Warrior Spirit
Warrior Spirit
Cassie Miles
HALF-BREED HUNTERAs one of Big Sky's boldest bounty hunters, Trevor Blackhaw lived by his own rules. However, when he whisked a slain prisoner's scrappy exgirlfriend off for an intense interrogation to smoke out a band of fugitives, his inquisition had unexpected consequences. For this ironhearted warrior was shaken to the core by the fierce protectiveness that Sierra Collins stirred in him. Their slow-burning attraction boiled over when Trevor stood guard over the tempestuous beauty, who was caught in the crosshairs of the Montana Militia's reign of terror. After a sinister maneuver allowed the enemy to gain the upper hand, Trevor vowed to employ all his specialized skills to capture his prey…and rescue the lady he loved!
In some ways, it was reassuring to have a big, tall, handsome bounty hunter as a full-time bodyguard
When she’d first come to Montana, Sierra hadn’t known what to expect. In the back of her mind, she might have been thinking she’d find herself a man who was nearly as spectacular as the landscape. A handsome cowboy with tight jeans and broad shoulders—a man like Trevor.
Last night, when she’d looked out her front window before going to bed, she saw him standing watch. In his shearling coat with his arms folded across his chest, he was the very archetype of a cowboy. Strong and silent. A man’s man.
Still, an aura of danger surrounded Trevor that made her uneasy. She’d already allowed herself to be swept away by cowboy fantasies once. Look how badly that turned out!
There would be no more volatile cowboys in her life. Not now. Not ever.
Warrior Spirit
Cassie Miles
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Here’s to Thursday nights with the Vietnam vets
and the mariachis.
And, as always, to Rick.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
From the balcony of her Denver high rise, Cassie Miles has a view of the gold dome of the Colorado State Capitol and the front range of the Rockies. If she could figure out a way to add the ocean, she’d have the best of all possible worlds. Though a typical day is all about writing and reading, there’s always time for a walk in the park or a longer trip to the foothills for a hike or to watch the rock climbers and para-sails.
Recently voted Writer of the Year by Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, Cassie attends critique groups specializing in mystery and in romance, the perfect balance for Harlequin Intrigue. One of her daughters once described her writing this way. “Romantic suspense. You know, kiss-kiss, bang-bang.” If only it were that simple.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Sierra Collins—Transplanted from Brooklyn to the wide-open spaces of Montana, Sierra was once engaged to Lyle Nelson, a lieutenant in the Montana Militia for a Free America. She has reason to hate the Militia, but will she betray them?
Trevor Blackhaw—The former Special Forces commando is legendary for his fierce interrogation tactics. What secrets will this half-Cherokee loner draw from Sierra?
Lyle Nelson—Though engaged to Sierra, there’s no room in his cold heart for anything but the Militia.
Warden Craig Green—For years, the warden ran the inescapable Fortress Prison with an iron fist. He’s days away from retirement.
Snake—So mean that nobody remembers his real name. Snake is the warden’s favorite enforcer in the prison.
Boone Fowler—The leader of the Militia plots a horrible and spectacular act of terrorism.
Perry Johnson—Sadistic Militia lieutenant who wants to take slow revenge on Sierra.
Cameron Murphy—This highly decorated former Special Forces colonel is head of the Big Sky Bounty Hunters, determined to recapture the Militia after their jail break.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Prologue
Lyle Nelson strained against the shackles that chafed his skinny wrists and ankles. Under armed guard, he was being returned to the Fortress, the most impregnable penitentiary in the state of Montana. A hellhole.
White-hot rage burned inside his chest. The only way he could contain his fury was to remind himself that his stay at the Fortress was temporary. He’d be back outside. Soon. And he’d take bloody revenge on every soul who got in his way. It didn’t matter who died. Cops. Feds. Women and children. They would all be sacrificed for the Militia’s sacred cause.
The guards shoved him into a special isolation cell. No windows. Heavy iron bars. The walls were stone, and voices echoed.
Though Lyle knew it was cold in here, beads of sweat collected on his forehead and upper lip.
“I want to see the warden,” he yelled. “And I want to see him now.”
“You’ve got no right to make demands.”
“Tell Warden Green that I’m here,” Lyle snarled. “He’ll see me.”
The guard snapped his billy club against the bars. “Shut up.”
If Lyle had been free, he’d strangle this moron guard with his bare hands. “Get the damn warden.”
“I’m here.” The warden strode across the concrete floor. “I want a close look at the man who thought he could break out of the Fortress and get away with it.”
For a moment, Warden Craig Green stared into the flat blue eyes of Lyle Nelson, knowing that he was face-to-face with pure evil. The recapture of this fugitive was the worst possible thing that could happen to Green.
He turned away from the bars and gestured to the guards. “Leave me alone with him.”
Grumbling, they filed out of the room.
Lyle stood close. His white-knuckled fingers clutched the iron bars. “I want out of here, Green.”
“That’s not going to happen.” Only a few weeks ago, Green had arranged for all the imprisoned Militia to escape. He’d been well paid, but he couldn’t take that sort of risk again. “I can’t pull off another prison break.”
“You’ve got no choice,” Lyle hissed. “If you don’t break me out, that cushy little retirement you’ve got planned is going to blow up in your face.”
Green had been afraid of this threat. “You can’t—”
“The hell I can’t. I’ll squeal. I’ll tell everybody about your part in the escape.”
“Okay, Lyle. Hang tight. I’ll take care of you.”
He turned on his heel and marched from the room. On the way back to his office, the warden made a detour through cell block A. As he passed the inmates, he paused outside the cell of a hulking, dark man. Nobody remembered his real name. They called him Snake because he was the most vicious and feared inmate in the Fortress.
Warden Green had a special relationship with Snake. They exchanged a nod.
THE NEXT MORNING, Green sat behind his desk in his office. He wasn’t surprised when the door was flung open and one of the guards darted nervously inside. “Sir, we have a situation.”
Calmly, Green asked, “What kind of situation?”
“It’s Lyle Nelson, sir. We found him hanging inside his cell. He’s dead.”
Green lowered his head to hide the grin that curled the edges of his mouth. “Notify the coroner.”
Chapter One
It was a beautiful day for a funeral.
At the edge of the pine forest overlooking the only cemetery in Ponderosa, Trevor Blackhaw reined in his dappled mustang stallion. He gazed into clear blue October skies. Beyond the western edge of the wide valley, distant peaks glistened with new snow, but the fields were dry. The wheat and alfalfa had been harvested.
Trevor heard the crunch of hooves on dry pine needles as Mike Clark expertly maneuvered through the old-growth forest. His sweet little gray mare nuzzled up beside Trevor’s mustang. The stallion—a ladies’ man—gave an appreciative snort.
“You gotta love this countryside,” Clark said.
Trevor agreed. Though he’d grown up on the Snake River Plain in Idaho and was accustomed to spectacular scenery, he loved Montana. It felt more like home than anywhere else he’d lived, including the year he’d spent on the reservation in Oklahoma looking for his full-blooded Cherokee father. Trevor never met his father but was proud of his heritage. In spite of his blue eyes, his features showed his Cherokee ancestry, and he wore his black hair long.
He turned toward Clark. “The burial of Lyle Nelson doesn’t deserve such beautiful weather.”
“Damn right,” Clark said. “That miserable worm should have been dumped with the garbage, left out in a cold ravine to be torn apart and eaten by the coyotes and grizzlies.”
“Yeah?” Trevor tipped back the flat brim of his battered western hat. “Tell me how you really feel, Clark.”
“Look at that crowd at Boot Hill Cemetery. It’s not right that Nelson’s funeral is a big event.”
A couple of hundred yards from where Trevor and Clark watched on horseback, the black-clad mourners gathered around a pine casket. These were the people who sympathized with the terrorists who called themselves the Montana Militia for a Free America.
Standing outside the weathered picket fence encircling Boot Hill was a much larger contingent—the townspeople who hated the Militia. Some of them held signs. Others shouted insults.
And then there was the media. Swarms of them.
Anything to do with the Militia made headlines. For two months, the authorities had been chasing Militia fugitives who’d escaped from the Fortress penitentiary. They seemed uncatchable and had taken on an aura of ghostly infamy. None of them would be foolish enough to show up at the funeral.
“Let’s get started.” Clark flipped open a minireceiver no larger than a cell phone. Last night, they’d planted a listening device on the coffin. The transmission was excellent—good enough for them to hear the mourners clearing their throats and sighing. “What are they waiting for?”
“The preacher.” From his saddlebag, Trevor took out a pair of high-definition binoculars and focused on a bald preacher wearing a long black overcoat. “I see him over by the parked cars. Looks like the preacher’s giving an interview to CNN. Praise the Lord and pass the microphone.”
Clark took out his own binoculars. “Tell me again what we’re looking for.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Any specific individual? A signal?”
“We’ll know when we see it,” Trevor said. “We need a lead on our next bounty.”
Trevor and Clark were members of Big Sky Bounty Hunters. Their job was to track down criminals and return them to justice. And they were very, very good at their work. All the bounty hunters were former Special Forces commandos, bonded in brotherhood and recruited by their leader to this new life in Montana. Each of them was well-trained in a specific field.
Their current bounty was the escaped MMFAFA. The payoff for each member was one hundred thousand dollars. Not that the money mattered. Trevor would have gladly apprehended these murderous bastards for free.
“There’s another reporter coming over to the preacher,” he said. “It’s Kaitlyn Wilson.”
That lovely little investigative reporter had shown herself to have a heart of steel in uncovering corruption at high levels.
“If Kaitlyn’s here,” Clark said, “Campbell can’t be far behind.”
They both scanned the crowd for a glimpse of bounty hunter Aidan Campbell, who had his hands full, trying to protect the headstrong Kaitlyn. Trevor had been surprised when Campbell, the extreme sportsman, had fallen hard for that female tornado. A man just couldn’t predict where his heart might lead.
“I know what you’re really here for,” Clark said. “You’re looking for somebody to interrogate.”
“Whatever it takes to get the job done.”
Clark cocked his head to look at Trevor. “Someday I’d like to observe one of your interrogations. To study your technique.”
“Negative,” Trevor said. “You don’t want to know what goes on in the interrogation room.”
Clark shrugged and looked away. “Probably not.”
Even among the bounty hunters, Trevor had a reputation for ruthlessness. He was kind of a legend, recognized as the most effective interrogator ever to be trained by Special Services counterintelligence. When he went after information, he never came up empty-handed. Grimly, he said, “I should have had a chance to question Lyle Nelson.”
“That supposed suicide was a little too convenient,” Clark replied. “Too bad we can’t get you clearance to interrogate Warden Craig Green.”
Trevor scanned the mourners and focused on one woman. She was something special to look at. Sunlight glowed on the honey-blond highlights in her hair. She had dark eyebrows and high cheekbones. Even from this distance, her eyes seemed to flash with fiery intensity. Unlike the other mourners, she stood straight and proud, with her fists on her hips. Trevor adjusted his binoculars to check out her curves. Very nice.
“The blonde standing by the casket,” he said. “Who is she?”
Clark took a moment to zoom in. “I don’t know her name, but I’ll tell you this. That is one angry woman.”
Mike Clark had also been trained in strategic intelligence collection. His greatest talent was reading body language and subtle emotions. Trevor referred to him as “the human lie detector.”
Trevor studied the blonde. “She doesn’t look like she belongs here. Her black coat is something a city gal would wear.”
“And it’s a little shabby,” Clark said. “Like she’s fallen on hard times. Maybe that’s why she’s so mad.”
The preacher finally made his way to the grave-side. He opened his Bible. Through their transmitter, they heard his sonorous voice, quoting scripture.
The mourners removed their hats and bowed their heads…except for the blonde. Her full lips pinched tightly together, as if she were holding back a strong emotion.
“Something else about her,” Clark said. “She’s deeply unhappy. Doesn’t want to show it, but she must have cared about Lyle Nelson.”
“Sierra Collins.” Trevor made the identification. “She fits the dossier profile for Nelson’s ex-fiancée.”
She’d be the perfect person for him to interrogate. For several months, she’d been privy to Nelson’s secrets. According to one report, Nelson had contacted Sierra when he escaped from prison with the other fugitives. He might have told her his plans or indicated the whereabouts of the Militia’s current hideout.
The mourners sang an off-key rendition of “Amazing Grace” as the coffin was lowered.
“…Ashes to ashes,” the preacher intoned. “Dust to—”
Sierra interrupted. With her fingers clenched into fists, she strode to the edge of the grave.
A silence fell on the mourners as they waited to see what she’d do. Would she speak? Would she throw herself, weeping, into her ex-boyfriend’s grave?
She spat on the coffin. Her voice came clearly through the transmitter. “You owed me, you miserable son of a bitch. Burn in hell!”
Trevor couldn’t help but be impressed by her gall. “You were right, Clark. That’s one troubled lady.”
She’d said that Lyle owed her, which made Trevor think she might have been promised some kind of payoff. That made sense. He could only think of one reason why such a beautiful woman would hang around with the likes of Lyle Nelson: money. She was a girlfriend for hire—a tough, heartless woman who traded on her good looks to get what she wanted.
This time, however, it appeared that she’d made a miscalculation. Spitting on the coffin was a transgression that wouldn’t be easily forgiven.
Three burly mourners grabbed Sierra Collins and forcibly escorted her through the cemetery, away from the grave. When a reporter tried to follow, one of the men snarled and the reporter backed off. They were headed for the road, where many vehicles were parked.
Trevor figured it wasn’t going to be good news for Sierra when these guys got her alone. He tucked his binoculars into his saddlebag. “I’m going after them.”
“Need help?”
“Three of them and one of me.” Trevor liked those odds. “I don’t think it’s a problem.”
“I know you can deal with three friends of the Militia,” Clark said. “But can you handle that little spitfire?”
“I’ll try.”
He flicked his reins, and the mustang stallion emerged from the pine forest. Trevor urged his horse to a gallop at the edge of the trees. Smokey, the mustang, didn’t need encouragement. This stallion liked to run hard and fast.
In minutes, they approached an outcropping of rocks and trees. Sierra and her three captors were hidden from the view of the people at the cemetery.
One of the men had his hand over her mouth.
Suddenly, he yanked his hand away. “She bit me! Damn you, Sierra.”
“Let me go,” she snarled. “Leave me alone, Danny.”
“Can’t do that,” he said. “You insulted my friend, and you’ve got to pay.”
Trevor rode up at full gallop. The mustang stopped short, and he dismounted in one fluid move. “What’s the problem here?”
“None of your business,” said the one she’d called Danny. “Ride on.”
“You boys are friends of Lyle Nelson,” Trevor said. It was a statement, not a question. “That means you’re enemies of mine.”
He sized them up. The one on the left was as tall as Trevor’s six-foot-three-inch height, but he was skinny as a stick and pasty-faced. None of these guys was in good shape. Nor did they have Trevor’s training in hand-to-hand combat.
Though he didn’t take the impending battle lightly, he was confident. His muscles tensed, and he focused his energy. Behind his eyelids, his mind became crystal clear.
He could take these guys.
Walking fast, he strode into their midst. There was one on his left, another on his right. Danny was still busy trying to subdue Sierra.
The guy on the left pulled a handgun from the waistband of his jeans. Big mistake.
With a swift kick, Trevor disarmed him. A chop to the throat brought him to his knees, gasping. His wind-pipe wasn’t completely crushed because Trevor had aimed carefully and held back on his assault. He didn’t want to kill these guys. Just to teach them a lesson.
The second man attacked from behind. Trevor snapped around, delivering a karate chop that broke his nose. The assailant fell back, moaning.
Danny released Sierra and made the tactical error of charging at Trevor. It took little more than a side step and pressure on the pain center at the elbow to direct Danny’s clumsy charge into the nearby boulders. He crashed, then slid down the rock face, unconscious.
The other two staggered to their feet. Trevor motioned them toward him, but they both took off running, leaving the handgun behind.
Trevor picked up the gun. He searched Danny, and found another pistol. He stowed both weapons in his saddlebag.
The immediate threat was gone, but he didn’t want to hang around while the other two men recruited a mob to come after him.
Picking up his hat, Trevor dusted off the brim and approached Sierra.
“Nice job,” she said. “Is that karate?”
“A type of karate. It’s more like Korean street fighting.”
She was even more attractive in person than when he’d observed her through the binoculars. Her thick hair was multicolored and tawny like the pelt of a cougar. Her eyes were dark. She held up one palm, signaling him to keep his distance.
“So,” she said. “What am I supposed to do now? Should I tip you?”
Her voice had a New York accent. “Where are you from?” he asked.
“Brooklyn. And you know what? I can’t give you a tip, after all. I’m broke. That scum-sucking Lyle left me without a dime.”
“Money is important to you.”
“Duh!”
He recalled his prior impression that she was a gold digger. But the label didn’t quite fit. Her cotton blouse and black skirt were cheap—one step up from thrift shop. And the bangles she wore on her arm were junk. “I don’t want your money. A simple thank-you is enough.”
“Hey, I didn’t ask for your help. I can take care of myself.”
Trevor glanced toward Danny, who was sprawled against the rock, groaning. He was beginning to regain consciousness. “Before I got here, it looked like you weren’t doing a real good job of protecting yourself.”
Her chin lifted and her dark eyes flared. “I do okay.”
“I want you to come with me, Sierra.”
“How do you know my name?”
He shrugged. “You’re Lyle Nelson’s fiancée. That makes you famous.”
“Ex-fiancée,” she said coldly.
If she was sad about her former fiancé’s death, she was hiding it well.
“There are a few questions I want to ask,” he explained.
“Forget it,” she said. “I don’t even know you. What makes you think you can tell me—”
“You’re coming with me.” He shot her a hard-edged glare. “No point in arguing, Sierra. We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”
Not in the least bit intimidated, she tossed her head and laughed. “Let me tell you something, mister. Nothing about me is easy.”
He had the feeling that truer words were never spoken. Sierra wasn’t going to cooperate with him in this interrogation.
On the ground, Danny had begun to recover.
Sierra walked past him and peeked around the edge of the granite outcropping. “Damn. It looks like there’s a bunch of mourners headed this way.”
“We need to get moving,” Trevor said.
“Yeah, that sounds like a plan. How are we going to do that?”
“Ride with me.”
Her full pink lips pursed as she considered his suggestion. “How do I know you’re not going to carry me off someplace?”
“You don’t,” he said.
“But I sure as hell don’t want to stay here.” She glanced down at Danny, then looked back at Trevor. “Okay, mister. Let’s ride.”
When he boosted her into the saddle, her skirt rode all the way up, giving him a breathtaking view of her well-shaped calves and smooth, creamy thighs. He could have stood there all day, just looking. But they needed to make tracks. He mounted behind her.
His saddle wasn’t meant to hold two people, and they were a tight fit. He reached around her to take the reins. “Hang on, Sierra.”
“Wait a minute.” She turned her head to look at him. “What’s your name?”
“Trevor.”
She gave a quick nod. “Okay, Trevor. Take me to my car. It’s a peacock-green Nissan at the edge of the parking area.”
There wasn’t time to argue with her. Danny was already on his feet.
“We’ll double back,” Trevor said.
With a flick of his reins and pressure from his heels in the stirrups, he directed his stallion toward the north end of the valley. The headquarters for Big Sky Bounty Hunters was about twelve miles from here, and that was their destination.
With the extra weight on board, he didn’t want his horse to be strained. But they needed to move fast. Trevor eased Smokey down the slight incline to the meadow. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw seven or so mourners in pursuit. “Let’s go, Smokey.”
His horse broke into a steady gallop, easily out-pacing the men who followed on foot. The animal was covering ground, flying across the meadow. But it wasn’t a graceful ride.
And Sierra wasn’t making it easier. She was wiggling around in the saddle. “Let me down.”
“You’re coming with me,” Trevor said.
“The hell I am.”
The pathway up the pine-covered hillside was narrow, and he’d slowed his stallion’s pace. Before he could stop her, Sierra swung her leg over the pommel and slipped off the saddle. She fell to the ground with a loud shriek. So much for a subtle escape.
Trevor dismounted and stood over her. “I want you to answer some questions. That’s all. Tell me the truth, and I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”
“No deal.” Though she managed to stand up, her legs were shaky from the ride, and she braced herself against a tree trunk. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
When he reached for her arm, she hauled off and took a wild swing, which he easily deflected. Was she nuts? She’d just seen him take down three men. “It won’t do you any good to fight me.”
She swung again, and he caught hold of her wrist. They were face-to-face. She was breathing hard. Her lips parted and her face was flushed as she struggled to get free from his grasp.
Sensing that she was preparing to kick him, Trevor backed her up against the tree trunk and leaned against her so she wouldn’t have room to slam her knee into his groin. “You’ll answer my questions,” he said.
“No!” Her head whipped back and forth in fierce denial.
“That makes me think you’ve got something to hide.”
“I don’t care what you think.”
Trevor should have been annoyed. Sierra was making things more difficult than they needed to be. Instead, he found himself attracted to this hardcore, unrefined woman with the New York attitude. She was tough and strong and sexier than any woman had a right to be.
He peeled her away from the tree, spun her around, hoisted her off her feet and onto his shoulder. He strode toward his waiting mustang. The horse shook his head as if to warn Trevor that he was making a big mistake.
Sierra fought wildly, her arms and legs flailing. There was no way in hell that he’d get her back onto the saddle. Though he didn’t want to get rough, she wasn’t leaving him much choice.
“Last chance,” Trevor said. “Are you going to cooperate?”
“Go to hell!”
He slipped her down to the ground in front of him. While she continued to strike out, he applied a choke-hold, and in a matter of seconds she was unconscious.
He lifted her limp body into his arms and gazed into her face. When she wasn’t snarling insults, her features were amazingly feminine. Her mouth was delicate and pretty as a rosebud. Her thick dark lashes formed crescents above her high cheekbones.
She was a real beauty.
Trevor tore his gaze away. He needed to clear his mind, to focus on his mission. That meant he couldn’t allow himself to be attracted to her. It was best if he dehumanized her in his mind.
Sierra Collins was nothing to him. Only a source of information. She was the subject of his next interrogation.
Chapter Two
Sierra awoke with a jolt. Her eyelids snapped open, and she blinked rapidly to bring her vision into focus. Where was she? How did she get here?
She was seated in a recliner chair with her feet up and her head resting against a pillowed back. It wasn’t uncomfortable.
In front of her was a plain concrete wall. The paint was a drab color that matched the ceiling. On the wall to her left was a closed door. She craned her neck to see what was behind her. More concrete. This was a small windowless room—a prison cell without bars.
A shudder went through her as the walls seemed to tighten. She had to get out of here.
But when she tried to climb out of the recliner, she couldn’t move. Her wrists were fastened to the arms of the chair. Her ankles were also restrained. Around her waist was a wide band that held her in place. What was going on? Why had she been brought to this place?
Her heart beat faster as she struggled against her bonds. My God, what was going to happen to her? Nothing good. That was for damn sure!
She pinched her lips together to keep from sobbing out loud, but when she closed her eyes, tears streaked from the corners of her eyes. There was a dull throb at the back of her head. Though she wasn’t in terrible pain, she felt every single one of her recent bruises. And she remembered…
The funeral. Lyle’s coffin. The men who’d grabbed her. And the one who’d rescued her from them. Trevor, his name was Trevor. He must have brought her here. Why? What did he want from her?
She heard the door opening, and looked up. It was him.
“You’re awake,” he said with a smile. “Good.”
Sierra told herself to be strong. She couldn’t let him see her fear and helplessness. Keeping the tremble from her voice, she said, “If you don’t let me go right now, I’ll scream.”
“Go ahead.” He shrugged. “The room is soundproof.”
She opened her mouth to yell, then thought better of it. Her throat was too dry. By screaming, she’d only hurt herself, and she needed to marshal her strength. It was going to take every bit of her tough New York chutzpah to make it through this ordeal.
When she was growing up on the streets of Brooklyn, she’d done okay. Back then, she’d thought her life was rough. But the occasional mugging and street violence were nothing compared to what had happened after she moved to Montana. First Lyle. Now this.
She glared at Trevor. “Where am I?”
He stretched his arms wide to encompass the small space. “This is an interrogation room.”
“Why am I here?”
“To be interrogated.” He held a bottle of water in each hand. “You should have something to drink. You’re probably dehydrated.”
Though the water enticed her, she shook her head. “First, let me go.”
“Ah, Sierra. I didn’t go to all this trouble just to release you.” He waggled the water bottle before her eyes. “Tell me about Lyle Nelson.”
“There’s nothing to tell. He’s dead.”
“When you were dating, did you meet his friends?”
“Yes.” She eyed the water bottle. Her thirst was becoming unbearable.
“Give me some names,” Trevor said.
“I don’t have to tell you anything. Who the hell do you think you are?”
“I’m one of the good guys. And Lyle was…”
“Not good.” She sucked on the inside of her cheeks, trying to get her saliva to flow. “And I don’t believe you’re a good person, either. You kidnapped me. You tied me up.”
“Cooperate, Sierra.”
“Let me go, Trevor.”
“You remember my name. I like that.”
As he came closer to the chair, his name wasn’t the only thing she remembered. They had been riding together, crushed together in the saddle, she’d felt the sheer power emanating from him. What woman wouldn’t be drawn to that?
Trevor had to be one of the sexiest men she’d ever seen. Tall and long-legged, his body was in prime physical condition. His shiny black hair hung straight to his shoulders. And his eyes…oh my God, his eyes were an intriguing, piercing blue.
She didn’t want to be attracted to him. He’d captured her, dragged her off against her will and tied her to a chair. “You’re a monster.”
He reached behind the chair to place one of the water bottles on something she couldn’t see. A table? A tray? Then he unscrewed the cap of the other and held it near her mouth. “Take a few sips. It’ll help your headache.”
“How do you know I have a headache?”
“Dehydration. Come on, Sierra. Make it easy on yourself.”
She licked her lips. The inside of her mouth tasted like cotton. Though it went against her stubborn grain to do anything he said, she wasn’t a fool. “Okay. I’ll drink.”
He helped her sip from the bottle. The first cool taste was pure nectar. She wanted more.
“Not too fast,” he cautioned. “Just a little at a time.”
When he supported her head with his other hand, she was surprised by the gentleness of his touch. She’d seen Trevor smack down three men with a couple of blows. And he’d rendered her unconscious with a tap on the shoulder. But he held her so tenderly now.
With a shake of her head, she derailed that train of thought. She’d have to be nuts to trust this man. At the moment, all she wanted was the water. She chugged half the contents of the bottle.
“That’s better,” he said. “You’re comfortable, aren’t you?”
“No,” she snapped. “I need to stretch. To move around.”
“First we’ll have a talk.”
She wiggled in the recliner, but there was really no point in fighting against the restraints. All she’d do was make herself weaker.
The way to get out of here was to be smarter than he was. She tried a different tactic. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
He reached down beneath the chair and held up a plastic container. “Bedpan.”
Did he really think she’d allow him to pull down her panties? As she gazed along the length of her body, she realized that she wasn’t wearing her own clothing. She’d been dressed in cotton hospital scrubs. “You bastard!” In spite of her decision to stay calm, she jerked against the restraints. “You undressed me.”
“This outfit is more comfortable,” he said. “And I’m all about making you comfortable, Sierra. So you’ll tell me what I want to know.”
“Then you’re wasting your time. I’m not telling you anything.”
“You think you’re tough.”
“Damn straight. I’m from Brooklyn.”
He gave her an altogether charming smile. This guy was really fine to look at. “Tell me about Brooklyn.” His tone was courteous and encouraging. “Tell me about when you were growing up.”
“You don’t really want to know. You just want to get me talking, to loosen my tongue.”
“That’s very perceptive,” he stated. “You’re a smart person, aren’t you?”
She didn’t believe his compliment, couldn’t allow herself to believe one word that fell from his sexy mouth. “I’m not telling you squat.”
In the blink of an eye, Trevor’s attitude changed. His lips curled in an angry sneer. His eyes were cold as blue ice. “You have no choice.” His voice dropped to a low, dangerous growl. “You’re helpless, completely dependent on me.”
“I’m not scared of you.”
“You should be.”
“Yeah, yeah.” It was taking all her willpower to keep up her tough facade. She had to think about something else, something outside this interrogation room.
“You should be afraid,” Trevor repeated. His hand clamped hard around her throat. “The Militia are terrorists, murderers. If you know anything about them, give it up.”
The pressure against her throat was just enough to make breathing difficult. She choked out the words. “I don’t know anything.”
He released his grasp but stayed close to her. His gaze bored into her face. “Tell me about Lyle.”
“He’s dead. There’s nothing to tell.”
Without a word, Trevor reached behind the back of the chair. He held a pair of thick cotton socks, which he placed on her feet.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
He was silent as he fitted gloves on her hands.
“Stop it!” Panic crashed through her. What was going to happen? “Don’t touch me.”
His hands were rough as he slipped a blindfold over her head. She couldn’t see anything. Her panic became terror. She was truly helpless.
“You’ll tell me,” he growled. “You’ll tell me everything I want to know.”
“Whatever you say. Take the blindfold off. Please.”
“Silence,” he said, “isn’t always golden.”
She felt him place something else on her head. Earphones. He fastened them tightly with a chin strap. She heard nothing but an unpleasant static noise.
She was blinded and deafened, unable to feel anything with her hands. It seemed as if she were floating in a terrifying space—endlessly falling and falling.
TREVOR STEPPED AWAY from the chair and watched as she struggled. Maintaining the level of dispassion necessary for interrogation was difficult. Usually, he had no problem in turning off his emotions. Human compassion was not an option when dealing with an uncooperative subject.
But he kept thinking of her name. Sierra. Beautiful Sierra. Tough Sierra. Most women—or men, for that matter—would have cracked when they realized they were helpless. But she had put up a valiant fight.
Her struggling subsided, and he checked the silent monitor behind the interrogation chair. The restraint on her left wrist held a mechanism that measured her pulse. The beating of her heart returned to a level closer to normal. Deprived of sensory input, she was in a state of suspension.
His technique was roughly based on the CIA model for coercive interrogation. First came arrest and detention. Taking away the clothing and any familiar objects was like stripping off armor. The subject became more vulnerable—more dependent upon the interrogator.
When he questioned her, he alternated kindness and cruelty to throw her off balance. The subject should never know whether to expect a compliment or a slap in the face.
The next step was where they were right now. Sensory deprivation. The socks and gloves eliminated the sense of touch. The hood and earphones cut off sight and hearing. Without sensory stimulus, the subject became highly disoriented.
During Trevor’s counterintelligence training, he’d undergone most of these procedures himself. Though it was intensely confusing to lose the use of your senses, the worst part for him was confinement. He hated to be enclosed.
In the chair, Sierra whimpered. The sound of her fear sliced through his stoic resolve. Though he reminded himself that the ultimate goal—catching the Militia—was worth her temporary discomfort, his heart didn’t believe that rationalization. What he was doing to her felt wrong. He wanted to tear off the blindfold, unfasten her bonds and hold her in his arms.
He checked his wristwatch. In twenty minutes, the truth drug he’d administered in her water would take effect. Her defenses would be down, and she’d be ready to talk. The truth drug, or TD, never failed to produce the desired results. It had been developed in extensive tests with Army Intelligence and was more potent than Pentothal. Because the TD was mostly organic, with a mescaline base, the aftereffects were minimal, with only a few hours of slight, occasional hallucinations.
He appreciated the irony of using this derivative from the peyote button, sacred to many Native American tribes, for such a high-tech application.
Her chest heaved as she sobbed.
Damn it! He couldn’t stand seeing her suffer. This was almost more torturous for him than for her.
Trevor stepped outside the room into the hallway, closed the door and inhaled a deep breath. For this interrogation to continue, he needed to get control of his emotions. His response to her was all wrong. He couldn’t be sympathetic.
Glad that nobody was around to see his weakness, he glanced down the hallway in the underground level of Big Sky Bounty Hunters headquarters. A quiet hum came from the room nearest the staircase, where they kept the computers and state-of-the-art equipment used for surveillance and tracking. This was the no-frills part of the building, nothing like the cozy upper floors, with their rustic pine paneling reminiscent of a hunting lodge.
Trevor had noticed that when he was doing interrogations, the other bounty hunters steered clear of this part of headquarters. Nobody liked to think about coercive techniques.
He checked his watch again. Ten more minutes. He had time to run upstairs and grab a sandwich, but he didn’t much feel like eating.
Instead, he returned to the interrogation room and paced. Seven minutes left. Sierra’s whimpers had stilled to an occasional moan. Five minutes.
There was no need for him to pity her. She wasn’t an innocent little flower. This woman had lived with Lyle Nelson, a murderous bastard. She hung out with the Militia—heartless terrorists of the first order. Sierra couldn’t be entirely blameless. Two minutes left.
Damn it, he couldn’t wait any longer.
When he removed the earphones, she shuddered.
He pulled off the blindfold. Her dark eyes were wide, the pupils dilated. Her mouth twitched as if she couldn’t decide whether to smile or to spit in his face. The drug had taken effect. She was ready.
Gently, he removed the gloves and caressed her cold fingers, encouraging circulation. “How are you feeling, Sierra?”
“Dizzy.”
His first step was to get her talking, encourage her to open up. “But you’re okay, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” She nodded slowly.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said. “Tell me about going to school in Brooklyn.”
“I was good at school,” she said. “All A’s and B’s, and I went to Brooklyn College for a year until I couldn’t afford it. Mom and Dad broke up for good, and I had to get my own apartment. New York is expensive.”
Though her cooperative attitude was drug-induced, Trevor enjoyed this moment of civilized communication. With a damp cloth, he stroked her forehead and wiped the tearstains from her cheeks. “What did you do after you left college?”
“Lied about my age and got a job. I worked for a law firm near the World Trade Center. That was before 9-11.”
“What kind of job?” He quickly directed her thoughts away from the tragedy of September eleventh. For now, he wanted her memories to be pleasant.
“Administrative assistant,” she said. “That’s a mouthful, huh?”
“Yes, it is.”
“First I was a receptionist, but I got promoted. I had a bank account and savings, and I was even thinking about going to law school myself.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Got bored,” she said with a mischievous smile. “On the day I turned twenty-five, I realized that the farthest I’d ever been from Brooklyn was a friend’s wedding in Philly. I wanted some adventure while I was still young. So I cashed in my savings, bought my Nissan and drove west.”
“All the way to Montana,” he said. “Long drive.”
“But not far enough. I meant to keep going until I hit the High Sierras, because of my name, but I kind of ran out of gas.” She tilted her head to one side and studied him. “You’re cute, Trevor. If I took you back to Brooklyn with me, all the other girls would be jealous.”
He smiled, enjoying her flirtation. The TD had loosened her inhibitions as well as her tongue. “When you stopped in Montana, you met—”
“Where are you from, Trevor?”
“A potato farm in Idaho.”
“No kidding! That’s so…rural. Where else have you lived?”
“I spent a year on the Cherokee reservation in Oklahoma.”
Her dark eyes widened. “You’re Cherokee?”
“Part Cherokee.”
“And I’ll bet that’s the part that doesn’t have amazing blue eyes.”
He couldn’t allow this line of conversation to continue. She was a subject. This was an interrogation. “Now I live here in Montana. Like you. This is where you met Lyle Nelson.”
Her sunny attitude faltered. “He was mean.”
“There must have been good times,” Trevor said encouragingly. “Tell me about the good times.”
“No.” Her lips pursed in an adorable pout. “Let’s talk about the Cherokee reservation.”
“Sierra.” He snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Concentrate.”
“I don’t want to talk about Lyle.”
And Trevor didn’t want to push her. But this was his job. Extracting information could be as painful as yanking a molar, but they would both feel better when it was over. “Lyle’s friends in the Militia. Tell me their names.”
“Everybody knows them,” she said, “from the newspapers.”
It was time for Trevor to change gears. Niceness wasn’t going to cut it with her. He held the blindfold so she could see it. “If you were blindfolded, you might be able to think more clearly.”
“No.” Her lower lip trembled. “Don’t put that thing on me again.”
“Talk, Sierra.”
“Lyle’s friends,” she said quickly. “The leader of the Militia is Boone Fowler. He’s a power-hungry creep. All of them are. Bad people. Lyle wasn’t like them. He came from money, you know. He wasn’t trash. But he gave all his money to Boone.”
“Tell me about the others.”
“The one I hated the most was Perry Johnson. He’s nothing but a sadist, pure and simple. I saw him gutting a deer they’d shot for venison, and he was freakishly happy. Perry loved being up to his elbows in blood.”
“Where were you when you saw him?”
“Perry’s cabin,” she said quickly.
That location was already known to the authorities. The cabin had been searched. “Where else? Where are they hiding now?”
“I don’t know.”
Trevor leaned closer, forcing her to concentrate on his face. “Did Lyle tell you any of his plans?”
“No. Nothing.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“After the prison break,” she said. “He came to my place. I rent half of a duplex on the outskirts of Ponderosa. I didn’t want him there, but he wouldn’t leave. He said he needed a safe house to lie low.”
This was a new piece of information. After the prison break, the Militia seemed to disappear. Apparently, they had dispersed. “When Lyle showed up, why didn’t you call the sheriff?”
“Lyle would have killed me.” Her complexion paled. “And he would have killed the sheriff, too. I always wanted to think that Lyle was better than those other terrible men. But I was wrong.”
Her voice cracked and her eyes welled up with tears.
“Sierra,” Trevor called to her. “Concentrate. How long did Lyle stay at your house?”
“He came late at night, sneaked in through the window. He tried to seduce me, but I wouldn’t let him get close. Then he locked me in the closet. I guess I was lucky that he didn’t hit me.”
“Did he hit you before? When you were his girlfriend?”
“Twice.” The tears spilled down her cheeks. “After the first time, he apologized and seemed so sincere. He was under all this stress with the Militia. I forgave him. I was stupid. So damn stupid.”
Her shoulders heaved and her breathing was ragged. Sierra’s tough facade washed away in a tidal wave of tears.
Trevor felt himself melting toward her. How could he push her further? But he had to keep going. She had information she was holding back. Even through the tears, he could feel her resistance. “What is it, Sierra? What do you want to tell me?”
“I can’t,” she said. “It’s too much. Leave me alone. Please.”
He returned to the earlier topic. “After he locked you in the closet, what happened?”
“The next morning, I told him I had to go to work. I have two part-time jobs, and I can’t call in sick.”
“Did he let you leave?”
She shook her head. “I told him that if he wanted me to keep quiet, he’d have to kill me.”
A gutsy move on her part. Trevor was impressed. “What happened?”
“He said he’d go. But before he did, he tore my place apart. He found my nest egg, the money I’d been saving so I could move back to Brooklyn. And he took all of it.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“No.”
“Did you follow him?”
“No.”
She was still holding something back. He could feel her resistance. Harshly, he snapped, “You’re not telling me everything.”
“No.” Her eyes squeezed shut. She didn’t want to divulge this secret.
“Why?” he demanded.
Helplessly, she shook her head from side to side.
“I don’t get it, Sierra. You’re a strong woman. You don’t let people push you around. Why did you protect Lyle Nelson? Why did you stay with him?”
“Because he was the father of my child.”
There was a hollow ring to her voice; she was speaking from the depths of unbearable sorrow.
Abruptly, she stopped crying. Her eyes opened wide, revealing her unassuageable pain. “I miscarried. After Lyle was arrested. I lost my baby. My son.”
The color drained from her face. In a matter-of-fact voice, she said, “I wanted to die.”
Her miscarriage was the secret she’d been hiding from him, and Trevor had forced the words from her. My God, what had he done?
She’d been right to call him a monster.
Chapter Three
Though Trevor’s interrogation of Sierra Collins was complete, he did not unfasten her restraints. Not yet. If he released her while she was still under the influence of the mind-numbing truth drug, she’d be disoriented and confused, possibly even delusional. A few hours of recovery time was necessary.
He leaned over the chair and gently wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Hush now, Sierra. You can sleep.”
“Don’t want to.” She gave a halfhearted tug at the restraints. “Let me out of here.”
“Not yet.”
“I’ve got things to do.”
“Relax, Sierra. Relax.” He keyed his voice to a soothing cadence. “You’re tired, aren’t you? Bone tired. Think about it. Feel how tired you are.”
Though she made an effort to resist, her eyelids drooped. Sierra was in a highly suggestible state. Her defenses were gone, shattered by his interrogation. When she looked up at him, her deep brown eyes reflected a vulnerability that touched his heart and made him feel guilty. He had no right to strip away her dignity and pry into her life. Still, he asked, “Why did you stay here after Lyle was arrested? Why didn’t you go home to your family, where they could take care of you?”
“Too tired.” The words fell slowly from her full lips. “After my son died, I holed up in my house. Didn’t work. Didn’t do anything. Maxed out my credit cards. I was too miserable to live, and too scared to die.”
It didn’t take a psychologist to figure out that she’d been severely depressed. “Then what?”
“I don’t know.” She frowned. “One morning I got up and decided it was time for me to get a job. I’ve been working ever since. It’s time for me to go back to Brooklyn, to forget about Montana.”
Trevor would do what he could to spare her from the sorrow of her memories. Hypnotic suggestion would make her reawakening easier.
Gently, he said, “Breathe deeply.”
Her chest rose and fell.
“That’s good, Sierra. Inhale. Exhale. Feel the pain and stress flowing away from you. Listen to my voice.”
Though she had no reason to trust him, Trevor had a natural talent for projecting his will. One of his instructors at Special Forces counterintelligence called it charisma. He offered her reassurance. “I’m not going to hurt you. I want to help you. Okay?”
“I suppose.”
“I want you to think about a beautiful place. The mountains. Or the ocean. Maybe a tropical island.”
“I’m from Brooklyn,” she said. “I don’t know from tropical islands.”
“What’s the most beautiful place you can think of? Somewhere special.”
“The East River.”
As she spoke, her eyes took on a less guarded expression, and he knew that she had begun to relax. “Okay, Sierra. Tell me about the East River.”
“There’s a park in Brooklyn where you can look across the river at the Manhattan skyline. And you can see the Statue of Liberty.”
Most people chose a more secluded version of beauty, but he was coming to realize that she was unique. “Imagine you’re there. Overhead is a beautiful sky.”
“At sunset,” she said. “The air is soft and pink. Then the city begins to light up. It’s magical.”
“Feel the breeze off the water. Hear the gulls and the lapping of the waves. Close your eyes and see it.”
She nodded. Her lips formed a gentle smile.
“Now relax,” he said. “Start with your toes and your feet. Allow those muscles to release. Now your calves. Your thighs.”
“Feels good.” A soft moan escaped her lips.
“Relax your hips and your buttocks.”
Trevor glanced down at her full, sexy hips. Even in the shapeless garment, her hourglass figure enticed him. He longed to touch her, to hold her lush body against his.
This had to be the most unusual interrogation he’d ever done. He felt as if he was making love to her with his words, caressing her with his voice. “Feel your spine, Sierra. Relax each vertebra.”
He could see the tension leaving her body as she relaxed her arms, shoulders and neck. Breathing deeply, she was on the verge of sleep when he whispered a final suggestion. “When you wake, you will remember nothing of this interrogation. You’ll feel refreshed.”
For a few more minutes, he sat and watched, making sure she was asleep. Her rosebud lips parted slightly, and the slight frown lines across her forehead smoothed. She was serene and so damn pretty that he could hardly believe it. Trevor whispered two words he had never before spoken to an interrogation subject. “I’m sorry.”
LEAVING SIERRA TO SLEEP until the effects of the TD wore off, Trevor went upstairs to inform the others of the little he had learned from her.
It was unfortunate that she hadn’t been able to provide him with a solid lead on the Montana Militia for a Free America—the group of homegrown terrorists that Lyle Nelson, Sierra’s former fiancé, had belonged to.
When it came to traitors, the Militia were among the worst. They pretended to be fighting for a free America, while committing murder, sabotaging railroad trains and kidnapping innocent women and children. Their reign of terror had started five years ago, when the Militia had bombed a government building in an act of senseless terror that resulted in the deaths of two hundred people, including the sister of Cameron Murphy, the former Special Forces colonel who’d founded Big Sky Bounty Hunters.
With Murphy’s help, the Militia had been caught, they were tried and convicted. They should have been rotting in Montana’s Fortress prison, serving life sentences with no chance of parole. Instead, two months ago, they had done the impossible and escaped.
Though the bounty hunters had managed to thwart two of the Militia’s deadly schemes, these bastards were still at large, and nobody had a clue as to their whereabouts.
It was damn frustrating. The Big Sky Bounty Hunters were highly trained experts who had served in the Special Forces under Cameron Murphy. They should have been able to nab the Militia without breaking a sweat. Instead, they were thwarted at every turn.
In the kitchen, Trevor ran into Mike Clark, who was making a sandwich. Clark studied Trevor, reading his emotions. Then he frowned. “The interrogation didn’t go well.”
Trevor gave a noncommittal shrug. He sure as hell wasn’t going to talk about his attraction to Sierra. “Did you learn anything else at Lyle Nelson’s funeral?”
“Most of the townspeople hate the Militia, but there’s a growing faction of sympathizers. A backlash. It’s mostly young men who think there’s something cool about being an outlaw.”
Disgusted, Trevor said, “The Militia isn’t like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. They’re cold-blooded killers.”
“Terrorists.” Mike held up his sandwich. “Hungry?”
“Not now. Is Murphy around?”
“In the front.”
Trevor entered the large, pine-paneled room where Tony Lombardi and Jacob Powell were playing darts. Lombardi scored at the edge of the bull’s eye and broke into a victory dance. In his Bronx accent, he chanted, “Oh, yeah. I’m the champ. Oh, yeah.”
“You? Beating me?” Powell scoffed. “No way do I lose to a geologist.”
“You know what they say—Geologists got stones.”
Powell’s eyes narrowed as he took aim, then flipped his dart. Dead center. “The champ? You’re the chump.”
“How’d you do that?”
Powell—a decorated fighter pilot and aviator—pointed to his green eyes, then flared his fingers. “Eye-hand coordination. I’m the best. That’s why you can call me Bull’s-eye Powell.”
Lombardi rolled his eyes. “That’s some bull, all right.”
“Admit it. I beat your sorry ass.”
“Hey! This is a fine ass,” Lombardi protested. “Ask any female.”
He used his geology training in tracking, but Lombardi’s real talent was finding ladies who were susceptible to his charms. “Maybe you guys should come with me tonight. There’s this little tavern in Helena where the beer is cold and the ladies are hot.”
“Isabella wouldn’t like that.” Powell couldn’t help grinning as he said the name of the woman he loved.
“She’s got you on a leash,” Lombardi teased.
“There’s no place else I want to be,” his friend admitted.
Lombardi groaned and turned to Trevor. “You want to come to Helena tonight?”
“I’m busy.” He needed to wait a couple of hours be fore taking Sierra home. After that, he wanted to keep his options open in case she needed more assistance. Cameron Murphy, who was sitting in a rocking chair near the window, interrupted. “Blackhaw, what did you learn from the subject?”
Though they were no longer in the military, Trevor had the feeling that he should snap to attention. He respected his former commanding officer more than any man alive.
“Sierra Collins,” he said. “Formerly engaged to Lyle Nelson. She hates the Militia. And Lyle. He stole the money she’d been saving to move back to Brooklyn.”
“She’s a Brooklyn babe,” Lombardi said with a knowing grin. “Smart. Tight-lipped. Tough. How the hell did she end up in Montana?”
“She’s wondering the same thing,” Trevor replied.
“Any information,” Murphy asked, “about the Militia’s hideout?”
“No. But after the jailbreak, Lyle returned to her house for one night. Our prior assumption that the Militia stuck together was incorrect.”
“Hold it,” Lombardi said. In an instant, his smart-aleck attitude transformed to seriousness. “My analysis of the soil samples from Lyle Nelson’s boots led us to the deserted copper mine. That’s where they stayed after the jailbreak.”
“After that,” Trevor said, “they dispersed. Lyle Nelson went to Sierra’s house.”
“If she hates him so much,” Lombardi asked, “why didn’t she turn him in?”
“She was in a hostage situation,” Trevor said.
“Do you believe her?” Murphy probed.
“She wasn’t holding anything back.” Trevor vividly recalled the agony she’d gone through in revealing her most closely held secret, about her miscarriage. “She doesn’t know where the Militia is hiding out.”
“Nonetheless,” Murphy said, “Sierra Collins might be of value to us.”
“How so?”
“If she hates the Militia as much as she claims, they might feel the same way about her.”
“Are you suggesting they might come after her?”
“Revenge,” Murphy stated. “It’s part of the Militia’s creed.”
“I agree,” Clark said as he joined them. “Sierra didn’t make any friends at the funeral when she spat on Lyle Nelson’s coffin and said he should burn in hell.”
“That took nerve,” Lombardi murmured. “She’s a Brooklyn babe, for sure.”
Trevor hadn’t been thinking of Sierra as a potential victim, but it was a strong possibility. If the Militia wanted to teach her a lesson… “Damn it!”
“Problem?” Murphy asked.
“I might have made her situation worse. I might have antagonized a couple of sympathizers at the funeral.”
“Might have?”
“Three men threatened her,” Trevor said. “I took them down.”
“Geez,” Lombardi said. “Good way to keep a low profile, Blackhaw.”
Though the bounty hunters didn’t go out of their way to keep their identities secret, they didn’t advertise their presence. Outside of law enforcement, most people weren’t aware of their existence as an organized group.
“I’ll keep an eye on Sierra,” Trevor said. “If the Militia comes after her, I’ll be ready for them.”
Murphy nodded. “That’s as good a plan as any. Those snakes have gone underground, and we’re not having much luck in finding their den.”
Powell went to the board and gathered his darts. He grumbled, “This should have been over. The Militia isn’t smart enough to keep evading us.”
“Don’t underestimate them,” Murphy warned. “We’re not the only ones in the dark. State and national law enforcement are also involved.”
“Don’t I know it,” Powell said. His beloved Isabella was Secret Service. “I think there’s somebody else working with the Militia, pulling their strings. Somebody has got to be financing them.”
Though the other men nodded in agreement, Trevor’s mind was elsewhere. He’d heard all these arguments before and agreed with them. The Militia might have started out working alone, but it seemed they could now be part of a larger terrorist campaign.
His thoughts returned to Sierra. How could a single, innocent woman hope to stand up to the Militia, much less to a greater force of evil? Her actions at the funeral had been gutsy, but not wise. It would be his job to protect her now.
While the other men made plans and divided up duties, Trevor returned to the basement interrogation room, where Sierra still slept peacefully as a tawny kitten with a full belly of sweet cream. This kitten had claws, he reminded himself. When it came to defending herself, she was more like a tiger cub than a domesticated tabby cat.
Carefully, he unfastened the restraints on her arms, legs and waist. With light strokes, he massaged her hands to encourage circulation. Though the skin above her wrist was soft and pale, her palms were callused from hard work. She’d mentioned that she had two jobs. Where? What kind of work?
Trevor frowned. Sierra had an active schedule. Keeping an eye on her was going to be difficult unless he could convince her to invite him into her life, to let him get close…but not too close. He needed to maintain emotional distance. Getting personally involved with her would be a mistake.
Yet as he settled down to watch patiently while she slept, his heart stirred. She was different. She touched him in ways no one had before.
SIERRA WAS STUCK in a nightmare—aware that she was dreaming but unable to wake. Surrounded by thick fog, she spun around and saw Lyle stalking toward her. This was only a dream. Not real. Lyle was dead and buried. He could never hurt her again. Yet he reached out with long skeletal fingers.
His face was horrible. His eyes bulged from their sockets. His chin hung slack, and there were purple bruises around his neck. They said he’d hanged himself in his prison cell, but she didn’t believe it. Lyle was too mean to commit suicide.
His jaw creaked open. He spoke. “Sierra, find my killer. You owe me that much.”
“I don’t,” she protested. “I don’t owe you squat.”
She started running. Her feet were numb. She could hardly move. But she couldn’t let Lyle touch her and pull her into the grave with him.
She ran as fast as she could, into the trees. The forest closed around her. Then she saw another man, tall and still. His long black hair fell to his shoulders. His startling blue eyes drew her toward him. “Trevor,” she whispered.
His arms enfolded her. This felt so real; she could hear his heart beating, could smell his masculine scent. Her fingernails scratched against the cotton of his shirt. When she looked up at him, she was amazed by how handsome he was—his high cheekbones and straight nose. And his lips…
She wanted to kiss those well-shaped lips. Well, why not? She could hardly blame herself for dreaming. “Kiss me, Trevor.”
His mouth joined with hers. An incredible warmth flowed through her veins. Oh God, this was good. It seemed right. She felt alive and strong.
His mouth moved against hers, and she darted her tongue across the surface of his lips. He responded with the skill and strength she had come to expect from him after knowing him for only a few short hours. Pure sensation washed over her. This kiss was sexier than anything she’d felt before, sexier than going all the way with most men.
With a sigh, she separated from him. Awash in pleasure, she leaned back and enjoyed the fantastic awakening of her sensuality. “Oh, Trevor.”
She lifted her hand to her tingling lips. So good. So very good.
Then Sierra opened her eyes and blinked. Trevor was nowhere in sight. She was alone in the square, featureless room. Her arms were no longer tied down, and she raised her hands to her face. Her cheeks felt warm, probably because of her sensual dream. Or something else? What was it? Though she was refreshed and alert, her mind was blank, as though recent memories had been swept clean.
She knew that Trevor had brought her to this place. He had tied her up and asked her questions, and she remembered feeling angry and sad. But why?
“Lyle,” she said.
Sierra pushed herself out of the chair, went to the door and twisted the handle. Trevor stood in the hallway outside. He nodded to her.
He was as gorgeous as in her dream. Tall and lean and muscular. His black hair, pulled back in a ponytail, glistened. And those blue, blue eyes!
But he wasn’t her fantasy lover. This man was her captor, and she hated his guts. “I want to go home.”
“Sure thing,” he said. “Come with me.”
She followed him down the hallway. They seemed to be in a basement with low ceilings, but there wasn’t a musty smell. This place was clean, almost sterile. “Where are we?”
Instead of answering, Trevor pushed open the door to a bathroom. “Your clothes are inside if you want to change.”
Though she had a million questions, Sierra also had an overwhelming urge to pee. Bathroom first. Questions later.
She relieved her bladder, dressed quickly and splashed water on her face. When she slipped on her wristwatch, she noted that it was after six o’clock. She’d been here almost four hours. Doing what? She hadn’t been sleeping all that time.
Her purse sat on the counter beside the sink, and she checked the contents. Her lipstick, breath mints and ball-point pen were there. She still had seven dollars in her wallet. The only thing missing was her precise memory of what had happened to her in that interrogation room.
She returned to the hallway, where Trevor was waiting.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“I’ve been better.” She braced her fists on her hips. “Now I have some questions for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Let’s start with this—where the hell are we?”
“A good-size cabin with a couple of outbuildings, a barn and a stable in back. It belongs to Cameron Murphy.”
The name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t put a face with it. “Why did you bring me here?”
“I thought you might have information.” He placed his battered black cowboy hat on his head and started down the hallway at a casual saunter. “I expect you’re ready to get home.”
She also wanted answers. And he was being deliberately evasive. “Hold it right there, Trevor.”
Raising one eyebrow, he gave her a look that was about as innocent as that of a mountain lion. “Is there a problem?”
“Damn right! You threw me on your horse, brought me here and tied me up in that weird little room. I want to know why.”
“I asked you some questions.” He smiled calmly, but she remembered his other expression. His shimmering blue eyes could also be hard and angry. He was capable of inspiring fear. And yet when she’d dreamed about that kiss he’d been something else altogether.
“Who are you?” she asked. “What’s your job?”
“I’m a bounty hunter.”
“And you’re after the Militia.” When he opened the door to a root cellar, she balked. “Where are you taking me?”
“This is a back door. I wanted to avoid anybody who might be upstairs.”
Still she hesitated to follow him. “I don’t trust you.”
“I won’t hurt you, Sierra. You have my word.”
“The word of a bounty hunter? That’s not reassuring.”
“We’re on the same side,” he said. “You and I want the same thing.”
“To bring down the Militia?”
“You hate them as much as I do. Probably more.”
“But I’m not going after them.” She wanted to be left alone, to get on with her life. “I want no part of them. Or of you.”
“Will you allow me to take you home?”
She gave a curt nod. “And that will be the last we’ll ever see of each other.”
As she followed him to the doorway and out into the night, her firm decision wavered. Seeing Trevor again might not be the worst thing that ever happened to her.
Chapter Four
In the hour of darkness just before dawn, Boone Fowler left the rough-hewn bunkhouse that currently housed the Montana Militia for a Free America. No matter what anybody said, he’d done a damn good job as their leader. Taking possession of this long, one-story structure attached to an empty barn and corral had been a stroke of genius. The bunkhouse—deserted years ago by a rancher who went out of business—made a perfect hideout. The location was remote, accessible only by one dirt road that was easily guarded.
When Boone and his men moved in, they’d repaired the cracks in the walls and blacked out the windows. They’d installed a high-tech, silent generator so there would be no telltale wisps of smoke rising from the chimney. Nobody, by God, could find them.
The problem with the hideout was the enforced and constant proximity. Boone and his men slept, cooked and ate in the same long room. Aware of aerial surveillance by those who were after them, the Militiamen limited their daytime exposure.
If they were vigilant, they wouldn’t be caught. But safety wasn’t Boone Fowler’s deepest concern on this cold October morning. He had a plan—a detailed scheme that would require full cooperation from his men. And he was concerned about Perry Johnson, who had recently shown himself to be a wild card.
Boone’s step was stealthy as he entered the forested terrain behind the bunkhouse. The carpet of pine needles beneath his boots hardly made a whisper. He touched the handle of the automatic pistol in his pocket. Though he hated to lose Perry, disloyalty could not be tolerated. The Militia had a greater cause and no one could stand in the way. Not even Perry.
The first glimmer of sunrise filtered through the conifer branches and the rust-colored autumn leaves on the chokecherry bushes. A damp, bone-chilling mist rose from the earth. A weaker man would have shivered. Not Boone. He drew strength from natural adversity. These mountains were his goddamn birthright as an American. This time, he would prevail, surviving against the will of the combined state and federal law enforcement stooges. He would send a clear and brutal message. And they would listen. This time, the Militia would not be apprehended.
At the edge of a creek, Boone spotted two men hunkered down by the stream fishing for breakfast trout. Instead of approaching them, he hung back to listen, and drew his gun.
Raymond Fleming, a scrawny beanpole, sounded angry. “We can’t keep hiding out. People are going to think we gave up.”
“And what the hell do you think we ought to do?” Perry Johnson tugged on his fishing line. “Paint targets on our foreheads and march into Ponderosa?”
“I don’t know.” Raymond shrugged his skinny shoulders. “Something.”
“That’s a hell of a plan,” Perry scoffed. “You’re not exactly the sharpest arrow in the quiver, are you?”
“Hey, it’s not even morning yet. My brain isn’t awake.” Raymond fidgeted. “And I’m not the one who was stupid enough to sneak off and go to Lyle’s funeral. That was you, Perry.”
Without dropping his fishing pole, Perry lashed out. His bare fist snapped against Raymond’s temple, sending the younger man sprawling.
“Hey!” Raymond shouted. “What was that for?”
“Calling me stupid.”
Perry rose to his feet. His burly shoulders flared as he looked down at Raymond. In the glow of sunrise, Boone watched the impressive transformation of Perry Johnson from fisherman to predator. He was a dangerous man. Ruthless. It would be a shame to kill him.
Raymond cowered. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’d never call you dumb. Hell, sometimes I even think you’re smarter than Boone. It’s just that somebody could have recognized you at the funeral.”
“But they didn’t.” Still holding his rod, Perry used his other hand to remove his cap and rub the sleeve of his jacket across his bald forehead. Then he replaced the cap. Back in control again. “Damn near broke my heart to see what happened at Lyle’s grave. A bunch of media jackasses crawling all over, showing no respect. And that little bitch, Sierra. She spat on Lyle’s coffin.”
Perry yanked on his line and reeled in another trout, which he added to the string. When it came to hunting and fishing, he was second to none. His skill kept them well-supplied with trout and venison. And he was, as Raymond had mentioned, highly intelligent.
The problem Boone had with Perry was that he tended to go his own way. When he thought he was right, he broke ranks. Innately dangerous and coldly sadistic, Perry was the ultimate weapon, but Boone had to be sure he was aimed in the right direction.
“Another thing,” Perry said to Raymond. “I’m not smarter than Boone. He’s our leader. And don’t you ever forget it.”
Boone smiled as he slipped his gun back into his pocket. Perry still believed in him and trusted his authority. Good!
When Boone stepped out from the trees, both Perry and Raymond reached for their rifles. Perry’s beady black eyes narrowed. “Shouldn’t sneak up on a man like that. It’s a good way to get your head blown off.”
“I trust your reflexes,” Boone said. “Even in the dark, you’d know it was me.”
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Cassie Miles
HALF-BREED HUNTERAs one of Big Sky's boldest bounty hunters, Trevor Blackhaw lived by his own rules. However, when he whisked a slain prisoner's scrappy exgirlfriend off for an intense interrogation to smoke out a band of fugitives, his inquisition had unexpected consequences. For this ironhearted warrior was shaken to the core by the fierce protectiveness that Sierra Collins stirred in him. Their slow-burning attraction boiled over when Trevor stood guard over the tempestuous beauty, who was caught in the crosshairs of the Montana Militia's reign of terror. After a sinister maneuver allowed the enemy to gain the upper hand, Trevor vowed to employ all his specialized skills to capture his prey…and rescue the lady he loved!
In some ways, it was reassuring to have a big, tall, handsome bounty hunter as a full-time bodyguard
When she’d first come to Montana, Sierra hadn’t known what to expect. In the back of her mind, she might have been thinking she’d find herself a man who was nearly as spectacular as the landscape. A handsome cowboy with tight jeans and broad shoulders—a man like Trevor.
Last night, when she’d looked out her front window before going to bed, she saw him standing watch. In his shearling coat with his arms folded across his chest, he was the very archetype of a cowboy. Strong and silent. A man’s man.
Still, an aura of danger surrounded Trevor that made her uneasy. She’d already allowed herself to be swept away by cowboy fantasies once. Look how badly that turned out!
There would be no more volatile cowboys in her life. Not now. Not ever.
Warrior Spirit
Cassie Miles
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Here’s to Thursday nights with the Vietnam vets
and the mariachis.
And, as always, to Rick.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
From the balcony of her Denver high rise, Cassie Miles has a view of the gold dome of the Colorado State Capitol and the front range of the Rockies. If she could figure out a way to add the ocean, she’d have the best of all possible worlds. Though a typical day is all about writing and reading, there’s always time for a walk in the park or a longer trip to the foothills for a hike or to watch the rock climbers and para-sails.
Recently voted Writer of the Year by Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, Cassie attends critique groups specializing in mystery and in romance, the perfect balance for Harlequin Intrigue. One of her daughters once described her writing this way. “Romantic suspense. You know, kiss-kiss, bang-bang.” If only it were that simple.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Sierra Collins—Transplanted from Brooklyn to the wide-open spaces of Montana, Sierra was once engaged to Lyle Nelson, a lieutenant in the Montana Militia for a Free America. She has reason to hate the Militia, but will she betray them?
Trevor Blackhaw—The former Special Forces commando is legendary for his fierce interrogation tactics. What secrets will this half-Cherokee loner draw from Sierra?
Lyle Nelson—Though engaged to Sierra, there’s no room in his cold heart for anything but the Militia.
Warden Craig Green—For years, the warden ran the inescapable Fortress Prison with an iron fist. He’s days away from retirement.
Snake—So mean that nobody remembers his real name. Snake is the warden’s favorite enforcer in the prison.
Boone Fowler—The leader of the Militia plots a horrible and spectacular act of terrorism.
Perry Johnson—Sadistic Militia lieutenant who wants to take slow revenge on Sierra.
Cameron Murphy—This highly decorated former Special Forces colonel is head of the Big Sky Bounty Hunters, determined to recapture the Militia after their jail break.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Prologue
Lyle Nelson strained against the shackles that chafed his skinny wrists and ankles. Under armed guard, he was being returned to the Fortress, the most impregnable penitentiary in the state of Montana. A hellhole.
White-hot rage burned inside his chest. The only way he could contain his fury was to remind himself that his stay at the Fortress was temporary. He’d be back outside. Soon. And he’d take bloody revenge on every soul who got in his way. It didn’t matter who died. Cops. Feds. Women and children. They would all be sacrificed for the Militia’s sacred cause.
The guards shoved him into a special isolation cell. No windows. Heavy iron bars. The walls were stone, and voices echoed.
Though Lyle knew it was cold in here, beads of sweat collected on his forehead and upper lip.
“I want to see the warden,” he yelled. “And I want to see him now.”
“You’ve got no right to make demands.”
“Tell Warden Green that I’m here,” Lyle snarled. “He’ll see me.”
The guard snapped his billy club against the bars. “Shut up.”
If Lyle had been free, he’d strangle this moron guard with his bare hands. “Get the damn warden.”
“I’m here.” The warden strode across the concrete floor. “I want a close look at the man who thought he could break out of the Fortress and get away with it.”
For a moment, Warden Craig Green stared into the flat blue eyes of Lyle Nelson, knowing that he was face-to-face with pure evil. The recapture of this fugitive was the worst possible thing that could happen to Green.
He turned away from the bars and gestured to the guards. “Leave me alone with him.”
Grumbling, they filed out of the room.
Lyle stood close. His white-knuckled fingers clutched the iron bars. “I want out of here, Green.”
“That’s not going to happen.” Only a few weeks ago, Green had arranged for all the imprisoned Militia to escape. He’d been well paid, but he couldn’t take that sort of risk again. “I can’t pull off another prison break.”
“You’ve got no choice,” Lyle hissed. “If you don’t break me out, that cushy little retirement you’ve got planned is going to blow up in your face.”
Green had been afraid of this threat. “You can’t—”
“The hell I can’t. I’ll squeal. I’ll tell everybody about your part in the escape.”
“Okay, Lyle. Hang tight. I’ll take care of you.”
He turned on his heel and marched from the room. On the way back to his office, the warden made a detour through cell block A. As he passed the inmates, he paused outside the cell of a hulking, dark man. Nobody remembered his real name. They called him Snake because he was the most vicious and feared inmate in the Fortress.
Warden Green had a special relationship with Snake. They exchanged a nod.
THE NEXT MORNING, Green sat behind his desk in his office. He wasn’t surprised when the door was flung open and one of the guards darted nervously inside. “Sir, we have a situation.”
Calmly, Green asked, “What kind of situation?”
“It’s Lyle Nelson, sir. We found him hanging inside his cell. He’s dead.”
Green lowered his head to hide the grin that curled the edges of his mouth. “Notify the coroner.”
Chapter One
It was a beautiful day for a funeral.
At the edge of the pine forest overlooking the only cemetery in Ponderosa, Trevor Blackhaw reined in his dappled mustang stallion. He gazed into clear blue October skies. Beyond the western edge of the wide valley, distant peaks glistened with new snow, but the fields were dry. The wheat and alfalfa had been harvested.
Trevor heard the crunch of hooves on dry pine needles as Mike Clark expertly maneuvered through the old-growth forest. His sweet little gray mare nuzzled up beside Trevor’s mustang. The stallion—a ladies’ man—gave an appreciative snort.
“You gotta love this countryside,” Clark said.
Trevor agreed. Though he’d grown up on the Snake River Plain in Idaho and was accustomed to spectacular scenery, he loved Montana. It felt more like home than anywhere else he’d lived, including the year he’d spent on the reservation in Oklahoma looking for his full-blooded Cherokee father. Trevor never met his father but was proud of his heritage. In spite of his blue eyes, his features showed his Cherokee ancestry, and he wore his black hair long.
He turned toward Clark. “The burial of Lyle Nelson doesn’t deserve such beautiful weather.”
“Damn right,” Clark said. “That miserable worm should have been dumped with the garbage, left out in a cold ravine to be torn apart and eaten by the coyotes and grizzlies.”
“Yeah?” Trevor tipped back the flat brim of his battered western hat. “Tell me how you really feel, Clark.”
“Look at that crowd at Boot Hill Cemetery. It’s not right that Nelson’s funeral is a big event.”
A couple of hundred yards from where Trevor and Clark watched on horseback, the black-clad mourners gathered around a pine casket. These were the people who sympathized with the terrorists who called themselves the Montana Militia for a Free America.
Standing outside the weathered picket fence encircling Boot Hill was a much larger contingent—the townspeople who hated the Militia. Some of them held signs. Others shouted insults.
And then there was the media. Swarms of them.
Anything to do with the Militia made headlines. For two months, the authorities had been chasing Militia fugitives who’d escaped from the Fortress penitentiary. They seemed uncatchable and had taken on an aura of ghostly infamy. None of them would be foolish enough to show up at the funeral.
“Let’s get started.” Clark flipped open a minireceiver no larger than a cell phone. Last night, they’d planted a listening device on the coffin. The transmission was excellent—good enough for them to hear the mourners clearing their throats and sighing. “What are they waiting for?”
“The preacher.” From his saddlebag, Trevor took out a pair of high-definition binoculars and focused on a bald preacher wearing a long black overcoat. “I see him over by the parked cars. Looks like the preacher’s giving an interview to CNN. Praise the Lord and pass the microphone.”
Clark took out his own binoculars. “Tell me again what we’re looking for.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Any specific individual? A signal?”
“We’ll know when we see it,” Trevor said. “We need a lead on our next bounty.”
Trevor and Clark were members of Big Sky Bounty Hunters. Their job was to track down criminals and return them to justice. And they were very, very good at their work. All the bounty hunters were former Special Forces commandos, bonded in brotherhood and recruited by their leader to this new life in Montana. Each of them was well-trained in a specific field.
Their current bounty was the escaped MMFAFA. The payoff for each member was one hundred thousand dollars. Not that the money mattered. Trevor would have gladly apprehended these murderous bastards for free.
“There’s another reporter coming over to the preacher,” he said. “It’s Kaitlyn Wilson.”
That lovely little investigative reporter had shown herself to have a heart of steel in uncovering corruption at high levels.
“If Kaitlyn’s here,” Clark said, “Campbell can’t be far behind.”
They both scanned the crowd for a glimpse of bounty hunter Aidan Campbell, who had his hands full, trying to protect the headstrong Kaitlyn. Trevor had been surprised when Campbell, the extreme sportsman, had fallen hard for that female tornado. A man just couldn’t predict where his heart might lead.
“I know what you’re really here for,” Clark said. “You’re looking for somebody to interrogate.”
“Whatever it takes to get the job done.”
Clark cocked his head to look at Trevor. “Someday I’d like to observe one of your interrogations. To study your technique.”
“Negative,” Trevor said. “You don’t want to know what goes on in the interrogation room.”
Clark shrugged and looked away. “Probably not.”
Even among the bounty hunters, Trevor had a reputation for ruthlessness. He was kind of a legend, recognized as the most effective interrogator ever to be trained by Special Services counterintelligence. When he went after information, he never came up empty-handed. Grimly, he said, “I should have had a chance to question Lyle Nelson.”
“That supposed suicide was a little too convenient,” Clark replied. “Too bad we can’t get you clearance to interrogate Warden Craig Green.”
Trevor scanned the mourners and focused on one woman. She was something special to look at. Sunlight glowed on the honey-blond highlights in her hair. She had dark eyebrows and high cheekbones. Even from this distance, her eyes seemed to flash with fiery intensity. Unlike the other mourners, she stood straight and proud, with her fists on her hips. Trevor adjusted his binoculars to check out her curves. Very nice.
“The blonde standing by the casket,” he said. “Who is she?”
Clark took a moment to zoom in. “I don’t know her name, but I’ll tell you this. That is one angry woman.”
Mike Clark had also been trained in strategic intelligence collection. His greatest talent was reading body language and subtle emotions. Trevor referred to him as “the human lie detector.”
Trevor studied the blonde. “She doesn’t look like she belongs here. Her black coat is something a city gal would wear.”
“And it’s a little shabby,” Clark said. “Like she’s fallen on hard times. Maybe that’s why she’s so mad.”
The preacher finally made his way to the grave-side. He opened his Bible. Through their transmitter, they heard his sonorous voice, quoting scripture.
The mourners removed their hats and bowed their heads…except for the blonde. Her full lips pinched tightly together, as if she were holding back a strong emotion.
“Something else about her,” Clark said. “She’s deeply unhappy. Doesn’t want to show it, but she must have cared about Lyle Nelson.”
“Sierra Collins.” Trevor made the identification. “She fits the dossier profile for Nelson’s ex-fiancée.”
She’d be the perfect person for him to interrogate. For several months, she’d been privy to Nelson’s secrets. According to one report, Nelson had contacted Sierra when he escaped from prison with the other fugitives. He might have told her his plans or indicated the whereabouts of the Militia’s current hideout.
The mourners sang an off-key rendition of “Amazing Grace” as the coffin was lowered.
“…Ashes to ashes,” the preacher intoned. “Dust to—”
Sierra interrupted. With her fingers clenched into fists, she strode to the edge of the grave.
A silence fell on the mourners as they waited to see what she’d do. Would she speak? Would she throw herself, weeping, into her ex-boyfriend’s grave?
She spat on the coffin. Her voice came clearly through the transmitter. “You owed me, you miserable son of a bitch. Burn in hell!”
Trevor couldn’t help but be impressed by her gall. “You were right, Clark. That’s one troubled lady.”
She’d said that Lyle owed her, which made Trevor think she might have been promised some kind of payoff. That made sense. He could only think of one reason why such a beautiful woman would hang around with the likes of Lyle Nelson: money. She was a girlfriend for hire—a tough, heartless woman who traded on her good looks to get what she wanted.
This time, however, it appeared that she’d made a miscalculation. Spitting on the coffin was a transgression that wouldn’t be easily forgiven.
Three burly mourners grabbed Sierra Collins and forcibly escorted her through the cemetery, away from the grave. When a reporter tried to follow, one of the men snarled and the reporter backed off. They were headed for the road, where many vehicles were parked.
Trevor figured it wasn’t going to be good news for Sierra when these guys got her alone. He tucked his binoculars into his saddlebag. “I’m going after them.”
“Need help?”
“Three of them and one of me.” Trevor liked those odds. “I don’t think it’s a problem.”
“I know you can deal with three friends of the Militia,” Clark said. “But can you handle that little spitfire?”
“I’ll try.”
He flicked his reins, and the mustang stallion emerged from the pine forest. Trevor urged his horse to a gallop at the edge of the trees. Smokey, the mustang, didn’t need encouragement. This stallion liked to run hard and fast.
In minutes, they approached an outcropping of rocks and trees. Sierra and her three captors were hidden from the view of the people at the cemetery.
One of the men had his hand over her mouth.
Suddenly, he yanked his hand away. “She bit me! Damn you, Sierra.”
“Let me go,” she snarled. “Leave me alone, Danny.”
“Can’t do that,” he said. “You insulted my friend, and you’ve got to pay.”
Trevor rode up at full gallop. The mustang stopped short, and he dismounted in one fluid move. “What’s the problem here?”
“None of your business,” said the one she’d called Danny. “Ride on.”
“You boys are friends of Lyle Nelson,” Trevor said. It was a statement, not a question. “That means you’re enemies of mine.”
He sized them up. The one on the left was as tall as Trevor’s six-foot-three-inch height, but he was skinny as a stick and pasty-faced. None of these guys was in good shape. Nor did they have Trevor’s training in hand-to-hand combat.
Though he didn’t take the impending battle lightly, he was confident. His muscles tensed, and he focused his energy. Behind his eyelids, his mind became crystal clear.
He could take these guys.
Walking fast, he strode into their midst. There was one on his left, another on his right. Danny was still busy trying to subdue Sierra.
The guy on the left pulled a handgun from the waistband of his jeans. Big mistake.
With a swift kick, Trevor disarmed him. A chop to the throat brought him to his knees, gasping. His wind-pipe wasn’t completely crushed because Trevor had aimed carefully and held back on his assault. He didn’t want to kill these guys. Just to teach them a lesson.
The second man attacked from behind. Trevor snapped around, delivering a karate chop that broke his nose. The assailant fell back, moaning.
Danny released Sierra and made the tactical error of charging at Trevor. It took little more than a side step and pressure on the pain center at the elbow to direct Danny’s clumsy charge into the nearby boulders. He crashed, then slid down the rock face, unconscious.
The other two staggered to their feet. Trevor motioned them toward him, but they both took off running, leaving the handgun behind.
Trevor picked up the gun. He searched Danny, and found another pistol. He stowed both weapons in his saddlebag.
The immediate threat was gone, but he didn’t want to hang around while the other two men recruited a mob to come after him.
Picking up his hat, Trevor dusted off the brim and approached Sierra.
“Nice job,” she said. “Is that karate?”
“A type of karate. It’s more like Korean street fighting.”
She was even more attractive in person than when he’d observed her through the binoculars. Her thick hair was multicolored and tawny like the pelt of a cougar. Her eyes were dark. She held up one palm, signaling him to keep his distance.
“So,” she said. “What am I supposed to do now? Should I tip you?”
Her voice had a New York accent. “Where are you from?” he asked.
“Brooklyn. And you know what? I can’t give you a tip, after all. I’m broke. That scum-sucking Lyle left me without a dime.”
“Money is important to you.”
“Duh!”
He recalled his prior impression that she was a gold digger. But the label didn’t quite fit. Her cotton blouse and black skirt were cheap—one step up from thrift shop. And the bangles she wore on her arm were junk. “I don’t want your money. A simple thank-you is enough.”
“Hey, I didn’t ask for your help. I can take care of myself.”
Trevor glanced toward Danny, who was sprawled against the rock, groaning. He was beginning to regain consciousness. “Before I got here, it looked like you weren’t doing a real good job of protecting yourself.”
Her chin lifted and her dark eyes flared. “I do okay.”
“I want you to come with me, Sierra.”
“How do you know my name?”
He shrugged. “You’re Lyle Nelson’s fiancée. That makes you famous.”
“Ex-fiancée,” she said coldly.
If she was sad about her former fiancé’s death, she was hiding it well.
“There are a few questions I want to ask,” he explained.
“Forget it,” she said. “I don’t even know you. What makes you think you can tell me—”
“You’re coming with me.” He shot her a hard-edged glare. “No point in arguing, Sierra. We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”
Not in the least bit intimidated, she tossed her head and laughed. “Let me tell you something, mister. Nothing about me is easy.”
He had the feeling that truer words were never spoken. Sierra wasn’t going to cooperate with him in this interrogation.
On the ground, Danny had begun to recover.
Sierra walked past him and peeked around the edge of the granite outcropping. “Damn. It looks like there’s a bunch of mourners headed this way.”
“We need to get moving,” Trevor said.
“Yeah, that sounds like a plan. How are we going to do that?”
“Ride with me.”
Her full pink lips pursed as she considered his suggestion. “How do I know you’re not going to carry me off someplace?”
“You don’t,” he said.
“But I sure as hell don’t want to stay here.” She glanced down at Danny, then looked back at Trevor. “Okay, mister. Let’s ride.”
When he boosted her into the saddle, her skirt rode all the way up, giving him a breathtaking view of her well-shaped calves and smooth, creamy thighs. He could have stood there all day, just looking. But they needed to make tracks. He mounted behind her.
His saddle wasn’t meant to hold two people, and they were a tight fit. He reached around her to take the reins. “Hang on, Sierra.”
“Wait a minute.” She turned her head to look at him. “What’s your name?”
“Trevor.”
She gave a quick nod. “Okay, Trevor. Take me to my car. It’s a peacock-green Nissan at the edge of the parking area.”
There wasn’t time to argue with her. Danny was already on his feet.
“We’ll double back,” Trevor said.
With a flick of his reins and pressure from his heels in the stirrups, he directed his stallion toward the north end of the valley. The headquarters for Big Sky Bounty Hunters was about twelve miles from here, and that was their destination.
With the extra weight on board, he didn’t want his horse to be strained. But they needed to move fast. Trevor eased Smokey down the slight incline to the meadow. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw seven or so mourners in pursuit. “Let’s go, Smokey.”
His horse broke into a steady gallop, easily out-pacing the men who followed on foot. The animal was covering ground, flying across the meadow. But it wasn’t a graceful ride.
And Sierra wasn’t making it easier. She was wiggling around in the saddle. “Let me down.”
“You’re coming with me,” Trevor said.
“The hell I am.”
The pathway up the pine-covered hillside was narrow, and he’d slowed his stallion’s pace. Before he could stop her, Sierra swung her leg over the pommel and slipped off the saddle. She fell to the ground with a loud shriek. So much for a subtle escape.
Trevor dismounted and stood over her. “I want you to answer some questions. That’s all. Tell me the truth, and I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”
“No deal.” Though she managed to stand up, her legs were shaky from the ride, and she braced herself against a tree trunk. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
When he reached for her arm, she hauled off and took a wild swing, which he easily deflected. Was she nuts? She’d just seen him take down three men. “It won’t do you any good to fight me.”
She swung again, and he caught hold of her wrist. They were face-to-face. She was breathing hard. Her lips parted and her face was flushed as she struggled to get free from his grasp.
Sensing that she was preparing to kick him, Trevor backed her up against the tree trunk and leaned against her so she wouldn’t have room to slam her knee into his groin. “You’ll answer my questions,” he said.
“No!” Her head whipped back and forth in fierce denial.
“That makes me think you’ve got something to hide.”
“I don’t care what you think.”
Trevor should have been annoyed. Sierra was making things more difficult than they needed to be. Instead, he found himself attracted to this hardcore, unrefined woman with the New York attitude. She was tough and strong and sexier than any woman had a right to be.
He peeled her away from the tree, spun her around, hoisted her off her feet and onto his shoulder. He strode toward his waiting mustang. The horse shook his head as if to warn Trevor that he was making a big mistake.
Sierra fought wildly, her arms and legs flailing. There was no way in hell that he’d get her back onto the saddle. Though he didn’t want to get rough, she wasn’t leaving him much choice.
“Last chance,” Trevor said. “Are you going to cooperate?”
“Go to hell!”
He slipped her down to the ground in front of him. While she continued to strike out, he applied a choke-hold, and in a matter of seconds she was unconscious.
He lifted her limp body into his arms and gazed into her face. When she wasn’t snarling insults, her features were amazingly feminine. Her mouth was delicate and pretty as a rosebud. Her thick dark lashes formed crescents above her high cheekbones.
She was a real beauty.
Trevor tore his gaze away. He needed to clear his mind, to focus on his mission. That meant he couldn’t allow himself to be attracted to her. It was best if he dehumanized her in his mind.
Sierra Collins was nothing to him. Only a source of information. She was the subject of his next interrogation.
Chapter Two
Sierra awoke with a jolt. Her eyelids snapped open, and she blinked rapidly to bring her vision into focus. Where was she? How did she get here?
She was seated in a recliner chair with her feet up and her head resting against a pillowed back. It wasn’t uncomfortable.
In front of her was a plain concrete wall. The paint was a drab color that matched the ceiling. On the wall to her left was a closed door. She craned her neck to see what was behind her. More concrete. This was a small windowless room—a prison cell without bars.
A shudder went through her as the walls seemed to tighten. She had to get out of here.
But when she tried to climb out of the recliner, she couldn’t move. Her wrists were fastened to the arms of the chair. Her ankles were also restrained. Around her waist was a wide band that held her in place. What was going on? Why had she been brought to this place?
Her heart beat faster as she struggled against her bonds. My God, what was going to happen to her? Nothing good. That was for damn sure!
She pinched her lips together to keep from sobbing out loud, but when she closed her eyes, tears streaked from the corners of her eyes. There was a dull throb at the back of her head. Though she wasn’t in terrible pain, she felt every single one of her recent bruises. And she remembered…
The funeral. Lyle’s coffin. The men who’d grabbed her. And the one who’d rescued her from them. Trevor, his name was Trevor. He must have brought her here. Why? What did he want from her?
She heard the door opening, and looked up. It was him.
“You’re awake,” he said with a smile. “Good.”
Sierra told herself to be strong. She couldn’t let him see her fear and helplessness. Keeping the tremble from her voice, she said, “If you don’t let me go right now, I’ll scream.”
“Go ahead.” He shrugged. “The room is soundproof.”
She opened her mouth to yell, then thought better of it. Her throat was too dry. By screaming, she’d only hurt herself, and she needed to marshal her strength. It was going to take every bit of her tough New York chutzpah to make it through this ordeal.
When she was growing up on the streets of Brooklyn, she’d done okay. Back then, she’d thought her life was rough. But the occasional mugging and street violence were nothing compared to what had happened after she moved to Montana. First Lyle. Now this.
She glared at Trevor. “Where am I?”
He stretched his arms wide to encompass the small space. “This is an interrogation room.”
“Why am I here?”
“To be interrogated.” He held a bottle of water in each hand. “You should have something to drink. You’re probably dehydrated.”
Though the water enticed her, she shook her head. “First, let me go.”
“Ah, Sierra. I didn’t go to all this trouble just to release you.” He waggled the water bottle before her eyes. “Tell me about Lyle Nelson.”
“There’s nothing to tell. He’s dead.”
“When you were dating, did you meet his friends?”
“Yes.” She eyed the water bottle. Her thirst was becoming unbearable.
“Give me some names,” Trevor said.
“I don’t have to tell you anything. Who the hell do you think you are?”
“I’m one of the good guys. And Lyle was…”
“Not good.” She sucked on the inside of her cheeks, trying to get her saliva to flow. “And I don’t believe you’re a good person, either. You kidnapped me. You tied me up.”
“Cooperate, Sierra.”
“Let me go, Trevor.”
“You remember my name. I like that.”
As he came closer to the chair, his name wasn’t the only thing she remembered. They had been riding together, crushed together in the saddle, she’d felt the sheer power emanating from him. What woman wouldn’t be drawn to that?
Trevor had to be one of the sexiest men she’d ever seen. Tall and long-legged, his body was in prime physical condition. His shiny black hair hung straight to his shoulders. And his eyes…oh my God, his eyes were an intriguing, piercing blue.
She didn’t want to be attracted to him. He’d captured her, dragged her off against her will and tied her to a chair. “You’re a monster.”
He reached behind the chair to place one of the water bottles on something she couldn’t see. A table? A tray? Then he unscrewed the cap of the other and held it near her mouth. “Take a few sips. It’ll help your headache.”
“How do you know I have a headache?”
“Dehydration. Come on, Sierra. Make it easy on yourself.”
She licked her lips. The inside of her mouth tasted like cotton. Though it went against her stubborn grain to do anything he said, she wasn’t a fool. “Okay. I’ll drink.”
He helped her sip from the bottle. The first cool taste was pure nectar. She wanted more.
“Not too fast,” he cautioned. “Just a little at a time.”
When he supported her head with his other hand, she was surprised by the gentleness of his touch. She’d seen Trevor smack down three men with a couple of blows. And he’d rendered her unconscious with a tap on the shoulder. But he held her so tenderly now.
With a shake of her head, she derailed that train of thought. She’d have to be nuts to trust this man. At the moment, all she wanted was the water. She chugged half the contents of the bottle.
“That’s better,” he said. “You’re comfortable, aren’t you?”
“No,” she snapped. “I need to stretch. To move around.”
“First we’ll have a talk.”
She wiggled in the recliner, but there was really no point in fighting against the restraints. All she’d do was make herself weaker.
The way to get out of here was to be smarter than he was. She tried a different tactic. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
He reached down beneath the chair and held up a plastic container. “Bedpan.”
Did he really think she’d allow him to pull down her panties? As she gazed along the length of her body, she realized that she wasn’t wearing her own clothing. She’d been dressed in cotton hospital scrubs. “You bastard!” In spite of her decision to stay calm, she jerked against the restraints. “You undressed me.”
“This outfit is more comfortable,” he said. “And I’m all about making you comfortable, Sierra. So you’ll tell me what I want to know.”
“Then you’re wasting your time. I’m not telling you anything.”
“You think you’re tough.”
“Damn straight. I’m from Brooklyn.”
He gave her an altogether charming smile. This guy was really fine to look at. “Tell me about Brooklyn.” His tone was courteous and encouraging. “Tell me about when you were growing up.”
“You don’t really want to know. You just want to get me talking, to loosen my tongue.”
“That’s very perceptive,” he stated. “You’re a smart person, aren’t you?”
She didn’t believe his compliment, couldn’t allow herself to believe one word that fell from his sexy mouth. “I’m not telling you squat.”
In the blink of an eye, Trevor’s attitude changed. His lips curled in an angry sneer. His eyes were cold as blue ice. “You have no choice.” His voice dropped to a low, dangerous growl. “You’re helpless, completely dependent on me.”
“I’m not scared of you.”
“You should be.”
“Yeah, yeah.” It was taking all her willpower to keep up her tough facade. She had to think about something else, something outside this interrogation room.
“You should be afraid,” Trevor repeated. His hand clamped hard around her throat. “The Militia are terrorists, murderers. If you know anything about them, give it up.”
The pressure against her throat was just enough to make breathing difficult. She choked out the words. “I don’t know anything.”
He released his grasp but stayed close to her. His gaze bored into her face. “Tell me about Lyle.”
“He’s dead. There’s nothing to tell.”
Without a word, Trevor reached behind the back of the chair. He held a pair of thick cotton socks, which he placed on her feet.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
He was silent as he fitted gloves on her hands.
“Stop it!” Panic crashed through her. What was going to happen? “Don’t touch me.”
His hands were rough as he slipped a blindfold over her head. She couldn’t see anything. Her panic became terror. She was truly helpless.
“You’ll tell me,” he growled. “You’ll tell me everything I want to know.”
“Whatever you say. Take the blindfold off. Please.”
“Silence,” he said, “isn’t always golden.”
She felt him place something else on her head. Earphones. He fastened them tightly with a chin strap. She heard nothing but an unpleasant static noise.
She was blinded and deafened, unable to feel anything with her hands. It seemed as if she were floating in a terrifying space—endlessly falling and falling.
TREVOR STEPPED AWAY from the chair and watched as she struggled. Maintaining the level of dispassion necessary for interrogation was difficult. Usually, he had no problem in turning off his emotions. Human compassion was not an option when dealing with an uncooperative subject.
But he kept thinking of her name. Sierra. Beautiful Sierra. Tough Sierra. Most women—or men, for that matter—would have cracked when they realized they were helpless. But she had put up a valiant fight.
Her struggling subsided, and he checked the silent monitor behind the interrogation chair. The restraint on her left wrist held a mechanism that measured her pulse. The beating of her heart returned to a level closer to normal. Deprived of sensory input, she was in a state of suspension.
His technique was roughly based on the CIA model for coercive interrogation. First came arrest and detention. Taking away the clothing and any familiar objects was like stripping off armor. The subject became more vulnerable—more dependent upon the interrogator.
When he questioned her, he alternated kindness and cruelty to throw her off balance. The subject should never know whether to expect a compliment or a slap in the face.
The next step was where they were right now. Sensory deprivation. The socks and gloves eliminated the sense of touch. The hood and earphones cut off sight and hearing. Without sensory stimulus, the subject became highly disoriented.
During Trevor’s counterintelligence training, he’d undergone most of these procedures himself. Though it was intensely confusing to lose the use of your senses, the worst part for him was confinement. He hated to be enclosed.
In the chair, Sierra whimpered. The sound of her fear sliced through his stoic resolve. Though he reminded himself that the ultimate goal—catching the Militia—was worth her temporary discomfort, his heart didn’t believe that rationalization. What he was doing to her felt wrong. He wanted to tear off the blindfold, unfasten her bonds and hold her in his arms.
He checked his wristwatch. In twenty minutes, the truth drug he’d administered in her water would take effect. Her defenses would be down, and she’d be ready to talk. The truth drug, or TD, never failed to produce the desired results. It had been developed in extensive tests with Army Intelligence and was more potent than Pentothal. Because the TD was mostly organic, with a mescaline base, the aftereffects were minimal, with only a few hours of slight, occasional hallucinations.
He appreciated the irony of using this derivative from the peyote button, sacred to many Native American tribes, for such a high-tech application.
Her chest heaved as she sobbed.
Damn it! He couldn’t stand seeing her suffer. This was almost more torturous for him than for her.
Trevor stepped outside the room into the hallway, closed the door and inhaled a deep breath. For this interrogation to continue, he needed to get control of his emotions. His response to her was all wrong. He couldn’t be sympathetic.
Glad that nobody was around to see his weakness, he glanced down the hallway in the underground level of Big Sky Bounty Hunters headquarters. A quiet hum came from the room nearest the staircase, where they kept the computers and state-of-the-art equipment used for surveillance and tracking. This was the no-frills part of the building, nothing like the cozy upper floors, with their rustic pine paneling reminiscent of a hunting lodge.
Trevor had noticed that when he was doing interrogations, the other bounty hunters steered clear of this part of headquarters. Nobody liked to think about coercive techniques.
He checked his watch again. Ten more minutes. He had time to run upstairs and grab a sandwich, but he didn’t much feel like eating.
Instead, he returned to the interrogation room and paced. Seven minutes left. Sierra’s whimpers had stilled to an occasional moan. Five minutes.
There was no need for him to pity her. She wasn’t an innocent little flower. This woman had lived with Lyle Nelson, a murderous bastard. She hung out with the Militia—heartless terrorists of the first order. Sierra couldn’t be entirely blameless. Two minutes left.
Damn it, he couldn’t wait any longer.
When he removed the earphones, she shuddered.
He pulled off the blindfold. Her dark eyes were wide, the pupils dilated. Her mouth twitched as if she couldn’t decide whether to smile or to spit in his face. The drug had taken effect. She was ready.
Gently, he removed the gloves and caressed her cold fingers, encouraging circulation. “How are you feeling, Sierra?”
“Dizzy.”
His first step was to get her talking, encourage her to open up. “But you’re okay, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” She nodded slowly.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said. “Tell me about going to school in Brooklyn.”
“I was good at school,” she said. “All A’s and B’s, and I went to Brooklyn College for a year until I couldn’t afford it. Mom and Dad broke up for good, and I had to get my own apartment. New York is expensive.”
Though her cooperative attitude was drug-induced, Trevor enjoyed this moment of civilized communication. With a damp cloth, he stroked her forehead and wiped the tearstains from her cheeks. “What did you do after you left college?”
“Lied about my age and got a job. I worked for a law firm near the World Trade Center. That was before 9-11.”
“What kind of job?” He quickly directed her thoughts away from the tragedy of September eleventh. For now, he wanted her memories to be pleasant.
“Administrative assistant,” she said. “That’s a mouthful, huh?”
“Yes, it is.”
“First I was a receptionist, but I got promoted. I had a bank account and savings, and I was even thinking about going to law school myself.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Got bored,” she said with a mischievous smile. “On the day I turned twenty-five, I realized that the farthest I’d ever been from Brooklyn was a friend’s wedding in Philly. I wanted some adventure while I was still young. So I cashed in my savings, bought my Nissan and drove west.”
“All the way to Montana,” he said. “Long drive.”
“But not far enough. I meant to keep going until I hit the High Sierras, because of my name, but I kind of ran out of gas.” She tilted her head to one side and studied him. “You’re cute, Trevor. If I took you back to Brooklyn with me, all the other girls would be jealous.”
He smiled, enjoying her flirtation. The TD had loosened her inhibitions as well as her tongue. “When you stopped in Montana, you met—”
“Where are you from, Trevor?”
“A potato farm in Idaho.”
“No kidding! That’s so…rural. Where else have you lived?”
“I spent a year on the Cherokee reservation in Oklahoma.”
Her dark eyes widened. “You’re Cherokee?”
“Part Cherokee.”
“And I’ll bet that’s the part that doesn’t have amazing blue eyes.”
He couldn’t allow this line of conversation to continue. She was a subject. This was an interrogation. “Now I live here in Montana. Like you. This is where you met Lyle Nelson.”
Her sunny attitude faltered. “He was mean.”
“There must have been good times,” Trevor said encouragingly. “Tell me about the good times.”
“No.” Her lips pursed in an adorable pout. “Let’s talk about the Cherokee reservation.”
“Sierra.” He snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Concentrate.”
“I don’t want to talk about Lyle.”
And Trevor didn’t want to push her. But this was his job. Extracting information could be as painful as yanking a molar, but they would both feel better when it was over. “Lyle’s friends in the Militia. Tell me their names.”
“Everybody knows them,” she said, “from the newspapers.”
It was time for Trevor to change gears. Niceness wasn’t going to cut it with her. He held the blindfold so she could see it. “If you were blindfolded, you might be able to think more clearly.”
“No.” Her lower lip trembled. “Don’t put that thing on me again.”
“Talk, Sierra.”
“Lyle’s friends,” she said quickly. “The leader of the Militia is Boone Fowler. He’s a power-hungry creep. All of them are. Bad people. Lyle wasn’t like them. He came from money, you know. He wasn’t trash. But he gave all his money to Boone.”
“Tell me about the others.”
“The one I hated the most was Perry Johnson. He’s nothing but a sadist, pure and simple. I saw him gutting a deer they’d shot for venison, and he was freakishly happy. Perry loved being up to his elbows in blood.”
“Where were you when you saw him?”
“Perry’s cabin,” she said quickly.
That location was already known to the authorities. The cabin had been searched. “Where else? Where are they hiding now?”
“I don’t know.”
Trevor leaned closer, forcing her to concentrate on his face. “Did Lyle tell you any of his plans?”
“No. Nothing.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“After the prison break,” she said. “He came to my place. I rent half of a duplex on the outskirts of Ponderosa. I didn’t want him there, but he wouldn’t leave. He said he needed a safe house to lie low.”
This was a new piece of information. After the prison break, the Militia seemed to disappear. Apparently, they had dispersed. “When Lyle showed up, why didn’t you call the sheriff?”
“Lyle would have killed me.” Her complexion paled. “And he would have killed the sheriff, too. I always wanted to think that Lyle was better than those other terrible men. But I was wrong.”
Her voice cracked and her eyes welled up with tears.
“Sierra,” Trevor called to her. “Concentrate. How long did Lyle stay at your house?”
“He came late at night, sneaked in through the window. He tried to seduce me, but I wouldn’t let him get close. Then he locked me in the closet. I guess I was lucky that he didn’t hit me.”
“Did he hit you before? When you were his girlfriend?”
“Twice.” The tears spilled down her cheeks. “After the first time, he apologized and seemed so sincere. He was under all this stress with the Militia. I forgave him. I was stupid. So damn stupid.”
Her shoulders heaved and her breathing was ragged. Sierra’s tough facade washed away in a tidal wave of tears.
Trevor felt himself melting toward her. How could he push her further? But he had to keep going. She had information she was holding back. Even through the tears, he could feel her resistance. “What is it, Sierra? What do you want to tell me?”
“I can’t,” she said. “It’s too much. Leave me alone. Please.”
He returned to the earlier topic. “After he locked you in the closet, what happened?”
“The next morning, I told him I had to go to work. I have two part-time jobs, and I can’t call in sick.”
“Did he let you leave?”
She shook her head. “I told him that if he wanted me to keep quiet, he’d have to kill me.”
A gutsy move on her part. Trevor was impressed. “What happened?”
“He said he’d go. But before he did, he tore my place apart. He found my nest egg, the money I’d been saving so I could move back to Brooklyn. And he took all of it.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“No.”
“Did you follow him?”
“No.”
She was still holding something back. He could feel her resistance. Harshly, he snapped, “You’re not telling me everything.”
“No.” Her eyes squeezed shut. She didn’t want to divulge this secret.
“Why?” he demanded.
Helplessly, she shook her head from side to side.
“I don’t get it, Sierra. You’re a strong woman. You don’t let people push you around. Why did you protect Lyle Nelson? Why did you stay with him?”
“Because he was the father of my child.”
There was a hollow ring to her voice; she was speaking from the depths of unbearable sorrow.
Abruptly, she stopped crying. Her eyes opened wide, revealing her unassuageable pain. “I miscarried. After Lyle was arrested. I lost my baby. My son.”
The color drained from her face. In a matter-of-fact voice, she said, “I wanted to die.”
Her miscarriage was the secret she’d been hiding from him, and Trevor had forced the words from her. My God, what had he done?
She’d been right to call him a monster.
Chapter Three
Though Trevor’s interrogation of Sierra Collins was complete, he did not unfasten her restraints. Not yet. If he released her while she was still under the influence of the mind-numbing truth drug, she’d be disoriented and confused, possibly even delusional. A few hours of recovery time was necessary.
He leaned over the chair and gently wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Hush now, Sierra. You can sleep.”
“Don’t want to.” She gave a halfhearted tug at the restraints. “Let me out of here.”
“Not yet.”
“I’ve got things to do.”
“Relax, Sierra. Relax.” He keyed his voice to a soothing cadence. “You’re tired, aren’t you? Bone tired. Think about it. Feel how tired you are.”
Though she made an effort to resist, her eyelids drooped. Sierra was in a highly suggestible state. Her defenses were gone, shattered by his interrogation. When she looked up at him, her deep brown eyes reflected a vulnerability that touched his heart and made him feel guilty. He had no right to strip away her dignity and pry into her life. Still, he asked, “Why did you stay here after Lyle was arrested? Why didn’t you go home to your family, where they could take care of you?”
“Too tired.” The words fell slowly from her full lips. “After my son died, I holed up in my house. Didn’t work. Didn’t do anything. Maxed out my credit cards. I was too miserable to live, and too scared to die.”
It didn’t take a psychologist to figure out that she’d been severely depressed. “Then what?”
“I don’t know.” She frowned. “One morning I got up and decided it was time for me to get a job. I’ve been working ever since. It’s time for me to go back to Brooklyn, to forget about Montana.”
Trevor would do what he could to spare her from the sorrow of her memories. Hypnotic suggestion would make her reawakening easier.
Gently, he said, “Breathe deeply.”
Her chest rose and fell.
“That’s good, Sierra. Inhale. Exhale. Feel the pain and stress flowing away from you. Listen to my voice.”
Though she had no reason to trust him, Trevor had a natural talent for projecting his will. One of his instructors at Special Forces counterintelligence called it charisma. He offered her reassurance. “I’m not going to hurt you. I want to help you. Okay?”
“I suppose.”
“I want you to think about a beautiful place. The mountains. Or the ocean. Maybe a tropical island.”
“I’m from Brooklyn,” she said. “I don’t know from tropical islands.”
“What’s the most beautiful place you can think of? Somewhere special.”
“The East River.”
As she spoke, her eyes took on a less guarded expression, and he knew that she had begun to relax. “Okay, Sierra. Tell me about the East River.”
“There’s a park in Brooklyn where you can look across the river at the Manhattan skyline. And you can see the Statue of Liberty.”
Most people chose a more secluded version of beauty, but he was coming to realize that she was unique. “Imagine you’re there. Overhead is a beautiful sky.”
“At sunset,” she said. “The air is soft and pink. Then the city begins to light up. It’s magical.”
“Feel the breeze off the water. Hear the gulls and the lapping of the waves. Close your eyes and see it.”
She nodded. Her lips formed a gentle smile.
“Now relax,” he said. “Start with your toes and your feet. Allow those muscles to release. Now your calves. Your thighs.”
“Feels good.” A soft moan escaped her lips.
“Relax your hips and your buttocks.”
Trevor glanced down at her full, sexy hips. Even in the shapeless garment, her hourglass figure enticed him. He longed to touch her, to hold her lush body against his.
This had to be the most unusual interrogation he’d ever done. He felt as if he was making love to her with his words, caressing her with his voice. “Feel your spine, Sierra. Relax each vertebra.”
He could see the tension leaving her body as she relaxed her arms, shoulders and neck. Breathing deeply, she was on the verge of sleep when he whispered a final suggestion. “When you wake, you will remember nothing of this interrogation. You’ll feel refreshed.”
For a few more minutes, he sat and watched, making sure she was asleep. Her rosebud lips parted slightly, and the slight frown lines across her forehead smoothed. She was serene and so damn pretty that he could hardly believe it. Trevor whispered two words he had never before spoken to an interrogation subject. “I’m sorry.”
LEAVING SIERRA TO SLEEP until the effects of the TD wore off, Trevor went upstairs to inform the others of the little he had learned from her.
It was unfortunate that she hadn’t been able to provide him with a solid lead on the Montana Militia for a Free America—the group of homegrown terrorists that Lyle Nelson, Sierra’s former fiancé, had belonged to.
When it came to traitors, the Militia were among the worst. They pretended to be fighting for a free America, while committing murder, sabotaging railroad trains and kidnapping innocent women and children. Their reign of terror had started five years ago, when the Militia had bombed a government building in an act of senseless terror that resulted in the deaths of two hundred people, including the sister of Cameron Murphy, the former Special Forces colonel who’d founded Big Sky Bounty Hunters.
With Murphy’s help, the Militia had been caught, they were tried and convicted. They should have been rotting in Montana’s Fortress prison, serving life sentences with no chance of parole. Instead, two months ago, they had done the impossible and escaped.
Though the bounty hunters had managed to thwart two of the Militia’s deadly schemes, these bastards were still at large, and nobody had a clue as to their whereabouts.
It was damn frustrating. The Big Sky Bounty Hunters were highly trained experts who had served in the Special Forces under Cameron Murphy. They should have been able to nab the Militia without breaking a sweat. Instead, they were thwarted at every turn.
In the kitchen, Trevor ran into Mike Clark, who was making a sandwich. Clark studied Trevor, reading his emotions. Then he frowned. “The interrogation didn’t go well.”
Trevor gave a noncommittal shrug. He sure as hell wasn’t going to talk about his attraction to Sierra. “Did you learn anything else at Lyle Nelson’s funeral?”
“Most of the townspeople hate the Militia, but there’s a growing faction of sympathizers. A backlash. It’s mostly young men who think there’s something cool about being an outlaw.”
Disgusted, Trevor said, “The Militia isn’t like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. They’re cold-blooded killers.”
“Terrorists.” Mike held up his sandwich. “Hungry?”
“Not now. Is Murphy around?”
“In the front.”
Trevor entered the large, pine-paneled room where Tony Lombardi and Jacob Powell were playing darts. Lombardi scored at the edge of the bull’s eye and broke into a victory dance. In his Bronx accent, he chanted, “Oh, yeah. I’m the champ. Oh, yeah.”
“You? Beating me?” Powell scoffed. “No way do I lose to a geologist.”
“You know what they say—Geologists got stones.”
Powell’s eyes narrowed as he took aim, then flipped his dart. Dead center. “The champ? You’re the chump.”
“How’d you do that?”
Powell—a decorated fighter pilot and aviator—pointed to his green eyes, then flared his fingers. “Eye-hand coordination. I’m the best. That’s why you can call me Bull’s-eye Powell.”
Lombardi rolled his eyes. “That’s some bull, all right.”
“Admit it. I beat your sorry ass.”
“Hey! This is a fine ass,” Lombardi protested. “Ask any female.”
He used his geology training in tracking, but Lombardi’s real talent was finding ladies who were susceptible to his charms. “Maybe you guys should come with me tonight. There’s this little tavern in Helena where the beer is cold and the ladies are hot.”
“Isabella wouldn’t like that.” Powell couldn’t help grinning as he said the name of the woman he loved.
“She’s got you on a leash,” Lombardi teased.
“There’s no place else I want to be,” his friend admitted.
Lombardi groaned and turned to Trevor. “You want to come to Helena tonight?”
“I’m busy.” He needed to wait a couple of hours be fore taking Sierra home. After that, he wanted to keep his options open in case she needed more assistance. Cameron Murphy, who was sitting in a rocking chair near the window, interrupted. “Blackhaw, what did you learn from the subject?”
Though they were no longer in the military, Trevor had the feeling that he should snap to attention. He respected his former commanding officer more than any man alive.
“Sierra Collins,” he said. “Formerly engaged to Lyle Nelson. She hates the Militia. And Lyle. He stole the money she’d been saving to move back to Brooklyn.”
“She’s a Brooklyn babe,” Lombardi said with a knowing grin. “Smart. Tight-lipped. Tough. How the hell did she end up in Montana?”
“She’s wondering the same thing,” Trevor replied.
“Any information,” Murphy asked, “about the Militia’s hideout?”
“No. But after the jailbreak, Lyle returned to her house for one night. Our prior assumption that the Militia stuck together was incorrect.”
“Hold it,” Lombardi said. In an instant, his smart-aleck attitude transformed to seriousness. “My analysis of the soil samples from Lyle Nelson’s boots led us to the deserted copper mine. That’s where they stayed after the jailbreak.”
“After that,” Trevor said, “they dispersed. Lyle Nelson went to Sierra’s house.”
“If she hates him so much,” Lombardi asked, “why didn’t she turn him in?”
“She was in a hostage situation,” Trevor said.
“Do you believe her?” Murphy probed.
“She wasn’t holding anything back.” Trevor vividly recalled the agony she’d gone through in revealing her most closely held secret, about her miscarriage. “She doesn’t know where the Militia is hiding out.”
“Nonetheless,” Murphy said, “Sierra Collins might be of value to us.”
“How so?”
“If she hates the Militia as much as she claims, they might feel the same way about her.”
“Are you suggesting they might come after her?”
“Revenge,” Murphy stated. “It’s part of the Militia’s creed.”
“I agree,” Clark said as he joined them. “Sierra didn’t make any friends at the funeral when she spat on Lyle Nelson’s coffin and said he should burn in hell.”
“That took nerve,” Lombardi murmured. “She’s a Brooklyn babe, for sure.”
Trevor hadn’t been thinking of Sierra as a potential victim, but it was a strong possibility. If the Militia wanted to teach her a lesson… “Damn it!”
“Problem?” Murphy asked.
“I might have made her situation worse. I might have antagonized a couple of sympathizers at the funeral.”
“Might have?”
“Three men threatened her,” Trevor said. “I took them down.”
“Geez,” Lombardi said. “Good way to keep a low profile, Blackhaw.”
Though the bounty hunters didn’t go out of their way to keep their identities secret, they didn’t advertise their presence. Outside of law enforcement, most people weren’t aware of their existence as an organized group.
“I’ll keep an eye on Sierra,” Trevor said. “If the Militia comes after her, I’ll be ready for them.”
Murphy nodded. “That’s as good a plan as any. Those snakes have gone underground, and we’re not having much luck in finding their den.”
Powell went to the board and gathered his darts. He grumbled, “This should have been over. The Militia isn’t smart enough to keep evading us.”
“Don’t underestimate them,” Murphy warned. “We’re not the only ones in the dark. State and national law enforcement are also involved.”
“Don’t I know it,” Powell said. His beloved Isabella was Secret Service. “I think there’s somebody else working with the Militia, pulling their strings. Somebody has got to be financing them.”
Though the other men nodded in agreement, Trevor’s mind was elsewhere. He’d heard all these arguments before and agreed with them. The Militia might have started out working alone, but it seemed they could now be part of a larger terrorist campaign.
His thoughts returned to Sierra. How could a single, innocent woman hope to stand up to the Militia, much less to a greater force of evil? Her actions at the funeral had been gutsy, but not wise. It would be his job to protect her now.
While the other men made plans and divided up duties, Trevor returned to the basement interrogation room, where Sierra still slept peacefully as a tawny kitten with a full belly of sweet cream. This kitten had claws, he reminded himself. When it came to defending herself, she was more like a tiger cub than a domesticated tabby cat.
Carefully, he unfastened the restraints on her arms, legs and waist. With light strokes, he massaged her hands to encourage circulation. Though the skin above her wrist was soft and pale, her palms were callused from hard work. She’d mentioned that she had two jobs. Where? What kind of work?
Trevor frowned. Sierra had an active schedule. Keeping an eye on her was going to be difficult unless he could convince her to invite him into her life, to let him get close…but not too close. He needed to maintain emotional distance. Getting personally involved with her would be a mistake.
Yet as he settled down to watch patiently while she slept, his heart stirred. She was different. She touched him in ways no one had before.
SIERRA WAS STUCK in a nightmare—aware that she was dreaming but unable to wake. Surrounded by thick fog, she spun around and saw Lyle stalking toward her. This was only a dream. Not real. Lyle was dead and buried. He could never hurt her again. Yet he reached out with long skeletal fingers.
His face was horrible. His eyes bulged from their sockets. His chin hung slack, and there were purple bruises around his neck. They said he’d hanged himself in his prison cell, but she didn’t believe it. Lyle was too mean to commit suicide.
His jaw creaked open. He spoke. “Sierra, find my killer. You owe me that much.”
“I don’t,” she protested. “I don’t owe you squat.”
She started running. Her feet were numb. She could hardly move. But she couldn’t let Lyle touch her and pull her into the grave with him.
She ran as fast as she could, into the trees. The forest closed around her. Then she saw another man, tall and still. His long black hair fell to his shoulders. His startling blue eyes drew her toward him. “Trevor,” she whispered.
His arms enfolded her. This felt so real; she could hear his heart beating, could smell his masculine scent. Her fingernails scratched against the cotton of his shirt. When she looked up at him, she was amazed by how handsome he was—his high cheekbones and straight nose. And his lips…
She wanted to kiss those well-shaped lips. Well, why not? She could hardly blame herself for dreaming. “Kiss me, Trevor.”
His mouth joined with hers. An incredible warmth flowed through her veins. Oh God, this was good. It seemed right. She felt alive and strong.
His mouth moved against hers, and she darted her tongue across the surface of his lips. He responded with the skill and strength she had come to expect from him after knowing him for only a few short hours. Pure sensation washed over her. This kiss was sexier than anything she’d felt before, sexier than going all the way with most men.
With a sigh, she separated from him. Awash in pleasure, she leaned back and enjoyed the fantastic awakening of her sensuality. “Oh, Trevor.”
She lifted her hand to her tingling lips. So good. So very good.
Then Sierra opened her eyes and blinked. Trevor was nowhere in sight. She was alone in the square, featureless room. Her arms were no longer tied down, and she raised her hands to her face. Her cheeks felt warm, probably because of her sensual dream. Or something else? What was it? Though she was refreshed and alert, her mind was blank, as though recent memories had been swept clean.
She knew that Trevor had brought her to this place. He had tied her up and asked her questions, and she remembered feeling angry and sad. But why?
“Lyle,” she said.
Sierra pushed herself out of the chair, went to the door and twisted the handle. Trevor stood in the hallway outside. He nodded to her.
He was as gorgeous as in her dream. Tall and lean and muscular. His black hair, pulled back in a ponytail, glistened. And those blue, blue eyes!
But he wasn’t her fantasy lover. This man was her captor, and she hated his guts. “I want to go home.”
“Sure thing,” he said. “Come with me.”
She followed him down the hallway. They seemed to be in a basement with low ceilings, but there wasn’t a musty smell. This place was clean, almost sterile. “Where are we?”
Instead of answering, Trevor pushed open the door to a bathroom. “Your clothes are inside if you want to change.”
Though she had a million questions, Sierra also had an overwhelming urge to pee. Bathroom first. Questions later.
She relieved her bladder, dressed quickly and splashed water on her face. When she slipped on her wristwatch, she noted that it was after six o’clock. She’d been here almost four hours. Doing what? She hadn’t been sleeping all that time.
Her purse sat on the counter beside the sink, and she checked the contents. Her lipstick, breath mints and ball-point pen were there. She still had seven dollars in her wallet. The only thing missing was her precise memory of what had happened to her in that interrogation room.
She returned to the hallway, where Trevor was waiting.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“I’ve been better.” She braced her fists on her hips. “Now I have some questions for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Let’s start with this—where the hell are we?”
“A good-size cabin with a couple of outbuildings, a barn and a stable in back. It belongs to Cameron Murphy.”
The name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t put a face with it. “Why did you bring me here?”
“I thought you might have information.” He placed his battered black cowboy hat on his head and started down the hallway at a casual saunter. “I expect you’re ready to get home.”
She also wanted answers. And he was being deliberately evasive. “Hold it right there, Trevor.”
Raising one eyebrow, he gave her a look that was about as innocent as that of a mountain lion. “Is there a problem?”
“Damn right! You threw me on your horse, brought me here and tied me up in that weird little room. I want to know why.”
“I asked you some questions.” He smiled calmly, but she remembered his other expression. His shimmering blue eyes could also be hard and angry. He was capable of inspiring fear. And yet when she’d dreamed about that kiss he’d been something else altogether.
“Who are you?” she asked. “What’s your job?”
“I’m a bounty hunter.”
“And you’re after the Militia.” When he opened the door to a root cellar, she balked. “Where are you taking me?”
“This is a back door. I wanted to avoid anybody who might be upstairs.”
Still she hesitated to follow him. “I don’t trust you.”
“I won’t hurt you, Sierra. You have my word.”
“The word of a bounty hunter? That’s not reassuring.”
“We’re on the same side,” he said. “You and I want the same thing.”
“To bring down the Militia?”
“You hate them as much as I do. Probably more.”
“But I’m not going after them.” She wanted to be left alone, to get on with her life. “I want no part of them. Or of you.”
“Will you allow me to take you home?”
She gave a curt nod. “And that will be the last we’ll ever see of each other.”
As she followed him to the doorway and out into the night, her firm decision wavered. Seeing Trevor again might not be the worst thing that ever happened to her.
Chapter Four
In the hour of darkness just before dawn, Boone Fowler left the rough-hewn bunkhouse that currently housed the Montana Militia for a Free America. No matter what anybody said, he’d done a damn good job as their leader. Taking possession of this long, one-story structure attached to an empty barn and corral had been a stroke of genius. The bunkhouse—deserted years ago by a rancher who went out of business—made a perfect hideout. The location was remote, accessible only by one dirt road that was easily guarded.
When Boone and his men moved in, they’d repaired the cracks in the walls and blacked out the windows. They’d installed a high-tech, silent generator so there would be no telltale wisps of smoke rising from the chimney. Nobody, by God, could find them.
The problem with the hideout was the enforced and constant proximity. Boone and his men slept, cooked and ate in the same long room. Aware of aerial surveillance by those who were after them, the Militiamen limited their daytime exposure.
If they were vigilant, they wouldn’t be caught. But safety wasn’t Boone Fowler’s deepest concern on this cold October morning. He had a plan—a detailed scheme that would require full cooperation from his men. And he was concerned about Perry Johnson, who had recently shown himself to be a wild card.
Boone’s step was stealthy as he entered the forested terrain behind the bunkhouse. The carpet of pine needles beneath his boots hardly made a whisper. He touched the handle of the automatic pistol in his pocket. Though he hated to lose Perry, disloyalty could not be tolerated. The Militia had a greater cause and no one could stand in the way. Not even Perry.
The first glimmer of sunrise filtered through the conifer branches and the rust-colored autumn leaves on the chokecherry bushes. A damp, bone-chilling mist rose from the earth. A weaker man would have shivered. Not Boone. He drew strength from natural adversity. These mountains were his goddamn birthright as an American. This time, he would prevail, surviving against the will of the combined state and federal law enforcement stooges. He would send a clear and brutal message. And they would listen. This time, the Militia would not be apprehended.
At the edge of a creek, Boone spotted two men hunkered down by the stream fishing for breakfast trout. Instead of approaching them, he hung back to listen, and drew his gun.
Raymond Fleming, a scrawny beanpole, sounded angry. “We can’t keep hiding out. People are going to think we gave up.”
“And what the hell do you think we ought to do?” Perry Johnson tugged on his fishing line. “Paint targets on our foreheads and march into Ponderosa?”
“I don’t know.” Raymond shrugged his skinny shoulders. “Something.”
“That’s a hell of a plan,” Perry scoffed. “You’re not exactly the sharpest arrow in the quiver, are you?”
“Hey, it’s not even morning yet. My brain isn’t awake.” Raymond fidgeted. “And I’m not the one who was stupid enough to sneak off and go to Lyle’s funeral. That was you, Perry.”
Without dropping his fishing pole, Perry lashed out. His bare fist snapped against Raymond’s temple, sending the younger man sprawling.
“Hey!” Raymond shouted. “What was that for?”
“Calling me stupid.”
Perry rose to his feet. His burly shoulders flared as he looked down at Raymond. In the glow of sunrise, Boone watched the impressive transformation of Perry Johnson from fisherman to predator. He was a dangerous man. Ruthless. It would be a shame to kill him.
Raymond cowered. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’d never call you dumb. Hell, sometimes I even think you’re smarter than Boone. It’s just that somebody could have recognized you at the funeral.”
“But they didn’t.” Still holding his rod, Perry used his other hand to remove his cap and rub the sleeve of his jacket across his bald forehead. Then he replaced the cap. Back in control again. “Damn near broke my heart to see what happened at Lyle’s grave. A bunch of media jackasses crawling all over, showing no respect. And that little bitch, Sierra. She spat on Lyle’s coffin.”
Perry yanked on his line and reeled in another trout, which he added to the string. When it came to hunting and fishing, he was second to none. His skill kept them well-supplied with trout and venison. And he was, as Raymond had mentioned, highly intelligent.
The problem Boone had with Perry was that he tended to go his own way. When he thought he was right, he broke ranks. Innately dangerous and coldly sadistic, Perry was the ultimate weapon, but Boone had to be sure he was aimed in the right direction.
“Another thing,” Perry said to Raymond. “I’m not smarter than Boone. He’s our leader. And don’t you ever forget it.”
Boone smiled as he slipped his gun back into his pocket. Perry still believed in him and trusted his authority. Good!
When Boone stepped out from the trees, both Perry and Raymond reached for their rifles. Perry’s beady black eyes narrowed. “Shouldn’t sneak up on a man like that. It’s a good way to get your head blown off.”
“I trust your reflexes,” Boone said. “Even in the dark, you’d know it was me.”
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Cassie Miles
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: HALF-BREED HUNTERAs one of Big Sky′s boldest bounty hunters, Trevor Blackhaw lived by his own rules. However, when he whisked a slain prisoner′s scrappy exgirlfriend off for an intense interrogation to smoke out a band of fugitives, his inquisition had unexpected consequences. For this ironhearted warrior was shaken to the core by the fierce protectiveness that Sierra Collins stirred in him. Their slow-burning attraction boiled over when Trevor stood guard over the tempestuous beauty, who was caught in the crosshairs of the Montana Militia′s reign of terror. After a sinister maneuver allowed the enemy to gain the upper hand, Trevor vowed to employ all his specialized skills to capture his prey…and rescue the lady he loved!