Warrior Spirit

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.