walked down the steps to meet her.

“Bull.”

He ran his hands up and down her upper arms, steadying her with just his touch. “Tell me, sweetheart.”

“I need your help. Lots of help.” She tried to slow her breathing. “Everything is a mess, and I think they’re going to kill my friend. Please help us.”

“Always. What do you need?”

Madonna, no wonder she loved him. “I have a friend who married a guy who is in the PZs and—”

“’Mano,” Caz called. He and Gabe walked up. “I gave Frankie a message from a PZ woman who had bruises and a fractured arm.”

“You…” Frankie frowned at the doc. “What about privacy?”

His mouth curled up. “Messages sneaked into my lab coat aren’t covered under patient confidentiality, and I am mandated to report suspicion of abuse to local law enforcement.” He tilted his head at Gabe.

“Do you want privacy—or assistance, bro?” Gabe asked.