The Last of the Freemen by Carl Trotz

report...”
    “Who’s this guy?” the other man asked. “Who’s he think he is, talkin’ like that?”
    “This is the Wolf,” answered the first, “John’s old partner.  They said he was comin’.”
    “This is the guy who busted in John’s face?”
    “The one.”
    “Who’s that behind me, Joe?” Harm asked.
    “Oh, that’s Deputy Charlie,” said the first man, looking behind them, “our fearless protector. He's turnin’ around now.”
    “Good.  Now, I'm in a hurry.”
    “You should wait a while, Wolf, till John gets up.  He'll be in a better mood. He don't like gettin’ woke up.  You know that.”
    “He does today.”
    Joe was silent for a moment. Harm, still squinting, stared with a scowl into the barrel of the rifle, till Joe stepped back and called to a third man, unseen in the dark.
    “Open it!”
    The cantilevered log slowly pivoted back as a man pushed it along with labored strides.
    “Let me walk you in,” Joe said.  “The guys at the house are pretty jumpy lately.”
    Harm eased the car forward while Joe walked briskly beside and continued talking.
    “It's been bad since you left, Wolf.  Too much killing.  Always fighting somebody.  John don't know any other way.”
    “I know.”
    “But I owe him everything, you know?”
    “No.  You owe your wife and kids first.”
    “Nah, she ran off last year.  I ain't seen my kids since.  Anyway, you comin’ back into it, or not?”
    “No.”
    Floodlights activated by motion sensors began to illuminate their way; Erin could finally see Joe, swarthy and slightly built, perhaps in his early thirties, with short black hair and a wispy beard.  Soon they could see the top of a sprawling hunting lodge, encircled by a twelve-foot high stone wall; Joe jogged ahead as they approached an iron gate flanked by turrets. He spoke to one of the men there, and the gate was opened.  He hurried to the car as Harm rolled ahead.
    “Good to see you, Wolf,” he said in a low voice. “Good luck with whatever you got goin’ on.”
    “Thanks.”
    Joe hastened away as another man came forward. He was in his forties, tall and fair-colored, and sported a neatly trimmed goatee. He squinted skeptically as he peered into the car.
    “So it really is you,” he said. “Never thought I'd see you again. You got nerve, comin’ back.  A lotta nerve.”
    “You just figured that out?”
    The man grinned. “Come on, park over here. I'm sure the boss is up, with all these lights on. I wouldn't wanna be you.”
    “You're not.”
    They parked in a widened portion of the driveway still some distance from the house and exited the car, then crossed - led by their escort - a section of lawn that was poorly mowed, but well-trampled. Hughie was awake but calm, transfixed by the bright lights.  Harm’s demeanor was altered; he walked with a self-assurance that bordered on swagger, while his fierce gaze darted from side to side. When they reached the side door their escort stopped and looked into a small security camera.
    “C’mon, you see us,” he said.
    Half a minute later the door was opened by a slim young blonde woman wearing only a tee shirt, boxer shorts, and a small revolver holstered at her hip. Her hair was haphazardly pulled back into a ponytail, and her swollen eyes showed the disruption of her sleep. She glanced with little interest at the guests and turned away.
    “Come on in,” she said with a yawn as she walked away, then slowed her pace and spoke over her shoulder.  “You can sit over there, in the lounge.  John’ll be down in a few minutes.  I'll make coffee.  I’m Maddie, by the way.”
    The hall opened into a large room, with yellow pine floors and paneling, its walls lined with the mounted heads of deer, elk, moose, bison, and black bear.  A widescreen television was at the far end; in the center sat a leather-upholstered sofa and two matching lounge chairs, each accompanied by rustic end tables made of branch wood.  Harm led the way