Warrior Spirit

“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.”