Warrior Spirit

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.”