The Stealth Commandos Trilogy

by Suzanne Forster

  He glanced down at the newspaper on his desk, pulled it to him, and began to read.

  Honor switched off the air conditioner and rolled down the window of her Dodge Shadow, letting cool mountain air bathe her damp neck and forehead. The White Mountain Reservation with its scenic vistas and abundance of rivers and lakes was a refreshing change from the arid flatlands she’d been traveling through for the last several hours. Whiteriver, the mountain town where the tribal headquarters was located, might have been any other small southwestern town, except that it was bordered by a serene river and its inhabitants were Apaches.

  Honor turned onto a road shaded by cottonwoods that led to the tribal headquarters where she was to meet Chy Starhawk and other members of the tribe. The medicine man had been vague about who would be there, in the same way that he was enigmatic about almost everything, but Honor’s primary concern was the bad news she was bringing him.

  She pulled up in front of the log cabin-type building and let herself out of the car, surprised as she looked up to find Chy Starhawk standing before her in fringed buckskins, a beaded choker necklace, and a red cloth headband. Ceremonial eagle feathers floated from the tied ends of his headband, making him a splendid sight. He seemed to have materialized out of the tribe’s proud but war-ravaged past.

  Honor wondered whether he’d just performed a ritual of some kind, or whether the traditional clothing was for her benefit. She decided not to ask. It seemed an intrusion. From what she knew of the culture, Apaches were inclined to be private about their tribal traditions, especially sacred ceremonies.

  “Johnny isn’t coming,” she told the old man as they entered the headquarters. “I’m terribly sorry.”

  The shaman neither stopped nor showed any emotion. “If you are sorry about things you can’t change,” he said, “you will soon not know the difference.”

  Honor almost thought she’d understood him. There wasn’t time to mull meanings, however, because Chy had several people for her to meet. He introduced her to the tribal leader, a tall man in his late forties who wore jeans, cowboy boots, and a white Stetson over his long black braided hair. Johnny’s godmother, the woman who’d advised her not to try to find Johnny after the tried, was heavier and grayer, but with the same unchanging quality of beauty in her rounded features. Other members of the council were present, as was the lawyer from the Indian Legal Services, a young man who was part Apache and part Zuni.

  Honor hadn’t expected such a prestigious group, and it made her aware of how vital her mission had been to them. This was more than a whim of Johnny’s grandfather, she realized. Either the tribal leaders had believed his prophetic dream, or they’d reached the point of desperation and saw her as their last resort.

  Either way it was that much more difficult to tell them she’d failed. Only the shaman showed no disappointment or emotion. Honor tried to be encouraging. She begged them not to give up, insisting that there were other excellent, high-profile lawyers who might take on the case simply because of its growing publicity. But her enthusiasm was as strained as their polite attention.

  She was saying good-bye when the roar of a powerful car engine drowned out her voice. Someone had pulled up outside. They all turned toward the door as if some magnetic force had drawn them. The shaman smiled, and Honor’s nerves leaped in anticipation. Could it be Johnny?

  Her astonishment that it might be him was mixed with apprehension. If he’d come to offer his help, it was an answered prayer. But his anger was so vivid in her mind, she could imagine any number of other frightening motives. She’d suggested he avenge himself against her father. Was that was he wanted? Or was it she he’d come after?

  The door swung open.

  Johnny stepped over the threshold to murmurs of shock and excitement. Honor reached out as if to steady herself and caught hold of nothing but thin air. No one else in the room had seen him in person in eighteen years. But to her he looked so fundamentally different from the attorney with the expensively tailored suits and the modern office that she had to tell herself he wasn’t a figment of her imagination.

  He wore faded jeans with patches on the legs, a black T-shirt, and a buckskin vest. With his long hair flying free under the strip of rawhide tied around his forehead, he looked as Apache as anyone in the room.

  An Apache on the warpath, Honor thought. The hostile lines of his handsome jaw spelled out trouble, and as he approached the group, Honor stepped aside, immensely relieved when he walked up to his grandfather rather than to her. He had the newspaper article she’d given him in his hand, and he held it up for the old man to see.

  “Who’s representing this boy?” he asked. “I’d like to speak with his counsel.”

  The young attorney spoke up. “No one’s been retained yet. I’m here from the Indian Legal Services to review the matter. It’s possible I’ll be taking the case.”

  “Then I’ll talk to you,” Johnny said.

  The shaman raised his hand to intervene. “Why are you here?” he asked Johnny.

  Johnny’s gaze flashed angrily over the crowd and settled on Honor. “I don’t want to see another Apache kid get burned at the stake. I’m here to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  Sighs of relief could be heard, and even Honor relaxed slightly. But the shaman didn’t seem to be satisfied, and the tension rose again as he and Johnny faced each other. The old man’s response to Johnny’s announcement was a stoic nod. There would be no apologies between two such proud men, Honor realized. Neither would acknowledge the rift between them, or even the blood ties that bound them.

  “The boy’s situation is only a symptom,” the shaman said. “We must fight the disease. Will you take our case against the mining company?”

  Johnny hesitated, reluctant to get himself any more deeply entangled than he already was. “It’s not that simple,” he explained. “Technically in a case like this, both the secretary of the interior and the commissioner of Indian Affairs have to approve the attorney. There’s some red tape involved, but I’ve got contacts, and I’ll do what I can to expedite things.”

  “Good,” the old man said, “that’s good.”

  “In the meantime I can provide legal assistance and help prepare the case.”

  “Yes,” the shaman said emphatically. “You must prepare as if for battle, your mind, your body, your spirit.”

  Johnny wasn’t sure what the old man was getting at, but he didn’t like the sound of it. “There’ll be a tremendous amount of work involved,” he said, ignoring the remark. “I’ll want to talk to whoever’s been working on the case, and I’ll need a support team for the research—”

  “Anyone can read law books and do research,” the shaman said, cutting him off. “We have legal-aid agencies for that. This is a battle for our right to pursue our livelihood, to protect our sovereignty as a tribe, and you are a proven warrior in the legal arena. But you must think like an Apache if you’re going to fight for Apaches.”

  “What are you saying?” Johnny asked.

  “You must go to the white mountains, where the spirits reside. You must find the medicine that will invoke your power.”

  A vein in Johnny’s forehead began to tighten and throb. Since the trial he had done everything possible to separate himself from tribal customs, and especially from the ancient mysticism that his grandfather was steeped in. “If I take this case, I have to fight it my way.”

  “Your way is not powerful enough. You must listen to the spirits, consult the four winds.”

  Johnny couldn’t hide his exasperation. “My way is powerful enough to have won nearly every important case I’ve argued, all the way up to the state supreme court. Somehow I managed all that without consulting the four winds.”

  “Those were not Indian matters.”

  “Why the hell do you want me to take on your case if you object to my methods?”

  The old man persisted as though he were trying to reason with a child. “It isn’t me who wants you. It’s the spirits. When
they call, our first duty is to listen.”

  Johnny shook his head. He was getting very close to the end of his rope. “I’m already questioning my sanity just by being here. All I need now is to start listening to spirits.”

  The shaman turned his back on Johnny and spoke to the tribal leader in hushed tones. After a moment he swung around to face Johnny again. “You’re free to go.”

  “What? You’re firing me?”

  “Only a fool would hire an attorney who can’t win.”

  Johnny raised his hands, his eyes flashing hotly over Honor as he did so. If it weren’t for her— He stopped himself in the middle of the caustic thought. She wasn’t the cause of his trouble with the tribe. That had started with his birth. His quarrel with his grandfather had to do with beliefs and superstitions so arcane he didn’t know how to address them, much less fight them. But Honor was the reason he’d left the tribe. And she was part of the reason he was back here now, a large part of it.

  “All right,” he said at last, speaking to the front door as though it were his sworn enemy. “I’ll go to the mountains, if that’s what you want.”

  “It’s not what I want,” the shaman replied.

  Johnny spun around to face his grandfather. “I said I’ll go, but I have a condition.”

  “What is that?”

  “It involves her.” He indicated Honor. “I’d like to speak to her privately.”

  Honor felt as if the attention of the entire room had shifted to her. She met the shaman’s silent, watchful gaze, but found no guidance there. Turning to Johnny’s smoldering heat, she felt a pool of liquid weakness in the pit of her stomach. Lord, but she was a fool for love where he was concerned. She had no backbone at all. “All right,” she said.

  Johnny walked to the front door of the building and opened it, waiting for her.

  Once outside. Honor walked to the shade of a large aspen where a black-and-silver Jeep Cherokee was parked. By the way Johnny leaned up against the car’s chassis, facing her, his arms loosely folded, she was sure it must be the car he’d driven.

  The very casualness of his stance made her nervous. He looked like a man who’d calculated the odds and knew he couldn’t lose. “What do you want to talk about?” she asked.

  “Your immediate future. Don’t make any plans, because I want you here, in Whiteriver, at my beck and call.”

  “Why? What help could I possibly be?”

  “I’m going to need an assistant—a gofer, a girl Friday, and an all-around flunky.”

  “I don’t think I like the job description.”

  “Then call it whatever you want. Indentured servitude, slave labor. I’m easy.”

  Honor could hardly believe that he was serious. Staring at him in surprise, she had a fleeting fantasy of walking over and slapping his arrogantly handsome face. The thought gave her such intense pleasure, she savored it for a moment and felt her fingers twitch. “Why would I agree to anything like that?”

  “Because you’re the one who got me here, and if you want to keep me here, you’ll do whatever I ask.”

  “Whatever you ask?”

  Johnny felt a second’s pleasure at her trembling intake of air. He pushed away from the car, rising to his full height, which forced her to look up to meet his gaze. He could imagine her turmoil, he could almost feel it, but he told himself he didn’t care. He was calling the shots now.

  “Anything?” she pressed, her voice faint.

  Yes, he thought, probing the misty veil of her blue eyes. Whatever I ask, Honor. Anything. Everything. And don’t think I won’t demand it all. Your body, your heart, whatever you hold most precious. I’ll take it all and leave you just what you left me. Nothing.

  “The work will be hell,” he said, letting her draw her own conclusions about what that work might be. “So make your decision carefully. Once you commit, there’s no way out.”

  Honor turned away from him. The weakness she’d felt earlier washed through her in waves. The shaman had told her that bringing Johnny back was the way to free herself, but she wasn’t free. She was hopelessly ensnared. Even if she wanted to resist him, she couldn’t. The Apache boy’s freedom was at stake. From now until this nightmare was over, she was hostage to Johnny’s every whim, his darkest fantasies.

  Six

  A HUGE CEREMONIAL BONFIRE blazed in the old fairgrounds down by the river. The flames leaped high, showering the darkness with white-hot sparks and making ghosts of the plumes of smoke that drifted into the night. Residents came from every corner of the reservation, drawn by the primordial beauty of the fire, the chanting of tribal medicine men, and the sensual throb of rawhide drums.

  Honor sat among the crowd, aware of the mounting tension around her. Tonight the gaan dancers would perform what some still called “the devil dance.” Costumed to represent the gaan, which were believed to be ancient mountain spirits who resided in sacred caves, the dancers would drive away evil spirits and invoke blessings on the tribe’s endeavors and on Johnny as a strong and able warrior.

  The drums ceased, and a hush fell over the crowd as the tribal leaders filed into the fairgrounds and took their places around the roaring fire. The first to enter were the representatives of the neighboring districts, all considered to be honored guests. Next came the White Mountain tribal leaders, led by the tall, weathered man Honor had met that day. In the ritual dances of the past the tribe’s warriors always entered last, after the others were seated. Tonight the last person to enter the arena was Johnny.

  Honor’s breath caught when she saw him.

  He was naked except for a breechcloth and calf-high moccasins, and as he walked toward the fire, its roaring light turned his bronze skin to molten gold. The flames that danced over his muscular torso seemed to caress him, stroking him with the sensuality of a woman’s touch. And his hair spilled like glittering black water over his powerful shoulders.

  It was not a sight Honor was in any way prepared for. And neither was she expecting to see him painted with stark slashes of black and white pigment. The streaks on his face and body evoked memories of the Apache warriors who fought in the bloody Indian wars of the prior century.

  He moved with the same animal grace she’d witnessed in the courtroom, and as he took his place next to the tribal leader, the drums and chanting grew louder, turning feverish. Torches could be seen approaching the bonfire from the darkness beyond. The medicine men’s chanting shrilled to an eerie, high-pitched wail, and suddenly the gaan dancers appeared, swooping out of the night like devils. Their faces were concealed by black hoods, and the huge spiked crowns they wore were vibrantly painted with sacred Apache symbols—sunlike spheres, lightning bolts, and snakes with forked tails.

  The five dancers approached the fire and backed off, melting in and out of the darkness several times before one of them broke loose and burst out of the shadows, dashing through the crowd, whirling a bull-roarer. The drums rose to a fever pitch, and the other dancers materialized again, encircling Johnny.

  The gaan leader carried a triple medicine cross adorned with feathers, which he offered to Johnny, jerking it back as Johnny reached for it. The chanting soared to an eerie shriek, and the crowd shouted Apache words that Honor couldn’t understand. She suddenly felt afraid, as if this were some test Johnny must pass.

  The leader coaxed and taunted Johnny until the din grew unbearable. At last, with a dramatic flourish, he touched the crown of Johnny’s head with his medicine cross, then brought the wand to his own mouth and released a hissing breath.

  The crowd gasped as Johnny sprang up unexpectedly, his muscles rippling with firelight, his hair aglow. The chanters shrieked a warning, and the dancers swarmed around him, slicing the air with their wands as though fighting off demons. One of the wands struck Johnny’s arm, another his chest, lacerating his skin. Honor watched in horror, but Johnny didn’t move to protect himself in any way. He didn’t even flinch at the blows. As the dancers hissed and leaped. Honor was reminded of an exorcism, and sh
e couldn’t help wondering if the evil they were trying to ward off was associated with Johnny’s birth.

  The bizarre ceremony went on until all five gaan dancers had performed rituals that were both beautiful and grotesque over Johnny’s statuelike form. After each dance, Chy Starhawk, as chief medicine man, offered sacred pollen to the four winds, then showered Johnny with the golden powder.

  Honor was hypnotized by what she saw. Johnny remained unmoving as the medicine cross was applied to various parts of his body. He looked as much a magical, supernatural creature as the dancers. With his eyes lit by the fire and his body dusted with gold, he appeared eerily capable of invoking powers, including the powers of darkness. She knew the ceremony might go on all night, until all the evil spirits had been driven away and the gaan’s benevolence was assured. But she couldn’t tear herself away from the primal power of it.

  In the morning Johnny would leave for the mountains on foot, wearing only what he wore now, with no provisions or weapons except what he could forage from nature. The shaman had told Honor that she was to be involved in some way with Johnny’s ordeal, but he’d refused to tell her how. That possibility had intrigued her at first. Now it was beginning to alarm her.

  Honor woke up with a start, sensing the presence of someone in her darkened motel room. She lay very still, hardly daring to breathe as she became aware of a shadowy figure hovering near the foot of the bed. Somehow she found the button at the base of table lamp next to her bed and pressed it.

  The sudden burst of light blinded her, revealing the intruder as a black-on-white form, like a foreground figure in a photographic negative. She shielded her eyes, trying to bring him into focus. Gradually the form materialized into a man.

  “How did you get in here?” she asked, clutching the blankets around her as she sat up. It was Chy Starhawk who stood at the foot of her bed.

  The shaman lifted a shoulder, conveying the naturalness of the situation. “The lock on your door doesn’t work.”