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Warning Shot
Jenna Kernan


Warning Shot His secret could cost her life… Sent to thwart an unknown threat, Rylee Hockings clashes with local county sheriff Axel Trace who doesn’t want the federal agent treading on his turf. But as he learns to accept her help, he realises he'll have to reveal a secret that could jeopardise her case—and cost them their lives.







When an agent teams up with a local sheriff,

she doesn’t realize his secret could endanger their lives...

With Homeland Security on high alert, Rylee Hockings heads into the field to thwart a foreign threat. But local county sheriff Axel Trace doesn’t want the newbie federal agent treading on his turf. As he learns to accept her help, the stakes rise as he realizes he’ll have to reveal a secret that could jeopardize her case—and cost them their lives.


JENNA KERNAN has penned over two dozen novels and received two RITA® Award nominations. Jenna is every bit as adventurous as her heroines. Her hobbies include recreational gold prospecting, scuba diving and gem hunting. Jenna grew up in the Catskills and currently lives in the Hudson Valley in New York State with her husband. Follow Jenna on Twitter, @jennakernan (https://twitter.com/jennakernan), on Facebook or at jennakernan.com (http://www.jennakernan.com)


Also by Jenna Kernan (#u33d6a793-5388-5215-9aa5-4545932e00cf)

Defensive Action

Adirondack Attack

Surrogate Escape

Tribal Blood

Undercover Scout

Black Rock Guardian

Turquoise Guardian

Eagle Warrior Firewolf

The Warrior’s Way

Shadow Wolf

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Warning Shot

Jenna Kernan






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-09450-4

WARNING SHOT

© 2019 Jeannette H. Monaco

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




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For Jim, always.


Contents

Cover (#ubc51ecc6-8adb-51e0-befd-2e284c85eeb9)

Back Cover Text (#u2a9ba072-a96e-52e3-bbc9-4166c68e9ece)

About the Author (#u91f31739-09cc-5612-842c-35be39e27765)

Booklist (#u61dd7917-3af9-5f1c-a88c-f62708c9d7b0)

Title Page (#u89c9622d-43aa-5dde-a69e-6e67fd050462)

Copyright (#uef34a3b5-39c6-59a4-b98f-46f1aef904f8)

Note to Readers

Dedication (#u1a08a78f-e47f-5f65-a6c0-0a971b3a8697)

Chapter One (#u78ca9f6c-288c-507b-80b4-9f66334b6f85)

Chapter Two (#u53b792fc-87a0-5440-ae3a-3fecc677ebcc)

Chapter Three (#u301bc2ca-94e0-57c1-95c7-50e7dafac358)

Chapter Four (#ub97b4817-3276-5bf2-8578-43c0f2cf8729)

Chapter Five (#u505836c3-734f-5dae-a748-8364e74b3072)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One (#u33d6a793-5388-5215-9aa5-4545932e00cf)


Homeland Security Agent Rylee Hockings paused on the way into the sheriff’s office at the foul language booming from the side of the building. The deep baritone voice continued in a colorful string of obscenities that made her think the speaker had been in some branch of the armed services.

A military brat herself, she had heard her fair share of cussing during her formative years while being dragged from one base to another, Kyoto to Hawaii to Germany and back to Hawaii. The youngest of six, she had the distinction of being the only one of her family not to join the US Marines. Some of the military upbringing had worn off on her because she still believed that one was judged on performance. It was one of many reasons she planned to kill this assignment and show her supervisor she had what it took to be a field operative.

It was just past noon on Labor Day. Because of the federal holiday, she had not expected to find the sheriff in his office, but stopped as a courtesy. The second day of September and sunny, but the sunshine did not warm this frozen block of a county in upstate New York. Here it already felt like November. The leaves were pretty. Already at peak leaf-peeping season.

She rounded the building and found a tall man with strands of honey-blond hair falling over his flushed face as he jammed a coat hanger in the slot between the weather stripping and the driver’s side window of the vehicle before him.

The vehicle was a white SUV and on the side panel in gold paint was the county seal and the word Sheriff.

The man had his back to her and he had not heard her approach due to the swearing and stomping of his feet on the frozen ground. His breath showed in the blast of cold air. The collar of his jacket was turned up against the chill. His distraction gave her a moment to admire an unobstructed view of one of the nicest looking butts she had seen in some time. His uniform slacks were just tight enough and his posterior just muscular enough to keep her interest for a little too long. He wore a brown nylon jacket, heavily padded and flapping at his sides as he threw the coat hanger to the ground.

“Unsat,” she said, using the US Marine jargon for unsatisfactory.

He whirled and met her gaze by pinning her with eyes so blue they should have belonged to a husky. Her smile dropped with her stomach. Straight nose, square chin and a sensual mouth, the guy was the complete package, and then he opened his mouth.

“Sneaking up on a sheriff is a bad idea.”

“As bad as locking your keys inside?” She squinted her eyes and dragged her sunglasses down her nose. “I could have had an entire unit with me, and you wouldn’t have heard.”

He stooped to retrieve his twisted coat hanger, snatching it from the ground with long elegant fingers.

“FUBAR,” she said.

“You in the Corps?” he asked, referring to the US Marine Corps.

“My father, two brothers and a sister.” She motioned to the sheriff’s vehicle. “No spare?”

“Lost them,” he admitted.

“Why not use a Slim Jim?”

He scowled and thumbed over his shoulder. “It’s in the back.”

She wished she’d checked into the background of the sheriff of Onutake County before this meeting, but time had been limited. Knowing what he looked like would have been helpful right about now. For all she knew, this guy was a car thief.

She made a note to do some background checking as soon as she found a moment.

“You Sheriff Trace?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Rylee Hockings, Department of Homeland Security.” She retrieved her business card case from her blazer and offered him a card, leaning forward instead of stepping closer. There was something other than his vocabulary that urged her to keep her distance. She listened to that voice instead of the one that wondered if he were single. But her traitorous eyes dropped to his bare hands and the left one, which held no wedding band.

He nodded, not looking at her card.

“Didn’t expect to find you on the job today, Sheriff.”

“More calls on weekends and holidays. Just the way of the world.”

He’d have trouble responding without his car, she thought.

“What can I do you for?”

“Just an introduction. Courtesy visit.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, his expression turning skeptical. “So, you plan on treating me like I’m still a marine?”

“Excuse me?”

“Muscles are required, intelligence not essential,” he said, choosing one of the tired jokes members of the army often leveled at the marines.

“So you were army, then.” She knew that much from the jibe toward her family’s branch of the military.

“Once.” He smiled and her heart jumped as if hit with a jolt of electricity. The smile and those eyes and jaw and, holy smokes, she was in trouble. She forced a scowl.

“You know, you should always run a check of your equipment before you lock up.”

“You a newbie, reading manuals, going by the book?”

She was and the assumption was insulting.

“Why do you ask?”

“You still have that new car smell.”

Her scowl was no longer forced. What did that even mean? “I’m not the one locked out of my unit.”

“It isn’t even locked. The alarm is just on and I didn’t want to set it off again.”

Again. How often did he do this? she wondered. “I’ll be doing some investigating in your county.”

“What kind of investigating?”

She smiled. “Nice to meet you, Sheriff.”

“You want an escort?”

“From a sheriff careless enough to leave his keys and—” she glanced through the windshield to verify her suspicion “—his phone in his unit? Thank you but I’ll manage.”

She turned to go. New car smell. She growled and marched away.

“You got a Slim Jim in your vehicle, Hockings?” he called after her.

“I do, but I wouldn’t want to chance damaging yours. Maybe try Triple A.”

“Where you headed?”

“Kowa Nation,” she said and then wished she hadn’t.

“Hey!”

Rylee turned back. Throwing her arms out in exasperation. “What?”

“They know you’re coming?”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Agent Hockings, I advise you to call the tribal leadership and make a formal request to visit.”

She cast him the kind of wave that she knew was dismissive. Those damn blue eyes narrowed. They were still enthralling. As blue as the waters of the Caribbean.

Rylee straightened her shoulders and kept going. When she reached the front of the building, she heard the sheriff’s car alarm blare and then cut short.

From her official vehicle, Rylee logged in to the laptop affixed to the dash and checked out the sheriff’s official records. Sheriff Axel Trace had been taken into state custody at thirteen and listed as orphaned. She gazed at the entry. There was a hole there big enough to drive a truck through. No birth record or school records. His paper trail, as they used to call it, began with the entry by the sheriff of this very county when he took custody of the lad. Axel’s parents were listed as deceased, but no names for her to search. No cause of their deaths or circumstances, no guardians noted, no relatives. Just record of Axel’s temporary placement with Kurt Rogers, the county sheriff at the time. The placement lasted five years until Axel enlisted out of high school. Rylee scanned and clicked and scanned some more. Impressed didn’t quite cover it. There were plenty of records now, and all exemplary. She’d read them more carefully later. But on a fast pass, the man had distinguished himself in the US Army as an MP and reaching the rank of captain in Iraq. She scanned his records and noted his transfer to Hanau, Germany.

“Oh, no,” she said.

Captain Axel Trace had broken up a brawl in a bar that had resulted in the death of two servicemen. She would read all the details later. For now, she skimmed and noted that Trace had been attacked and engaged with appropriate use of force.

“And two months later, you chose discharge rather than reenlistment.” She wondered if the incident had been the cause of his decision to leave the service and his prospects behind.

He seemed to have had a great opportunity for advancement and she wondered why he had instead elected discharge and returned to his home county to run for sheriff, replacing the man who had held the position until retirement six years ago. It seemed an odd choice.

Perhaps it was just her ambition talking, but the sheriff could have done a lot better than this frozen Klondike Bar of a county. The entire northern border was Canada and, other than the St. Lawrence River, she saw nothing but trees and more trees. She didn’t understand why anyone with his training would allow himself to get stuck in a crappy, freezing county where you reached the highest possible position at thirty. Sheriff Trace had no family up here, none anywhere according to his records. And now he had nowhere to go but sideways and no increase in salary unless the good people of the county wanted their taxes raised.

Meanwhile, Rylee had nothing but advancement in her sights. Her plans included filling in that blank spot in her résumé under field experience. Eliminating the possible terrorist threats up here was a good start. She wasn’t fooled that this was a great opportunity. This county had been tagged by the DHS analysts as the least likely spot for the crossing. But that didn’t make it impossible. This morning she had gotten her break. Her initial assignment was to speak to four groups who might be connected with the terrorist organization calling itself Siming’s Army. Just initial interviews, but it was a start. But en route, Border Patrol called her to report an illegal crossing: a single male who was carrying a canvas duffel bag. The contents of that bag were her objective. Until she knew otherwise, she’d act as if the contents of the bag was the object for which her entire department hunted. They had abandoned pursuit when the target entered onto Mohawk land. She had a chance now, a possible break in the search for the entry point of this threat.

Her attempt to reach her boss, Catherine Ohr, ended in a voice mail message, and she had yet to hear back.

She had lost the GPS signal with her directions to the Kowa Mohawk Nation just outside of town. Not that it mattered. One of the things her father had taught her was how to read a map.

Federal officers investigating leads did not need appointments to visit federal land. Sheriff Axel Trace should have known that, but it wasn’t her job to tell him what he should know.

Newbie. New car smell. First field assignment.

Rylee lowered her chin and stepped on the gas.




Chapter Two (#u33d6a793-5388-5215-9aa5-4545932e00cf)


Sheriff Trace responded to the call from the Kowa Nation one hour later, passing the border patrol checkpoint just off their rez and knowing that would only further ruffle feathers. Likely, this was also the work of Rylee Hockings.

Homeland Security Agent Hockings didn’t look like trouble, as she sat small and sullen in the seat beside the desk of the Kowa Mohawk Reservation’s acting chief of police. But having already met her, he could not help but take in the moment. Having ignored his advice and dismissed him like the help, there was a certain satisfaction in seeing her in wrist restraints.

He didn’t know the exact point when his moment to gloat changed into a completely different kind of study, but he now noticed that Rylee Hockings had a heart-shaped face, lips the color of the flesh of a ripe watermelon and large, expressive brown eyes with elegant arching brows that were the brown of dry pine needles. Her straight, fine blond hair fell forward, making her flushed cheeks seem even pinker. Their eyes met, and her brow descended. Her lids cinched as she squinted at him with open hostility.

Axel could not resist smiling. “The next time I ask you if you’d like an escort, maybe don’t flip me the bird.”

“I didn’t flip you off.” Her reply was a bark, like a dog that might be either frightened or angry but either way sent clear signs for him to back off.

“No, I believe you said that when you wanted the help of a sheriff who was dumb enough to lock his keys in his cruiser, you’d ask for it.”

He glanced at her wrists, secured with a wide plastic zip tie and hammering up and down on the knees of her navy slacks as if sending him a message in Morse code. He wondered why federal agents always advertised their profession with the same outfits. A blazer, dress shirt and slacks with a practical heel was just not what folks wore up here.

“I didn’t say dumb enough. I said careless enough.”

He glanced to the acting chief of police, Sorrel Vasta, who said, “Potato, Pa-tot-o.”

“I also mentioned that the Kowa tribe does not do drop-in visits,” said Axel.

“Especially from feds,” added Vasta. He folded his arms across his chest, which just showed off how very thin and young he really was.

“This,” said Agent Hockings, “is federal land. As a federal officer, I do not need permission—”

“You are a trespasser on the Mohawk Nation. We are within our rights to—”

Whatever rights Vasta might have been about to delineate were cut short by the blast of a shotgun.

Hockings threw herself from the chair to the floor as Vasta ducked behind the metal desk. Axel dropped, landing beside Hockings, pressed shoulder to shoulder.

“Shots fired,” she called, reaching for her empty holster with her joined hands and then swearing under her breath.

“Who are you yelling to exactly?” Axel asked. “We all heard it.”

She pressed those pink lips together and scowled, then she scrambled along the floor, undulating in a way that made his hairs stand up and electricity shiver over his skin. He hadn’t felt that drumbeat of sexual awareness since that day in high school when Tonya Sawyer wore a turquoise lace bra under a T-shirt that was as transparent as a bridal veil. She’d been sent home, of course, to change, but it hadn’t mattered. Images like that stuck in the memory like a bug on a fly strip. He had a feeling that the sight of Hockings’s rippling across the floor like a wave was going to stick just like that turquoise bra.

“Out of the way,” Hockings said, her thigh brushing his shoulder.

The electricity now scrambled his brain as the current shot up and then down to finally settle, like a buzzing transformer, in his groin. High school all over again.

Vasta squatted at the window and peeked out. The only thing he held was the venetian blinds. His gun remained on his hip. He glanced back at Axel and cocked his head.

Axel realized his own mouth was hanging open as if Agent Hockings had slapped him, which she would have, if she knew what he had been thinking.

“They shot her car. Peppered the side,” said Vasta.

Her head popped up like a carnival target from behind the desk.

“Who did?” Her perfect blond hair was now mussed. Axel resisted the urge to lay the strands back in order. Was her hair silky or soft like angora?

“I dunno, but they are long gone,” said Vasta. “Even took the shell.”

“How do you know that?” She reached his side.

“Shells are green and red, mostly. Easy to spot on the snow.”

Agent Hockings moved to the opposite side of the window. “There is a whole group of people out there. Witnesses.”

Axel’s laugh gleaned another scowl from Hockings. Vasta’s mouth quirked but then fell back to reveal no hint of humor when Hockings turned from Axel to him.

Now Axel was scowling. Vasta was making him look bad, or perhaps he was doing that all on his own.

Axel reached the pair who now stood flanking the window like bookends. He pressed his arm to hers, muscling her out of the way in order to get a glimpse outside. Her athletic frame brought her head to his shoulder, and he was only five foot ten. She was what Mrs. Shubert, the librarian of the Kinsley Public Library, would have called petite. Mrs. Shubert had also been petite and was as mighty as a superhero in Axel’s mind. He knew not to judge ferocity in inches.

“Or,” said Hockings, “you could see if any of the spectators have a shotgun in their hand or shell casing in their pocket.”

“Illegal search,” said Vasta. “And none of them have a shotgun any longer. So, here’s what’s going to happen. Sheriff Trace is going to escort you out in restraints and put you in the back of his unit. Then he’s going to drive you outta here. If you are smart, you will keep your head down and look ashamed, because you should be.”

“I will not.”

“Then they will likely break every window in Axel’s cruiser and possibly turn it over with you both inside.”

Hockings stiffened as her eyes went wide with shock. The brown of her irises, he now saw, were flecked with copper. She looked to him, as if asking if Vasta were pulling her leg.

He hoped his expression said that the acting chief of police was not.

She turned back to Vasta. “You’d have to stop them.”

“Listen, Agent Hockings, it’s just me here. Last week, I was an officer, and now this.” He motioned to his chief’s badge. “Besides, I’m tempted to help them.”

Hockings looked from Vasta to Trace and then back to Vasta.

“Are you pressing charges against Hockings?” Axel asked Vasta.

“Are you serious?” she asked the sheriff.

He gave her a look he hoped said that he was very serious. “They have tribal courts and you do not want to go there.”

“They can’t prosecute a federal agent.”

“But can hold you until your people find out.”

Her fingers went straight, flexing and then lacing together to create a weapon that he believed she was wise enough not to use.

“Fine. So contrite. That will get us out of here?”

The acting chief of police nodded.

“What about my vehicle?”

“I’ll drive it to the border and leave it for you.”

“The border?” To Rylee, the border was Canada. Vasta enlightened her.

“The border of our reservation.”

Her gaze flicked between them and her full mouth went thin and miserly. But she thought about it. Axel just loved the way the tips of her nose and ears went pink as a rabbit’s in her silent fury.

“Fine. Let’s get going, if you have your keys,” she said, pushing past him.

The acting chief of police was faster, beating them to the door to the main squad room. There, two officers sat on a desk and table respectively, both kicking their legs from their perches where they had been watching the drama playing out through the glass door of the chief’s office.

“Josh and Noah, you two have point,” said Vasta, instructing the men to lead the escort.

Both men rose, grinning. Each wore tight-fitting uniforms. Josh’s hair was black and bristly short. Noah wore his brown hair in a knot at his neck.

They headed out behind the officers, with Axel holding Hockings’s taut arm as if she were his prisoner. Behind them came the acting chief of police. Trace tried and failed not to notice that he could nearly encircle Rylee’s bicep with his thumb and index finger and that included her wool coat. She glared up at him and her muscle bunched beneath his grip. Hockings clearly did not like role-play.

The crowd that Hockings had insisted Vasta question were now calling rude suggestions and booing. Vasta waved and spoke to them in Kowa, a form of the Iroquoian language. The officers before them peeled away, giving Axel a view of his cruiser and the rear door. For reasons he did not completely understand, his squad car was untouched. Axel hit the fob, unlocking his unit. Noah swept the rear door open.

Axel made a show of putting his hand on Hockings’s head to see that she was safely ensconced in the rear of his unit. The effect brought a cheer from the peanut gallery and allowed him to get the answer to one of his many questions about Hockings.

Her hair was soft as the ear of an Irish setter and blond right to the roots. Hockings fell to her side across the rear seat and remained on her side. Wise beyond her years, he thought.

The booing resumed as he climbed behind the wheel. It pleased him that Josh and Noah now stood between his unit and the gathering of pissed-off Mohawks.

And off they went. They were outside of Salmon River, the tribe’s main settlement, but still on rez land before Rylee sat up and laced her fingers through the mesh guard that separated his front from the back seat. Her fingernails were shiny with clearish pink polish and neatly filed into appealing ovals. Her wrists were no longer secured.

“How did you get out of that?” he asked.

“My father says you can measure a person’s IQ by whether or not they carry a pocketknife.”

“With the exception being at airports?” he asked.

“You going to keep me back here the entire way?”

“Not if you want to sit beside me.”

She didn’t answer that, just threw herself back into the upholstery and growled. Then she looked out the side window.

“They better not damage my car,” she muttered.

“More,” he said.

“What?”

She wasn’t looking at him. He knew because he was staring at her in the rearview until the grooves in the shoulder’s pavement vibrated his attention back to the road.

“Damage your car more,” he clarified. “They already shot at it. So, you find who you were looking for?”

She folded her arms over her chest. Just below her lovely small breasts, angry fists balled. She was throwing so much shade the cab went dark.

“How do you know I was looking for someone?”

“What Home Security does, isn’t it, here on the border?”

“In this case, yes. We have an illegal crossing and the suspect fled onto Kowa lands.”

“They have your suspect?”

“Denied any knowledge.”

Homeland Security Agent Rylee Hockings was about as welcome in Salmon River as a spring snowstorm.

“Maybe Border Patrol has your guy.”

“No. They lost ’em. That’s why they called me. They abandoned pursuit when our suspect crossed onto Mohawk land. Both the suspect and the cargo have vanished.” She glanced back the way they had come. “I need my car.”

What she needed were social skills. She didn’t want his help, but she might need it. And he needed to get her out of his county before she got into something way more dangerous than ruffled Mohawk regalia. Up here on the border, waving a badge at the wrong people could get you killed.

The woman might have federal authority and a mission, but she didn’t know his county or the people here. Folks who lived on the border did it for one of three reasons. Either it was as far away from whatever trouble they had left as they could get, or they had business on the other side. He’d survived up here by knowing the difference, doing his job and not poking his nose into the issues that were not under his purview.

There was one other reason to be up here. If you had no other choice. Rylee had a choice. So she needed to go. Sooner was better.

He considered himself to be both brave and smart, but that would be little to no protection from Rylee’s alluring brown eyes and watermelon-pink mouth. Best way he knew to keep clear of her was to get her south as soon as possible.

“The Mohawk are required to report illegal entry onto US soil,” she said. “And detain if possible. They did neither.”

“Maybe they aren’t interested in our business or our borders.”

“America’s business? Is that what you mean?”

He scratched the side of his head and realized he needed a haircut. “It’s just my experience that the Mohawk people consider themselves separate from the United States and Canada.” He half turned to look back at her. “You know they have territory in both countries.”

“Yes, I was briefed. And smuggling, human trafficking and dope running happen in your county.”

She’d left out moonshining. But border security was thankfully not his job. Neither were the vices that were handled by ATF—the federal agency responsible for alcohol, tobacco, firearms and recently explosives. He was glad because enforcement was a dangerous, impossible and thankless assignment. His responsibilities, answering calls from citizens via EMS, traffic stops and accidents made up the bulk of his duties. He was occasionally involved with federal authorities, collaborating only when asked, and Agent Hockings seemed thrilled to do everything herself. He should leave it at that.

“Borders bring their own unique troubles.”

“Yet, you have made limited arrests related to these activities. Mostly minor ones, at that, despite the uptick in illegal activities, especially in winter when the river freezes.”

He ignored the jibe. He did his duty and that was enough to let him sleep most nights.

“It doesn’t always freeze,” he said.

“Hmm? What doesn’t?”

“The river. Some years it doesn’t freeze.”

She cocked her head and gave him a look as if he puzzled her. “How long have you been sheriff?”

If she were any kind of an agent, she knew that already, but he answered anyway.

“Going on six years this January.”

“You seem young.”

“Old enough to know better and halfway to collecting social security.”

“You grew up here, didn’t you?”

“I’ve never lived anywhere else.”

“You have family up here?”

His smile faltered, and he swerved to the shoulder. He gripped the wheel with more force than necessary and glanced back at her, his teeth snapping together with a click.

One thing he was not doing was speaking about his past. Not his time in the military, not the men he’d killed or the ones he couldn’t save. And he wasn’t ever speaking of the time before the sheriff got him clear of the compound. He needed to get this question machine out of his county, so he could go back to being the well-respected public servant again.

As far as he knew, only two men knew where he came from—his father and the former sheriff. And he looked nothing like that scrawny kid Sheriff Rogers had saved. So changed, in fact, he believed his own father would not know him. At least that was what he prayed for, every damn day. All he wanted in this world was to live in a place where the rules made sense, where he had some control. And where, maybe someday, he and a nice, normal woman could create a family that didn’t make his stomach knot. But for now, he needed to be here, watching his father. Here to stop him if he switched from preaching his unhinged religious vision to creating it.

She opened her copper-flecked brown eyes even wider, feigning a look of innocence.

“What?” she asked.

He unlocked his teeth, grinding them, and then pivoted in his seat to stare back at her.

“Two hours ago, you showed up in the city of Kinsley at city hall, making it very clear that you did not want the assistance of the county sheriff. Now you want my résumé.”

“Local law enforcement is obliged to assist in federal investigations.”

“Which I will do. But you asked about my family. Like to fill in some blanks, that right? Something before I turned thirteen?” She was digging for the details that were not in public records or, perhaps, just filling time. Either way, he was not acting as the ant under her magnifying glass.

She met his stare and did not flinch or look away from the venom that must have been clear in his expression. Instead, she shrugged. “What I want is out of this back seat.”

He threw open his door and then yanked open hers. She stared up at him with a contrite expression that did not match the gleam of victory shimmering in the dark waters of her eyes. Dangerous waters, he thought. Even through his annoyance, he could not completely squelch the visceral ache caused by her proximity.

“You prefer to drive?” he said.

She slipped out of his vehicle to stand on the road before him. “Not this time. When do I get my vehicle back?”

He drew out his phone and sent a text. By the time she had settled into the passenger side, adjusted both the seat and safety belt, he received a reply.

“It’s there now,” he said. The photo appeared a moment later and he plastered his hand across his mouth to keep her from seeing his grin. Axel slipped behind the wheel and performed an illegal turn on a double solid, a privilege of his position, and took them back the way they had come.

“Why are you whistling?” she asked.

Was he? Perhaps. It was just that such moments of glee were hard to contain. By the time they reached the sign indicating the border of the Mohawk rez, she caught sight of her vehicle.

Someone had poured red paint over the roof and it was dripping down over both the windows and doors on one side. There were handprints all over the front side panel.

“My car!” she cried, leaning forward for a good look. Then she pointed. “That’s damaging federal property.”

“Looks like a war horse,” he said, admiring the paint job. It was so rare that people got exactly what they deserved.




Chapter Three (#u33d6a793-5388-5215-9aa5-4545932e00cf)


Rylee Hockings stood beside the surly sheriff with hands on hips as she regarded the gooey paint oozing from the metallic door panel of her official vehicle and onto the road. She struggled to keep her chin up. Her first field assignment had headed south the minute she headed north. When her boss, Lieutenant Catherine Ohr, saw this car, she would be livid.

Her vehicle had been towed and left just outside the reservation land and abandoned beneath the sign welcoming visitors to the Kowa Nation.

“Maybe the paint will fill in the bullet holes,” offered Sheriff Trace.

His chuckle vibrated through her like a call issued into an empty cave. Something about the tenor and pitch made her stomach do a funny little tremble. She rested a hand flat against her abdomen to discourage her body from getting ideas.

“I could use those prints as evidence,” she said to Sheriff Trace.

“Or you could accept the life lesson that you might be the big cheese where you come from but to the Kowa, you are an outsider. Up here, your position will get you more trouble than respect. Which is why I offered you an escort.”

And she had turned him down flat. Despite his mirthful blue eyes, extremely handsome face, brown hair bleached blond from what she presumed was the summer sun, and a body that was in exceptionally good shape, something about this man rubbed her the wrong way. The sheriff seemed to think the entire county belonged to him personally.

“I need to call Border Patrol.” She left him to gloat and made her call. Border Patrol had lost their suspects after they entered Mohawk territory yesterday, Sunday, at three in the afternoon and had had no further sightings. Now she understood why they ceased pursuit at their border of the reservation and called her field office. They had set up a perimeter, so the suspect was either still on Mohawk land or had slipped off and into the general population. The chances that this man was her man were slim, but until she had word that the package and courier had been apprehended elsewhere, she would treat each illegal border crossing as if the carrier came from Siming’s Army.

Her conversation and update yielded nothing further. The perimeter remained in place. All vehicles entering or leaving the American side of the Kowa lands were being checked. They had not found their man.

She stowed her phone and returned the few steps to find her escort watching the clouds as if he had not a thing to do.

“They tell you they wouldn’t go on Mohawk land?” he asked.

She didn’t answer his question, for he seemed to already know their reply. “So, anyone who wants to avoid apprehension from federal authorities just has to make it onto Mohawk land as if they had reached some home-free base, like in tag.”

“No, they have to reach Mohawk’s sovereign land and the Mohawk have to be willing to allow them to stay. The Kowa people have rights granted to them under treaties signed by our government.”

They had reached another impasse. Silence stretched, and she noticed that his eyes were really a stunning blue-gray.

“You want me to hang around?” he asked, his body language signaling his wish to leave.

“Escort me to a place that can get this paint off,” she said.

He touched the paint and then rubbed it between thumb and forefinger. He wiped his finger and thumb on the hood, then tapped his finger up and down to add his fingerprints to the others.

“Stop that!”

He did, holding up his paint-stained hand in surrender. “Oil based. Can’t use the car wash. Body shop, I suppose.”

“You have one?”

“Not personally, but there is one in town.”

“I’ll follow.” She used her fob to open the door and nothing happened.

He lowered his chin and lifted his brows. The corners of his mouth lifted before he twisted his lips in a poorly veiled attempt to hide his smile.

Had the vandals disconnected her battery or helped themselves to the entire thing?

“Tow truck,” he said.

She faced the reservation sign, lifted a stone from the road and threw it. The rock made a satisfying thwack against the metal surface.

He placed the call and she checked in with her office. No messages.

“Tow truck will be here in twenty minutes. Want to wait or grab a ride with me?”

“What do I do with the keys?”

“Tow truck doesn’t need those,” he said.

She nodded. “I knew that.”

Did she sound as green as she felt? How much more experience in the field did Trace have? He’d been an army MP and now was a sheriff.

“How did you decide to run for sheriff?” she asked.

His mouth tipped downward. He didn’t seem fond of speaking about his past. She decided to find out why that was. She’d missed something in her hasty check.

“My friend and mentor, Kurt Rogers, was retiring. He held on until I got out of the service and threw his support behind me. Been reelected once since then.”

Rylee managed to retrieve her briefcase and suitcase from the trunk, half surprised to see them there and not covered with paint. They walked back to his sheriff’s unit side by side.

“Must be hard to be popular in this sort of work.”

He cocked his head. “I don’t find it so.”

He helped her place her luggage in the rear seat and then held the passenger door for her. She had her belt clipped as they pulled back on the highway.

They did not speak on the ride into town. The air in the cruiser seemed to hold an invisible charge. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and he rubbed his neck.

“Motel or the body shop?” he asked as they hit the limits of the town of Kinsley, which was the county seat.

“Motel.”

It bothered her that, of the three possible choices, he took her directly to the place where she was staying. She didn’t ask how he knew.

The sheriff pulled to a stop and she retrieved her bags.

He stood on his side of the vehicle, staring across the roof at her. “You feel like telling me where you’ll be next, or should I just follow the sound of gunfire?”

She refused to take the bait and only thanked him for the lift.

“Don’t mention it,” he said and then added, as he slipped back into his unit, “I surely wouldn’t.”

She stooped to glare at him through the open passenger door. “Why not?”

“You won’t need to. Soon everyone in the county will know you are here and what happened on Mohawk land, because a good story spreads faster than wildfire and because you used exactly the sort of strong-arm tactics I’d expect from a rookie agent. What I can’t figure is why your supervisor sent you up here without a babysitter. You that unpopular he couldn’t even find you a partner? Or is he just that stupid?”

“She is not stupid and it’s an honor to be given a solo assignment,” she said, feeling her face heat. “A show of respect.”

“Is that what she told you?”

She slammed the door and he laughed. Rylee stood, fuming, as he cruised out of the lot.

What did she care what he thought? She had work to do. Important work. And she didn’t need the approval of the sheriff of one of the most sparsely populated counties in the state.

Kowa Mohawk people were on her watch list along with a motorcycle gang calling themselves the North Country Riders. This gang was known to smuggle marijuana across the Canadian border. Additionally, she needed to investigate a family of moonshiners. The Mondellos had for years avoided federal tax on their product by making and distributing liquor. Finally, and most troubling of all, was a survivalist compound headed by Stanley Coopersmith. Their doomsday predictions and arsenal of unknown weapons made them dangerous.

This was Rylee’s first real field assignment and they had sent her solo, which was an honor, no matter what the sheriff said. She was unhappy to be given such an out-of-the-way placement because all the analysis indicated this as the least likely spot for Siming’s Army to use for smuggling. Most of department had moved to the Buffalo and Niagara Falls regions where the analysis believed Siming’s Army would attempt infiltration.

She let herself into her room and went to work on her laptop. She took a break at midafternoon to head out to the mini-mart across the street to buy some drinks and snacks.

Her car arrived from the body shop just after six o’clock, the telltale outline of the red paint still visible along with the outline of three handprints.

“Couldn’t get those out without buffing. Best we could do,” said the gaunt tow truck driver in navy blue coveralls. “Also replaced the battery.”

“Dead?” she asked.

“Gone,” he said.

He clutched a smoldering half-finished cigarette at his side and her invoice in the other. The edges of the brown clipboard upon which her paperwork sat were worn, rounded with age.

She offered her credit card. He copied the numbers and she signed the slip.

The tow truck operator cocked his head to study the vehicle’s new look with watery eyes gone yellow with jaundice. “Almost looks intentional. Like those cave paintings in France. You know?”

Rylee flicked her gaze to the handprints and then back to the driver.

“Like a warrior car. I might try something like it with an airbrush.”

Rylee her held out her hand for the receipt.

“If I were you, I’d stay off Mohawk land. Maybe stick to the casino from now on.”

She accepted the paperwork without comment. The driver folded the pages and handed them to her. Rylee returned to her room and her laptop. It was too late to head out to the next group on her watch list. That would have to wait until tomorrow.

Her phone chimed, alerting her to an incoming call. The screen display read Catherine Ohr, and she groaned. She couldn’t know about the car already.

“Did you not understand the Mohawk are a sovereign nation?” said her boss.

“On federal land.”

“On Kowa Mohawk Nation land. When I asked you to speak to them, I meant you should make an appointment.”

“At eight a.m., Border Patrol notified me of a runner. A single male who crossed the border on foot carrying a large navy blue duffel bag. He was believed to have been dropped off by his courier on the Canadian side. That same courier then picked him up on the US side. They were sighted on River Road. Border Patrol detained the pickup driver thirty minutes later just outside Mohawk lands. The passenger fled on foot onto the reservation, carrying the large duffel on his back.”

“They questioned the driver?”

“Yes. He denies picking anyone up.”

“Name?”

“Quinton Mondello. Oldest son of Hal Mondello.”

“How many sons does he have?”

“Four. Quinton runs things with his father. He’s the heir apparent, in my opinion.”

“So, the moonshiners were carrying moonshine. Made a drop in Canada and were heading home with an empty truck.”

“Then why run?”

“You believe the passenger was an illegal immigrant?”

“At the very least,” said Rylee.

“You believe the Mondello family is engaged in human trafficking?”

“Or they are assisting the Siming terrorist.”

“That’s a stretch. Border Patrol saw the passenger flee?”

Rylee’s stomach knotted. “No. They were acting on an anonymous tip who reported seeing the passenger flee prior to Border Patrol’s arrival. Border Patrol stopped a truck of similar description just outside Mohawk lands.”

“Could have been a Mohawk carrying cigarettes from Canada. Could have been a moonshiner. Pot grower. Poacher. And their tip could have been a rival poacher, moonshiner or pot grower. Any of those individuals would have reason to flee. Hell, they have ginseng hunters up here trespassing all the time.”

“Not in the fall.”

Ohr made a sound like a growl that did not bode well for Rylee’s career advancement plans.

“It could also be a suspect,” added Rylee, pushing her luck.

“Therefore, we don’t really know if there even was a passenger.”

“Quinton Mondello denies carrying a passenger.”

“Of course, he does. And he may be telling the truth.”

Rylee didn’t believe that for a minute.

“So, you decided to follow, alone, without backup and without notifying the tribal police,” said Ohr.

Rylee dropped her gaze to the neatly made bed and swallowed, knowing that speaking now would reveal an unwanted tremor in her voice.

“Hockings?”

“Border Patrol didn’t pursue.” There was that darn tremor.

“Because they understand the law. That is also why they had to release Quinton Mondello. No evidence of wrongdoing.”

Silence stretched.

“Do I need to pull you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I do not have time to clean up your messes, Hockings.”

Rylee thought of the handprints on her federal vehicle and her head hung in shame.

“Do not go on Mohawk land again for any reason.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ohr hung up on her.

Rylee needed some air. She gathered her personal weapon, wallet, shield and keys before heading out. The September night had turned cooler than she realized, and she ducked inside to grab a lined jacket. She stepped outside again and glanced about. The night had fallen like a curtain, so much blacker than her suburban neighborhood with the streetlights lining every road. Here, only the parking lot and the mini-mart across the road glowed against the consuming dark. She’d seen an ice-cream place, the kind that had a grill, on their arrival. A burger and fries with a shake would hit the spot. It wasn’t until she was driving toward her destination that she realized she had snatched the blue windbreaker that had bold white letters across the back, announcing that she was Homeland Security.

The dash clock told her it was nearly 8:00 p.m. and she wondered how long the ice-cream joint might stay open. The answer turned out to be eight o’clock. She arrived to see the lot empty except for one familiar sheriff’s vehicle and a clear view of the solitary worker inside, cleaning the grill. Out front, sitting on the picnic table surface with his feet on the bench, was Sheriff Trace and a very young man.

She ignored them, which wasn’t easy, as she had to walk from her vehicle to the order window.

“Ms. Hockings,” said the sheriff.

She nodded and glanced at the pair.

“Who’s that?” asked the young man. The sheriff’s companion had peach fuzz on his jaw and hair shaved so short that it was impossible to know if his hair was blond or light brown and a stunned expression. There was an old crescent scar on his scalp where the hair did not grow.

The sheriff mumbled something as she reached the order window and was greeted by a red-faced woman who said, “Just cleaned the grill. You want something to eat, have to be the fryer.”

“All right. So...what are my choices?”

“Fried shrimp, mozzarella sticks or French fries.”

“Ice cream?”

“Yup.” She motioned a damp rag at the menu board behind her. “Ain’t cleaned that yet.”

Rylee ordered the shrimp and fries with a vanilla shake. The woman had the order up in less than four minutes and the counter light flicked off as Rylee retreated with her dinner in a box lined with a red-and-white-checked paper already turning transparent in the grease.

The sheriff called to her before she could reach her car.

“Agent Hockings. Join us?” he asked.

She let her shoulders deflate. Rylee wanted only to eat and have a shower. But she forced a smile. Establishing working relationships with local law enforcement was part of the job. Unfortunately, this local made her skin tingle when she got too close. She hated knowing from the heat of her face that she was blushing. He returned her smile and her mind wandered to questions that were none of her business, like what Axel Trace’s chest looked like beneath that uniform.

Two months ago, Rylee had had a steady boyfriend but that ended when she got promoted and he didn’t. The help she’d given him on course work might have worked against him in the written testing when he didn’t know the information required. In any case, he blamed her, and she’d broken things off. Showing his true colors made getting over him easy. Except at night. She missed the feel of him in her bed; that had been the only place they had gotten along just fine. Now she knew that attraction was not enough of a foundation for a relationship. So why was she staring at the sheriff’s jawline and admiring the gap between his throat and the white undershirt that edged his uniform?

Because, Rylee, you haven’t been with a man in a long time. She swept him with a gaze and dismissed this attraction as the second worst idea of the day. The first being pursuit onto Mohawk land.

Rylee sat across from the pair, who slipped from the surface of the picnic table and onto the opposite bench, staring at her in silence as she ate the curling brown breading that must have had a shrimp in there somewhere. The second bite told her the shellfish was still frozen in the center. She pushed it aside.

“Want my second burger?” asked Axel.

“You have a spare?”

“Bought it for Morris, here. But two ought to do him.”

Morris gave the burger in the sheriff’s hands a look of regret before dipping the last of his fries into his ice-cream sundae.

“This is Morris Coopersmith,” said Trace. “Morris, this is Rylee Hockings. She’s with Homeland Security.”

Stanley Coopersmith was one of the persons of interest.

Morris’s brows lifted, and his hand stilled. When he spoke, his voice broke. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Rylee accepted the wrapped burger Sheriff Trace extended. “Any relationship to Stanley Coopersmith?”

Morris grinned and nodded. “That’s my dad.” Then the smile waned. “He doesn’t like comics.”

Morris’s dad was on her watch list. He led a colony of like-minded doomsday survivalists, who had their camp right on the New York side of the border. It would be simple for such a group to transport anything or anyone they liked through the woods and over the border in either direction.

“Want some pickles?” asked Morris, offering the ones he had plucked from his burgers.

“No, thank you,” she said to Morris. Her phone chimed and she checked to see the incoming text was unimportant.

Morris pointed. “Do you have a camera on that?”

Rylee nodded.

“Take our picture,” he insisted and moved closer to the sheriff.

Rylee gave the sheriff a questioning look and received a shrug in response, so she opened the camera app and took a photo.

Morris reached for her phone and she allowed him to take it and watched closely as he admired the shot. At last, he handed her back her phone.

She asked the sheriff, “Are you two related?”

It was a blind guess. Morris was pink and lanky; his body type more like a basketball player. Axel’s blond hair, sun-kissed skin and muscular physique seemed nearly opposite to the boy’s.

She wasn’t sure why she didn’t delete the photo, but she left it and tucked her phone away. Then she turned her attention to her meal. She had a mouthful of burger when the sheriff dispelled her first guess.

“I’m transporting Morris from his home to the jail in Kinsley due to failure to report to his last hearing. He’s got to be in court in the morning.”

“Oh,” she said, forcing the word past the mouthful of food. She knew the shock was clear on her face. Did he usually stop to buy suspects dinner? She had so many questions but turned to Morris. “I’m sorry for your trouble. I hope the hearing goes well.”

“Doubtful. Not the first time I got picked up.”

“Oh, I see.” The investigator portion of her was dying to ask what exactly he had repeatedly been picked up for.

“I steal things,” said Morris and grinned.

“Morris,” said the sheriff, his tone an admonition. “What did I say?”

“Let my lawyer do the talking?” said the boy.

“And?”

“Don’t discuss the case.”

Axel Trace nodded solemnly.

Morris turned to Rylee. “But I wasn’t stealing for me this time. So that will be all right.” He glanced to the sheriff for reassurance and received none.

Axel Trace looked as if he were taking his dog to the vet to be put down. His mouth tugged tight and his eyes... Were they glistening? His repeat blinking and the large swallow of soda he took seemed answer enough. Sheriff Trace cared for this boy.

Rylee choked down the rest of the burger in haste. Morris finished his sundae and grinned, smacking his lips in satisfaction. On closer inspection, he did not seem quite a boy but a man acting like a boy. He certainly didn’t have a grip on the seriousness of his position. Why hadn’t the information on Stanley Coopersmith included that he had a boy with special needs?

“How old are you, Morris?” she asked.

“Twenty.” He showed a gap-toothed smile.

That was bad news. “I see.”

She glanced to Trace, whose mouth went tight. Then she looked back to Morris. Her gaze slid to the sheriff.

He motioned to Morris with two fingers. “Come on, sport. Time to go.”

Morris stood, towering over the sheriff by six inches. He was painfully thin. He wore neither handcuffs nor zip ties on his wrists. Trace pointed at his unit. Morris wadded up his paper wrappers and shot them basketball-style, as if hitting a foul shot. Then he cheered for his success and finally slipped into the passenger side of the sheriff’s car.

“Is that wise? Having him up front with you?” she asked.

“Morris and I have an agreement.”

Morris called from inside the cruiser. “Coke and comic for good behavior.”

She stared at the young man and staunched the urge to open the door and release him.

“You have a good evening, Rylee.”

“Thank you for the burger, Axel.” The intentional use of his first name seemed all right. He’d used her given name first. But he just stood there, staring at her. And her breath was coming in short staccato bursts; she regretted dropping the distance of formality.

He gave her the kind of smile that twisted her heart and then returned to his duty, delivering a boy who should be entering a group home to the court systems.

Rylee headed back to her motel but then veered instead into the Walmart parking lot. It wasn’t until she found herself in the books section that she realized she was looking at comics. The boy was spending the night in jail; he could at least have another superhero to keep him company.

Rylee made her purchase and used the GPS to find the jail in Kinsley. There, she was buzzed in and escorted back by a patrolman who allowed her to give Morris the graphic novel.

“You are a nice lady.” Morris beamed. Then his voice held a note of chastisement. “Did you pay for this?”

She would have laughed if not faced with a boy who should not have been there in the first place.




Chapter Four (#u33d6a793-5388-5215-9aa5-4545932e00cf)


Observe and report. Rylee took her chief’s directive to heart as she set off the next morning, the first Tuesday of September, to observe the next group on the watch list. The survivalists headed by Stanley Coopersmith. The group’s rhetoric centered around surviving the apocalypse triggered by foreign terrorists. Ironic, as that scenario might turn out much more plausible than anyone in federal law enforcement had thought until a few months ago and the very reason she was here today.

It was hard to believe that such a group might aid foreign terrorists until you recalled your history and cult leader Charles Manson’s attempts to begin a race war by murdering innocent affluent white victims, including Sharon Tate. It was terrifying, the lengths individuals might go to bring about their worldview.

At 7:00 a.m., Rylee left her car on the shoulder and hiked through the woods to a place where she could observe the central compound. Even though she was dressed all in earth colors for camouflage and was wearing a forest green wool sweater and a brown leather jacket atop her gray jeans and brown work boots with thick socks, she had underestimated the chill in the morning air. She had plenty of time to think about her inadequate wardrobe, among other things, as she lay on her belly in the pale green ferns. A cool September breeze shook the leaves overhead, sending down a cascade of yellow leaves through the fog.

“Should have worn a wool cap,” she muttered to herself.

Maple leaves fluttered through the shafts of sunlight, giving hope that the fog would lift, as she watched the compound through binoculars. From this position, she had a clear line of sight to a large crumbling former dairy barn that might have once been yellow, two new prefab outbuildings with metal exteriors and roofs and a weathered farmhouse, looking patchy with the graying wood peeking out beneath flaking white paint.

One of the newer structures was a dock with a covered large boathouse on the St. Regis River that flowed into the St. Lawrence. That structure meant that it was reasonable to assume that the survivalists did leave their land. Did they use their boats to traffic in illegal drugs or human beings? Operations needed funding and she had yet to discover theirs. They were no longer farmers. That much was certain.

Had Stanley Coopersmith headed to court to defend his son?

Her reports on this group said that their leader never left the facility and his younger brothers, Joseph and Daniel, both married with children, rarely left their land. Stanley, who was married to Judy Coopersmith, had two grown boys—Edward, who they called “Eddie,” and Morris, whom she had met on the night of her arrival.

She shivered with the cold as she counted occupants, noted physical descriptions into a digital recorder and snapped shots through her telephoto lens. As the morning stretched on and the sunlight finally reached her, she daydreamed about making a major arrest. Was it possible her runner had left Mohawk land? The Mohawk reservation land ended at the St. Regis River, just a short distance from Coopersmith’s property. Had this been the runner’s destination? The journey along would have been easy overland, or on the St. Lawrence River, with an escort of survivalists.

If she intercepted the shipment from Siming’s Army, her boss would have to promote her. Then Rylee might ask for an assignment in New York City. What would her father think of that?

She sighed. Would he be proud?

The sound of a trigger’s click dropped her from her daydreams like an acorn from an oak and made her stiffen. Her skin flushed hot and her fingers tingled. She held the binoculars; making a grab for her weapon seemed like suicide. Why hadn’t she placed her weapon nearer to hand?

“Lace your fingers behind your head,” came the order from a male voice behind her. The smell of the earth beneath her now turned her stomach and the ground seemed to churn as if heaved by an earthquake.

“Roll over,” ordered her captor.

“I’m a federal agent. Homeland Security.” For once, her voice did not shake.

There was a pause and then the command to roll over again.

She pushed off and rolled, coming to her seat. The man holding a rifle was the brother of the family’s leader—Daniel Coopersmith. She recognized him by his ginger beard and the scar across the bridge of his nose. He held the rifle stock pressed to his cheek and the barrel aimed at her chest.

“Stand up.”

She released her laced fingers as she did so. The blood pounding through her veins made her skin itch. This might be her only chance to reach her weapon. Her only chance to avoid capture.

“Don’t,” he advised.

The roar in her ears nearly deafened her.

He wasn’t taking her. That much she knew, because she was not creating a hostage situation on her first assignment. As she came upright, she swept her leg behind his and knocked him from his feet. As his arms jerked outward in reflex, she seized the barrel of the rifle and yanked. By the time Daniel recovered enough to scramble backward, she had his rifle pointed at him.

“It ain’t loaded,” he said.

She felt the weight of the firearm and gave him a look of disappointment.

“Daniel, have you had any visitors, other than me, recently?”

“What kind of visitors?”

“Smugglers.”

“Anyone crosses our land we know it. Got cameras everywhere. How we spotted you.”

“Your family likes their privacy?”

“We don’t assist illegals if that’s what you mean.”

“Why is that?”

“They’re carriers. Part of the scourge to come.”

She knew the dogma.

“You know your nephew is in court this morning?” she asked.

Daniel curled his fingers around his beard and tugged.

“I knew he run off again. He get arrested?”

“Shoplifting.”

“Comics again?”

She shrugged.

“Stan is gonna tan his hide.”

“Not if he’s in prison. Second offense.”

Daniel seemed to forget she was pointing his rifle at him as he turned to go.

“I gotta go tell Judy.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “You best git. Leave my rifle on the road by your vehicle. That is if Stan don’t already got your car.”

“Stop.” She had her weapon out and it was loaded.

He stopped and glanced back at her.

“You threatened a federal agent,” she said to her retreating would-be opponent.

“I threatened a trespasser who’s also an agent. We got constitutional rights. Illegal search. Illegal surveillance. Just cause. Illegal seizure.” He continued speaking about rights and threats as he wound through the trees and out of sight.

She watched him go.

As it happened, when she reached her vehicle, she found Stanley Coopersmith waiting with his wife, Judy. Coopersmith was a man in his sixties, silver-haired, slim and muscular with a mustache that would have made any rodeo cowboy proud. His wife’s hair was short and streaked with silver. She had the body of a woman accustomed to physical work and the lined face of a smoker.

Coopersmith did not move the rifle he held resting over his shoulder at her approach. She kept her personal weapon drawn but lowered.

“You holding my boy?”

“Sir, I’m Homeland Security—”

“We know who you are,” said Judy Coopersmith, her chin now aimed at Rylee like a knife. “You holding my boy?”

“No, ma’am. Morris was arrested for shoplifting by local law enforcement. He has a hearing scheduled for this morning.”

“You come here to tell us this?” said Coopersmith.

“No. I’m here investigating a case.”

“You here to shut us down?”

Visions of Waco, Texas, flared like a dumpster fire in her mind.

“I am not. My job is to secure our borders.”

“Well, we can assure you that this border is secure. Nobody sneaks through this patch of ground without us knowing. Yourself included.”

“That’s reassuring,” said Rylee. “Has anyone tried recently?”

The two exchanged a look but did not reply. No answer is still an answer, she thought.

She took a leap of faith that their mutual threat made her, if not an ally, at least not an enemy. “We have intelligence that indicates something dangerous might be coming over from Canada. I’d ask you to be extra vigilant and hope that you will alert me if there is anything that threatens our national security.”

Another long look blazed between the two.

“Why do you think we’re up here?” asked Coopersmith. “Just a bunch of crazies playing war games in the woods? We know what’s coming.”

“And you do not think the federal government is capable of stopping threats from foreigners.”

“If I did, why would I build a bunker?”

Rylee glanced toward her vehicle. “I’d best get back.”

It was a long, long walk...to her vehicle. She did not draw an easy breath until she was safely behind the wheel. However, when she pressed the starter, her vehicle gave only an impotent click. The engine did not turn over on any of her next three attempts. There was no motor sound. In fact, the only sound was the thumping drumbeat of her heart.






THE FOG HAD settled into a steady drizzle by midday. Axel reached the stretch of old timber bordering Coopersmith land. He’d received a tip from Hal Mondello, who knew how to spot a fed’s car if anyone alive did, that Rylee had headed past his place. Beyond Mondello land was the cult that called itself the Congregation of Eternal Wisdom. Beyond that was Hal Coopersmith’s spread and his survivalist family. He didn’t know which was a worse place for Rylee. For personal reasons, he decided to try Coopersmith’s first and backtrack if necessary.

Hal Mondello was not a friend, but he protected his self-interest. Having the sheriff rein in a fed nosing around would be to his benefit. Hence, the call.

Mondello called himself a farmer, but everything he raised went into his cash crop, moonshine. Hal supplied most of the entire region with hard liquor. His brew was popular for its potency and the fact that it was cheap, due to Hal’s complete avoidance of paying any federal tax. That made his moonshine a working man’s favorite. Thankfully, that sort of violation fell under the auspices of the ATF, who had found his operation too small to be bothered with.

Axel raced out to the Coopersmiths’ main gate, running silent, but exceeding the speed limit the entire way. He understood the Coopersmiths’ desire to live off the grid, be largely self-sufficient, but he didn’t understand living in a constant state of fear of some upcoming disaster from which only you and yours would survive. What kind of a world would that be, anyway? The thought of only Axel and his family surviving such a calamity gave him a shudder.

On the other hand, he did admire the Coopersmith family. Before they’d taken to their compound and ceased interacting with the outside world, Axel had been to their farm and respected the close-knit group. Anything could be taken too far. Religion came to his mind and he shuddered again.

He’d just be happy to have a family that didn’t scare him so much that he didn’t dare leave them out of his sight. And he owed Stanley Coopersmith for getting him out of his abysmal situation and helping him take his GED. Without him and Kurt Rogers, Axel didn’t know where he might be now.

Axel was pleased to find Stanley’s oldest son, Edward Coopersmith, minding the gate when he roared up. He and Eddie had enlisted in the army together and the two had been friends up until a year ago when his father had shut the family up on their land.

By the time Axel had left his sheriff’s unit, the dust he’d raised was falling about them in a fine mist, settling on his hat and the hood of his car. Here, beneath the cover of trees, the drizzle had not succeeded in reaching.

He and his former comrade stood on opposite sides of a closed metal gate.

“Where is she, Eddie?”

“Who?”

“The homeland security agent your family is detaining.”

Eddie could not meet his gaze.

“No concern of yours, I reckon.”

“Eddie!”

His friend gripped the shoulder strap of the rifle slung over his shoulder so tightly his knuckles went bloodless.

“She’s up at the farm,” Eddie admitted.

“Under duress?”

“Not that I could see. But they was armed. So was she, come to that.”

“Trespassing?”

“Well, she was.”

“Eddie, she’s a federal agent. You do not want her harmed.”

His friend offered no reassurance.

“Bring me up.”

“No outsiders.”

“I’m not an outsider. I’ve eaten at your table. Your ma taught me algebra.”

“Still...she ain’t your concern.”

Axel imagined the news crews and federal helicopters circling the compound. He had to stop this right now. Looking back, he didn’t know why he did it. Perhaps because it was the only idea that popped into his head.

“She’s my girl,” said Axel.

“She’s what now?” Eddie cocked his head.

Axel doubled down. “That’s why she’s up here, berry picking.”

“With binoculars?”

“She’s my fiancée and I won’t have her touched.”

“If she’s your girl, why she up here alone?”

“Rylee is deciding if she wants to live up this way. I imagine she got...confused. Turned around.”

“She was armed.”

“Everyone up here is armed. We got bear and moose and elk.” And survivalists with semi-automatic assault rifles, he finished silently.

Eddie released his grip on the rifle strap to scratch under his jaw at the coarse black beard. He looked so much different than from just a few years back when he was muscular and fit. Now his body looked undernourished and his face gaunt.

Axel watched Eddie as the man considered his options in silence.

After a long silent stretch, Axel had had about enough. “Open the gate or I’m ramming it.”

“You can’t do that.” Their eyes met.

“I’m getting my girl so open up or stand aside.”




Chapter Five (#u33d6a793-5388-5215-9aa5-4545932e00cf)


“Your girl, huh?” His old friend did little to hide his disappointment and Axel wondered if perhaps Eddie was attracted to Rylee. His answer came a moment later.

“She’s very pretty. Kind of prickly, though.”

“True on both accounts.”

He realized that here on the compound, Eddie had little opportunity to meet eligible women. Rylee was a beauty and smart and he was certain she would have zero interest in locking herself up on nine hundred acres to wait for disaster.

Rylee was here to stop that impending doom from arriving. He admired her for that.

“Eddie, I’m getting in my vehicle. That gate best be open before I get there.”

It wasn’t a bluff. He knew that his modest yearly budget did not include major damage to his vehicle, but he was getting up to the farm. By the time he had his unit in drive, Eddie was swinging back the gate.

Axel paused just inside to speak to Eddie. “Why don’t you come to my place for dinner one day?”

“Can’t.” Eddie made a face.

“Open invitation,” he said and headed off. Axel bounced along the twin groves that served as the access road to the compound, his windshield wipers screeching over the glass as he tried to clear the mist and mud.






RYLEE HAD BEEN stripped of her weapons and now accepted escort to one of the outbuildings. Judy Coopersmith had left her to see to her youngest son, Morris, who was heading to court today. Before leaving, she warned her husband, Stanley, that this little gal is a guest and is to be treated like one.

Stanley Coopersmith had his brother Joseph working on her car that had either a bad starter or a bad battery. Stanley thought Rylee should see something in his garage before leaving. She had time on her hands and so if Mr. Coopersmith wanted to give her a tour, she was happy to take it.

The garage turned out to be a huge prefab carport of aluminum, with a vertical roof that looked wide enough to park two tractor trailers in.

“We use it to repair our vehicles and construction. It’s right in here.”

The odor of motor oil, mildew and rust assaulted her before they’d cleared the single door that stood beside the huge twin garage doors. Inside, two pickup trucks stood end to end, one on blocks and the other with the hood open and a greasy tarp draped over one side.

Beside these casualties sat a backhoe with the bucket removed and showing one broken tooth. Along the back was a long tool bench. She picked her way past various replacement parts that littered the grease-stained concrete. On the cluttered surface of the tool bench sat one pristine device. It was a drone—white, approximately thirty-four inches with eight rotors, one of which had been damaged. She glanced at Coopersmith, who motioned her forward.

“Go on,” he said.

“Where did this come from?”

“Darned if I know, but I took that shot. It was carrying something, like a duffel bag. It dropped it across the river before I made that shot. Crashed out back and we scooped it up.”

“What’s across the river?” she asked.

He looked startled. “That’s the Mohawk Nation.”

“Do you believe that it is theirs?”

“No saying. I didn’t shoot it until it was over my place.”

“And its cargo?”

“Dropped on the Kowa side of the river.”

“Did they retrieve what the drone was carrying?”

“Can’t say. But I know someone has been trying to activate that drone remotely.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because the damn thing keeps moving around the garage. It’s why I chained her down.”

Rylee used a cloth to lift the drone. “Heavy.”

“Thirty pounds and no serial number. No markings at all that I can see.”

“When did you find it?”

“Yesterday.”

Monday, she realized, and the same day that Border Patrol followed a small man dropped off on the Canadian side, who crossed the border through a wooded area and then fled onto Mohawk land carrying a duffel bag. Had their suspect had the drone to carry out the cargo or did he have outside help?

“Were you planning to report it?”

“No. I was planning to take it apart and keep it. But if you want it, I’ll accept offers.”

“Offers?” She did a poor job holding back her surprise. “How much?”

“Take five hundred for it.”

“Done.”

She reached for her wallet, zipped in her blazer.

“You carry that much?”

She nodded, opening the billfold.

“Should have asked for six,” he said.

“I’ll give you seven.” And she did.

Stanley accepted the cash.

“Has this happened before?”

“Trespassers? Sure. Just today, for instance.” He gave her a pointed look and she flushed as he continued on. “But drones. That’s a new one for me.”

A voice came from behind the pickup.

“Pop?”

“Back here.”

Edward Coopersmith appeared, red-faced and unable to make eye contact with her. Behind him came Sheriff Trace. He had no trouble making eye contact and the result was an instant acceleration of her heartbeat. The physical reaction to this man was getting bothersome. She scowled at the pair as they continued toward them.

“Axel, what a surprise.” Stanley offered his hand to Trace and cast a scowl at his son.

“I wouldn’t have brung him, but this here is his gal and he’s worried.”

Stanley looked from Axel, whose jaw was locked tight, to Rylee, whose mouth swung open.

“Interesting news, seeing she’s only been here a day and a half.”

Edward glared at Axel, who shrugged.

Stanley Coopersmith spoke again. “We aren’t detaining her, Axel. Fact, she’s leaving anytime. You want to give her a lift?”

“I’ll need my weapons,” said Rylee.

“’Fraid our policy is to confiscate the firearms of trespassers.”

“And my vehicle?”

“Also confiscated.”

“It was on a county road.”

“The road belongs to the county. The land is ours. You left the government land when you left the road.”

“Taking a federal vehicle might be a problem for you,” said Rylee.

Coopersmith did not blink. She looked to the damaged drone, itching to get it to her people. A glance at Trace told her he was worried. He motioned with his head toward the exit.

Rylee looked to Coopersmith. “What do you want for them?”

“Money is good.”

“What about shotgun shells? I have ten boxes in my trunk.”

“You don’t anymore.”

Here, Axel stepped in, looping an arm around her waist and cinching her tight. Her side pressed against his and even though their skin never touched, her body tingled with awareness and she temporarily lost the ability to speak. His scent enveloped her. He smelled of pine soap and leather.

“I appreciate you looking out for my girl, Mr. Coopersmith. And for all you did for me when I was a boy. I’d appreciate you allowing us safe passage through your land.”

“Very fact she’s up here shows I’m right. It’s coming. I feel it in my bones.”

Rylee glanced to Trace to see what it might be. His hand rested familiarly on her hip and she found it harder to think as her body pressed to his.

“What about two cases of MREs for your trouble?” he offered, referring to the military Meals Ready to Eat. The food staple stored for years and he thought might just appeal to a man ready to hide in a bunker.

“I’ll take six for the drone and safe passage off our lands.”

“And her vehicle, weapons and anything else you took from her car.”

“Done.”




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