An Unlikely Alliance for Survival (Preview)

Prologue

Ten-year-old Quinton Huber shivered in the early morning frost. He had never been hunting with his father before, though his father had attempted to bring him along since he was five. 

“Are we gonna see anything out here, Pa?” he asked in a hushed voice. “It’s so quiet. I think all the animals are asleep.”

His pa chuckled under his breath. He leaned close, and when he whispered into Quinton’s ear, Quinton felt the heat of his pa’s breath and saw a cloud of steam flow past him. 

He could see his own breath, too. It was so chilly his nose was almost frozen. Several times on their walk to this tree stand, Quinton had put his gloved hand over his nose to warm it up a bit.

Now, his pa handed the rifle to him. Quinton watched the much larger man stretch out his arm and point into the distance. 

“Do you see him?”

Quinton had to focus hard. Eventually, a slight movement brought the white-tailed deer into view. He felt a trace of excitement run up his spine. 

“I see it, Pa,” he said. He raised the gun and looked through the scope to get a better look. The deer wasn’t facing toward them. It was facing east, toward the rising sun, lifting its head high. The antlers springing from his head were majestic and beautiful. He counted the tips. 

“There’s ten tips, Pa,” he said, remaining quiet. How had he missed that magnificent beast the first time? Now it seemed too obvious to him. 

“Soon you’ll be able to spot them as quickly as I do. After some years, you’ll be able to see them before me.”

Quinton couldn’t imagine that. He frowned, giving his pa a side glance before squinting his left eye and peering through the scope with the right. 

“Why’s that?” he whispered. “You’ll always be better than me at spotting deer, Pa.”

Again, his father chuckled. Even though he was very young, Quinton knew his father was proud of him. He could tell in the way his pa moved, talked, taught him lessons, everything. And he was content with that. He didn’t have to hear “I love you” every day. He could see it in the way his pa treated him. 

Quinton’s mother had died while he was a baby, so it was just him and his pa. A woman local to their small town had helped his pa when Quinton was a baby. He wasn’t quite sure what had happened to his real mother. His pa never talked about her and Quinton was too nervous to ask.

“Because someday my eyes won’t be as good as yours, Quint. And you will take over the duties and when I’m old and gray, you’ll be hunting with your own sons and taking care of me so I don’t have to.”

Love for his pa swelled in his heart. “I’ll do that, Pa. I’ll take care of you. But I can’t imagine you being old. I really can’t.”

His pa ruffled his light brown hair, making Quinton smile. “Well, I ain’t old now. So get that deer, boy. We gotta have some good meat this winter. It’s all up to you.”

Quinton’s smile lifted the rifle slightly and he had to adjust it so the target in the scope was on the deer, pointing directly at its side, just below the neck. If he managed to shoot it through the heart, it would die instantly and drop where it stood. 

This was also a good way to make sure none of the meaty parts were damaged by the bullet. And he didn’t want a head shot because if the head was good, his pa would keep it and bleach the bones or have it stuffed to hang on the wall. 

His first kill. The first winter some of the food on the table would come from his effort, instead of his father’s. 

“You can do it, son. Go ahead. Take your shot before it runs off. It’s only seventy yards away. You can do it.”

His pa’s encouraging words rang in his ears and warmed his heart. 

He steadied the rifle one more time. He peered through the scope. He pulled the trigger. 

The deer turned its head the same moment the bullet left the rifle. Quinton lowered the rifle for a moment and then lifted it again to look through the scope. He couldn’t see the deer anymore. 

He lowered the rifle and saw its antlers through the leaves and brush in between them. It had fallen where it stood. 

His heart filled with pride, and he turned, anxious to receive the praise of his father and the congratulations he knew was coming. 

Something warm and wet splattered on his face. He turned away for only a moment but looked back to see his father was on the ground, just like the deer. An arrow was sticking out from the back of his neck. 

The wet substance that had hit him in the face was his father’s blood. 

He screamed with all his might, dropping to his knees. “Pa!” 

Suddenly, from the woods behind him, he heard rushing footsteps. In a burst of energy, Natives came from the wilderness brandishing hatchets, bows, and knives. They looked angry, their faces painted with red and black warpaint. 

Fear struck him like a bolt of lightning. He was on his feet as if he’d been lifted and took to running straight down the hill through the ravine and back toward home. 

He glanced over his shoulder only once, tears streaming down his face, to see the Natives rifling through his father’s pockets. They hadn’t bothered to follow him. They must have known he wouldn’t have any loot on him for them to take. 

His hand clutching the rifle, Quinton ran as fast as his legs would take him, weeping for his father, for his shattered life, for the memories that hadn’t been made… and never would be.

Chapter One

Fifteen years later, Quinton sat in the woods not far from where he’d lost his father. He was sitting on a large rock, his rifle butt against the ground, his hand clutched around it. He lifted the handkerchief tied around his neck to wipe the sweat from his brow. It was warm for March.

He was taking a break. The deer he’d shot was draped over a fallen tree with a hollow trunk near him. 

Uncle Kenneth will be mad if I don’t get on my way, he thought. He planned to resume the walk after just a moment of relaxation.

Hunting in the woods always reminded him of the first time he’d hunted, the last hunt for his pa. It had taken him two years to go hunting again, but since that time, he’d been in the woods faithfully at the beginning of the winter and the beginning of spring, the two times when the deer were out and waiting. 

Once or twice he’d even gone out of state with Uncle Ken to do some bear hunting. That was exciting. A complete difference from deer hunting.

Quinton thought about the first trip. It had been such fun. He’d been nineteen and ready to take on the world. Nine years since the death of his father. Nine years since his life had changed completely. 

That was also the year he’d come back to Iowa, to the homestead his father left him. He rebuilt the house with the help of some friends and, of course, his uncle, who’d become a second father to him. Aunt Margie had passed away from tuberculosis when it had swept through their Kansas home, so Uncle Ken had sold his own property and come to live with Quinton in Iowa. 

In the last fifteen years, the Natives living near his home had been exterminated. His hardened heart didn’t give him much room to think about that situation, which was likely devastating to those Indians. They had killed his father. He had loved his father. Therefore, he hated the Natives. All of them. 

Quinton stood up, stretching his arms over his head. He knew exactly what he’d do now if he was confronted by a Native. It wouldn’t be a pretty sight and he’d be the one walking away from that fight. 

He looked around him, mentally daring someone to pop out of the woods like they had when he was just a boy. Every time he went hunting, he did the exact same thing. He was watchful, cautious, and ready. But he’d never confronted another Native in fifteen years. 

Not even one. 

He wouldn’t run if he did. He wouldn’t be scared. He was six foot two, with broad shoulders and a strong countenance, much like his father and uncle. He was proud of his strength. 

Taking care of the homestead gave him plenty of exercise to build his chest and arm muscles. Walking everywhere had given him large legs, as well. 

In fact, there was nothing about him that was small, not even his brain. Still wise beyond his years, he was often told. 

He lifted the dead deer and slung it over his shoulders as if it weighed no more than a feather. Holding onto its legs on both sides, he trudged through the woods back toward the campsite where his uncle and their friend Steven would be waiting. 

He was an intimidating figure and he knew it. Small forest critters ran when he approached. His steps echoed off the mountains that surrounded him. He pulled in a deep breath of fresh air, clutching the deer legs tighter. 

He began to jog.

When Quinton reached the campsite, Steven was nowhere to be found. 

“Where’d Steven go?” he asked, heading for the tree where he would tie the deer to hang it and drain the blood. Afterward, he would skin it and wrap it in a tarp to take back to the butchery shed at his ranch, leaving the extra bits for the vultures and other scavengers that lived in the woods. 

“He said his wife wanted him home early,” Uncle Ken said, pushing an iron poker into the campfire. He glanced at Quinton, scanning the deer carcass. “That’s a big one. You did good. I think that one’s been stalking these woods for years. How many tips does it have?”

“Twelve,” Quinton responded, proud of his kill, proud that he was able to provide not just for himself but for some of the poor people in town. He regularly donated to the local charity shop, which provided meals for the widows, the orphanage and the poorest in their town. 

“Good catch, son. Good catch.”

“Thanks.” Quinton thought about that word “son.” Uncle Ken had been calling him that for at least a decade. And as much as Ken did to make up for the loss of his brother, Joe, he had the right to call Quinton a son. 

For the next hour, Quinton took his time cutting the skin from the dear, saving the large strips to sell to the leather worker. Sometimes he got food or items in trade. Not always money. But he didn’t need money. His ranch brought in enough for him to live comfortably and he wasn’t interested in wealth. He just wanted to live a good life. 

Although he was twenty-six and many considered him a lifelong bachelor, he looked forward to someday having a wife and children of his own. How soon that happened was yet to be seen. 

To some, it might have seemed like a pipe dream. But Quinton wasn’t a negative thinker. He knew someday, when he put a little effort into it, he would find the woman for him. God would provide that woman when it was time. He firmly believed that.

“Sit down, Quint,” Uncle Ken said, tapping the flat rock next to him. “Let’s talk. I can see ya got somethin’ on your mind.”

Quinton didn’t have anything important he was debating or questioning, but he did as he was told anyway. He’d obeyed Uncle Ken since the first day the man showed up in his life, just a few days after his father was killed. 

“I think it must be you that’s got somethin’ on your mind, Uncle Ken,” he said as he sat down. He leaned forward, folding his arms and resting them on his knees. “So speak up. What’s buggin’ ya?”

Uncle Ken gave him a grin. “You always were intuitive, my boy.” He shook his head, sighing heavily. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking. I might wanna be doin’ some travelin’ sometime soon. Maybe explore this nation, livin’ off odd jobs.”

This news surprised Quinton. He raised one eyebrow and tilted his head to the side. “You want to leave the homestead? Why? What’s wrong with it?”

Ken shook his head. “That’s not it, boy. I was thinkin’ more about adventure. I’m gettin’ older, ya see, and, well… it was always something me and your pa thought about and talked about. Then when I got married to Margie, she wanted to do all that, too. But she ain’t here now and my boys are off living their lives.”

Uncle Ken stood and walked to the nearby creek they’d camped by. He lowered to one knee and pushed his canteen into it sideways to fill it up. 

When he spoke, he turned his head to look back at Quinton. 

“I don’t mind if ya wanna come with me on my travels, Quint. You’re welcome to come along. But if you ain’t gonna get married anytime soon,” he chuckled, “and I don’t think ya will, since you ain’t got a woman, ya might want some fun and adventure, too, right? Now that Margie is gone, I’m ready to explore. And you ain’t got a wife, so you might as well, right?”

“It’s somethin’ to think about, that’s true.”

Quinton lifted the pot of boiling water from the grate. He poured it over the coffee grounds and mixed it with a wooden spoon. The smell of the coffee met his nose and he breathed it in. 

Uncle Ken returned to the fire and poured himself some coffee as well. He sat where he had been before filling his canteen, which he placed next to his saddle bags, which were next to the bedroll. 

It wasn’t until that moment that Quinton realized his uncle had packed up his kit. He was ready to leave the woods, ending their hunting for that trip. 

Aware that he hadn’t done a bit of packing himself, Quinton lifted up from the rock and headed for his junk. 

“You don’t have to do that right now if ya don’t want to, Quint,” Ken said from behind him.

“Nah, it’s okay. I reckon if you’re ready to go back home, I am, too.”

“Yeah, but you just carried that buck on your back for twenty minutes. You don’t want to rest up for the trip back?”

Quinton shook his head. “Nah. It ain’t that far to the homestead.”

“Quint.” 

There was a seriousness to his uncle’s voice that made Quinton turn and stare. His uncle moved his eyes to the rock Quinton had abandoned and back to him. He clearly wanted Quint to sit again. 

Feeling slightly confused and like a teenager again, Quint did as his uncle indicated. 

“That… that wasn’t all you wanted to talk about?” he asked.

Uncle Ken sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees, cupping the coffee mug between his hands. “I just want you to think seriously about this, Quint. It could shape your future. You might never get an opportunity like this again.”

Quinton shook his head. “I don’t understand. It seems to me you just want to go traveling. What’s so serious about it?”

“Ain’t there anything you want to do with your life, boy? Aren’t you interested in women and havin’ a family? Do you want to be a bachelor forever?”

Quinton raised his eyebrows. “I never said I wanted to be a bachelor forever.”

“It took my brother a long time to settle down, too. He was older when he had you, ya know.” Uncle Ken gave him a direct look. “In fact, he didn’t even meet your ma until he was the age you are right now.”

Quinton felt a pang in his heart, the same feeling he always got when he thought about his pa. The image of the arrow sticking out of his pa’s neck and the Natives rifling through his pa’s clothes came to his mind with full force. 

His father had died too young. That was a fact. 

“I want to have a family, Uncle. I never said I didn’t. I want a wife and kids. But so far, I haven’t found a woman to settle down with. I like the ladies in town… but… none of them grab my heart like I’d want if I was gonna marry someone.”

Uncle Ken looked relieved. His shoulders had been tense and they relaxed. His face lost its tightness. “That’s good to hear, son. Really good to hear. Your pa would want you married, Quint. I don’t wanna be the one to keep you from your destiny. You have time but… I just want you to be happy.”

Quinton chuckled again. “With a wife and child. Or children.”

Finally, his uncle cracked his own smile. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry to press you on this subject. I just don’t want you comin’ on this trip with me if you’ve got other ideas in mind.”

“And I say you’ve got somebody in mind. Who is it?”

His uncle laughed, sitting back and shaking his head. After taking a sip of his coffee, he said, “Bob from the butcher shop said his daughter has her eye on you.”

Quinton was slightly taken aback. “Sally? She’s nineteen years old!”

Ken laughed again. “Yeah. She’s getting too old, too. Says everyone will think she’s a spinster.”

“Why would she be interested in me?” Quinton was genuinely confused. Almost speechless. 

While Sally was a beautiful girl, she wasn’t terribly clever. He needed someone with intelligence. Someone who could be strong in a time of need. And he just didn’t see that in Sally. 

It helped him make up his mind.

“Uncle Ken, I’ll go on the trip with you. Maybe I’ll find the woman of my dreams while we’re gone. She can come back and live on the ranch and help me run it while you chase your dreams or whatever it is you want to do.”

Uncle Ken blinked at him, the corners of his lips slightly lifted. “Okay, son.”

Chapter Two

A gunshot followed by screams and loud commotion grabbed Mila Kuznetzov’s attention. Her heart jumped in her chest and pounded like a drum as she backed away from her door. She’d been about to go through and join her family in the parlor. 

She stared at the closed door, listening to the gunshots, her family screaming, running, the crash of the furniture, the shattering of glass. She trembled, stepping forward, about to grasp the doorknob. 

Suddenly, the door flew open. Her cousin Vladimir, her mother’s sister’s son, filled the open space with his large, bulky body. Before she could say anything, he grabbed her arm and yanked her through the door. 

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Mila was perfectly willing to be grabbed and dragged if he was protecting her. 

Without a word, Vlad pulled her to the back of the house. He put his large hands on either end of a bookshelf and moved it out of the way to reveal a door behind it. 

“What… what is this?” Mila asked in their native tongue, Russian. “What are you doing? How did you…” 

She couldn’t finish what she was trying to say. He turned and gave her such a narrow, dark look, she was afraid to speak. She sucked in a breath and put a hand over her mouth. 

He hissed, gesturing with his head, looking over her shoulder at the door they had just come through. She felt a tingle slide through her. 

Was someone behind her? She didn’t even want to look. Should she be scared? She was scared anyway. 

Vlad put his fingers in the wallpaper, sliding his hands up and down, pushing the paper into the small gap. Mila heard a click and the door opened two inches. He yanked it open and turned back to her. 

“In,” he growled, reaching for her again. 

Mila was used to Vlad’s take-charge attitude. He was like that at school, too. He was two years older than her but she was smart, had always been smarter than most of the children her age. She’d fit in well with the older kids. 

She avoided his firm grasp and darted past him into the darkness beyond the door. 

“Go up the stairs!” Vlad ordered in his gruff, low voice. He grabbed a lantern from the shelf he’d moved aside and came in behind her. 

She tripped on the first stair but got her balance and went up the steps on all fours to the next level. She hadn’t even known this room was there.

The screams and gunshots downstairs were ongoing. She tried not to think about her family. 

Vlad couldn’t save everyone. And the attack had been so abrupt, with no warning, it sent more fear through Mila than she ever thought possible. 

Who was it attacking them? What was the reason? Had her father or mother made someone powerful very upset?

Why?

The question—that one word—resonated over and over in her mind. 

She stumbled up to the second level and was at the top step when sudden light filled the room around her. Vlad had lit the lantern. He had it on low but it had previously been so dark she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. 

She vaulted herself onto the second floor and ran to the large round window to her left. She flattened her hands against it, looking down at the front lawn. 

The fight spilled out there. She could see her father and two brothers fighting valiantly. Their lives depended on it. She rooted for them silently, pressing her face against the glass. 

She saw the moment her father’s life ended. He was fighting with another man, who was wearing all black. Her father’s opponent was nimble and lithe, moving with the speed and agility of a big cat, a panther, a tiger. 

He spun in circles, kicking her father in the side, the face, sweeping his foot under so her father was knocked off his feet. Then he pulled a knife and stabbed it into her father’s chest. 

“No!” she cried out. 

“Shush!” Vlad hissed. 

Mila snapped her mouth shut, instant tears filling her eyes and sliding over her cheeks. “No, Papa…” she mumbled under her breath. 

As her father fell to his knees, her two brothers, who had also seen what happened, went into a rage. They each pulled a weapon from their waistbands. Mila watched them spin and kick, fighting their own opponents with fierce rage. Once they conquered their own opponents, they doubled up on the man who had killed their father. 

Soon the masked man was on the ground in a pool of his own blood. Mila watched as one of her brothers squatted over the fallen man, raising his hands above his head fisted together. He brought the double fist down on the enemy’s chest. Over and over and over again. 

With each impact, her brother screamed in anger, “Die! Die!”

To Mila’s dismay, a dozen horses with more dark-clothed masked men rode up. Half of them ran into the house while the other six stayed outside to kill the last of her remaining family. 

She couldn’t bear to watch. She turned away when four men took on her two brothers. She didn’t want to see them die like she’d watched her father die. 

She spun around, covering her face, sobbing as quietly as she could. Seconds later, she felt Vlad’s large, strong arms encircle her. 

“It will be okay, Mila,” Vlad stated in a low growling voice. “We must live to fight another day. We must.”

“Papa…” Mila sobbed, relaxing against Vlad’s large chest, her tears soaking his shirt. “Ivan. Dimitri… they are gone, Vlad. They are gone. Oh, how can I live on? I cannot. I should die now. It is my turn!”

She headed for the door, but Vlad grabbed her arm. 

“Do not be a fool!” he barked. “You must live! You must have a family of your own, carry on the blood of the family.” 

“You carry it on!” Mila shouted at him. She could tell her yell made him uncomfortable. “I do not want to! I want to die with my family!”

“No!” Vlad yelled at her as quietly as he could. “You must live! That is why I brought you up here! Your father would have wanted it! You know this.”

Mila spun around and headed for the large window. If she couldn’t be killed by the bandits that had invaded and destroyed her home, she would throw herself out the window. Then she would be with her family. 

It was the only way.

“No! What are you doing?” Vlad asked, reaching for her again.

She shrugged away from his grasp, darting past and heading for the window in a dead run. 

He must have figured out what she was doing because he shot after her and wrapped his arms around her waist, ending her forward momentum. 

“No!” he yelled. 

She fought him for a moment but realized she wasn’t strong enough. Instead of trying to throw herself through the window, Mila turned and buried her face into his chest, grasping his shirt in her hands. 

There she stayed for five solid minutes, sobbing. 

Her family… her family was… gone…

Chapter Three

Fifteen minutes of quiet weeping passed before Mila was able to lift her head and look at Vlad. She had taken a position near the window, pulling her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, her head tucked between her knees. Her skirt was soaked with her tears right at the knee, as if she’d been kneeling in water. 

She stared at Vlad, who appeared to be standing guard at the window. He looked out into the dusky sky. What was he waiting for?

As if sensing she had looked up at him, he turned his head. He looked remarkably older than just an hour ago, when she’d seen him dancing and cavorting with his wife Elena. Elena was probably dead too. If she wasn’t, surely she’d be in the hidden room with them. 

That likely also accounted for the look of rage on his face. It wasn’t just for her family. It was for his own, as well. 

“You must leave. You must get away from here and go to the States.”

She raised her eyebrows. “To the United States? Why must I go there?”

“It is very large there. Many states that will allow you to disappear amongst the civilians. You must lighten your hair, change your name, and continue your studies there.” 

“I will not respond to another name. This plan scares me.”

“You can change only your last name. You know English. This is where you must go.”

Mila’s fear returned sevenfold. “Will you come with me?”

Vlad shaking his head made her tears return. “I cannot. I must stay here. It will look much more suspicious for two of us to suddenly show up. You must go alone. You can do this, Mila. It is necessary.”

It would do no good to fuss with him about it. He was unbreakable. He’d been that way since they were children. When Vlad made a decision, he didn’t waver from it, unless continuing on the same path would cause him or someone else harm. 

“Do you remember Igor Volkov?” he asked, leaving the window and coming to kneel on one knee in front of her. He was speaking gently now, reaching up to push her light brown hair out of her eyes. “He lives in New York but has many connections all through the States. It may be necessary for you to find those connections and hide in the west of the nation, where there are less people.”

“I will be so lonely,” Mila replied forlornly, her voice quiet. 

“Unfortunately, you and your family… and my family, were warned this could happen. That is why you were taught English and given so much information about the United States.”

“The west will be very warm. They do not understand our culture or behave the way we do. I am… I am so afraid…” 

Mila had never before felt so helpless. She was going to a place she had only read about in books. Americans seemed so brash and bold to her. So outlandishly so. There was no way she would ever fit in.

“I know you’re scared, Mila,” Vlad responded kindly. “But I have confidence in you. I know you will succeed and live well if you are able to connect with those in America that will be waiting for you. You will meet good people and bad people along the way. There is only one enemy you must truly be afraid of, though. That’s Anatoli Popov.