Warrior Spirit

by Cassie Miles

  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.

  Instead, he returned to the interrogation room and paced. Seven minutes left. Sierra’s whimpers had stilled to an occasional moan. Five minutes.

  There was no need for him to pity her. She wasn’t an innocent little flower. This woman had lived with Lyle Nelson, a murderous bastard. She hung out with the Militia—heartless terrorists of the first order. Sierra couldn’t be entirely blameless. Two minutes left.

  Damn it, he couldn’t wait any longer.

  When he removed the earphones, she shuddered.

  He pulled off the blindfold. Her dark eyes were wide, the pupils dilated. Her mouth twitched as if she couldn’t decide whether to smile or to spit in his face. The drug had taken effect. She was ready.

  Gently, he removed the gloves and caressed her cold fingers, encouraging circulation. “How are you feeling, Sierra?”

  “Dizzy.”

  His first step was to get her talking, encourage her to open up. “But you’re okay, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” She nodded slowly.

  “Tell me about yourself,” he said. “Tell me about going to school in Brooklyn.”

  “I was good at school,” she said. “All A’s and B’s, and I went to Brooklyn College for a year until I couldn’t afford it. Mom and Dad broke up for good, and I had to get my own apartment. New York is expensive.”

  Though her cooperative attitude was drug-induced, Trevor enjoyed this moment of civilized communication. With a damp cloth, he stroked her forehead and wiped the tearstains from her cheeks. “What did you do after you left college?”

  “Lied about my age and got a job. I worked for a law firm near the World Trade Center. That was before 9-11.”

  “What kind of job?” He quickly directed her thoughts away from the tragedy of September eleventh. For now, he wanted her memories to be pleasant.

  “Administrative assistant,” she said. “That’s a mouthful, huh?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “First I was a receptionist, but I got promoted. I had a bank account and savings, and I was even thinking about going to law school myself.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “Got bored,” she said with a mischievous smile. “On the day I turned twenty-five, I realized that the farthest I’d ever been from Brooklyn was a friend’s wedding in Philly. I wanted some adventure while I was still young. So I cashed in my savings, bought my Nissan and drove west.”

  “All the way to Montana,” he said. “Long drive.”

  “But not far enough. I meant to keep going until I hit the High Sierras, because of my name, but I kind of ran out of gas.” She tilted her head to one side and studied him. “You’re cute, Trevor. If I took you back to Brooklyn with me, all the other girls would be jealous.”

  He smiled, enjoying her flirtation. The TD had loosened her inhibitions as well as her tongue. “When you stopped in Montana, you met—”

  “Where are you from, Trevor?”

  “A potato farm in Idaho.”

  “No kidding! That’s so…rural. Where else have you lived?”

  “I spent a year on the Cherokee reservation in Oklahoma.”

  Her dark eyes widened. “You’re Cherokee?”

  “Part Cherokee.”

  “And I’ll bet that’s the part that doesn’t have amazing blue eyes.”

  He couldn’t allow this line of conversation to continue. She was a subject. This was an interrogation. “Now I live here in Montana. Like you. This is where you met Lyle Nelson.”

  Her sunny attitude faltered. “He was mean.”

  “There must have been good times,” Trevor said encouragingly. “Tell me about the good times.”

  “No.” Her lips pursed in an adorable pout. “Let’s talk about the Cherokee reservation.”

  “Sierra.” He snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Concentrate.”

  “I don’t want to talk about Lyle.”

  And Trevor didn’t want to push her. But this was his job. Extracting information could be as painful as yanking a molar, but they would both feel better when it was over. “Lyle’s friends in the Militia. Tell me their names.”

  “Everybody knows them,” she said, “from the newspapers.”

  It was time for Trevor to change gears. Niceness wasn’t going to cut it with her. He held the blindfold so she could see it. “If you were blindfolded, you might be able to think more clearly.”

  “No.” Her lower lip trembled. “Don’t put that thing on me again.”

  “Talk, Sierra.”

  “Lyle’s friends,” she said quickly. “The leader of the Militia is Boone Fowler. He’s a power-hungry creep. All of them are. Bad people. Lyle wasn’t like them. He came from money, you know. He wasn’t trash. But he gave all his money to Boone.”

  “Tell me about the others.”

  “The one I hated the most was Perry Johnson. He’s nothing but a sadist, pure and simple. I saw him gutting a deer they’d shot for venison, and he was freakishly happy. Perry loved being up to his elbows in blood.”

  “Where were you when you saw him?”

  “Perry’
s cabin,” she said quickly.

  That location was already known to the authorities. The cabin had been searched. “Where else? Where are they hiding now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Trevor leaned closer, forcing her to concentrate on his face. “Did Lyle tell you any of his plans?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “After the prison break,” she said. “He came to my place. I rent half of a duplex on the outskirts of Ponderosa. I didn’t want him there, but he wouldn’t leave. He said he needed a safe house to lie low.”

  This was a new piece of information. After the prison break, the Militia seemed to disappear. Apparently, they had dispersed. “When Lyle showed up, why didn’t you call the sheriff?”

  “Lyle would have killed me.” Her complexion paled. “And he would have killed the sheriff, too. I always wanted to think that Lyle was better than those other terrible men. But I was wrong.”

  Her voice cracked and her eyes welled up with tears.

  “Sierra,” Trevor called to her. “Concentrate. How long did Lyle stay at your house?”

  “He came late at night, sneaked in through the window. He tried to seduce me, but I wouldn’t let him get close. Then he locked me in the closet. I guess I was lucky that he didn’t hit me.”

  “Did he hit you before? When you were his girlfriend?”

  “Twice.” The tears spilled down her cheeks. “After the first time, he apologized and seemed so sincere. He was under all this stress with the Militia. I forgave him. I was stupid. So damn stupid.”

  Her shoulders heaved and her breathing was ragged. Sierra’s tough facade washed away in a tidal wave of tears.

  Trevor felt himself melting toward her. How could he push her further? But he had to keep going. She had information she was holding back. Even through the tears, he could feel her resistance. “What is it, Sierra? What do you want to tell me?”

  “I can’t,” she said. “It’s too much. Leave me alone. Please.”

  He returned to the earlier topic. “After he locked you in the closet, what happened?”

  “The next morning, I told him I had to go to work. I have two part-time jobs, and I can’t call in sick.”

  “Did he let you leave?”

  She shook her head. “I told him that if he wanted me to keep quiet, he’d have to kill me.”

  A gutsy move on her part. Trevor was impressed. “What happened?”

  “He said he’d go. But before he did, he tore my place apart. He found my nest egg, the money I’d been saving so I could move back to Brooklyn. And he took all of it.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “No.”

  “Did you follow him?”

  “No.”

  She was still holding something back. He could feel her resistance. Harshly, he snapped, “You’re not telling me everything.”

  “No.” Her eyes squeezed shut. She didn’t want to divulge this secret.

  “Why?” he demanded.

  Helplessly, she shook her head from side to side.

  “I don’t get it, Sierra. You’re a strong woman. You don’t let people push you around. Why did you protect Lyle Nelson? Why did you stay with him?”

  “Because he was the father of my child.”

  There was a hollow ring to her voice; she was speaking from the depths of unbearable sorrow.

  Abruptly, she stopped crying. Her eyes opened wide, revealing her unassuageable pain. “I miscarried. After Lyle was arrested. I lost my baby. My son.”

  The color drained from her face. In a matter-of-fact voice, she said, “I wanted to die.”

  Her miscarriage was the secret she’d been hiding from him, and Trevor had forced the words from her. My God, what had he done?

  She’d been right to call him a monster.

  Chapter Three

  Though Trevor’s interrogation of Sierra Collins was complete, he did not unfasten her restraints. Not yet. If he released her while she was still under the influence of the mind-numbing truth drug, she’d be disoriented and confused, possibly even delusional. A few hours of recovery time was necessary.

  He leaned over the chair and gently wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Hush now, Sierra. You can sleep.”

  “Don’t want to.” She gave a halfhearted tug at the restraints. “Let me out of here.”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’ve got things to do.”

  “Relax, Sierra. Relax.” He keyed his voice to a soothing cadence. “You’re tired, aren’t you? Bone tired. Think about it. Feel how tired you are.”

  Though she made an effort to resist, her eyelids drooped. Sierra was in a highly suggestible state. Her defenses were gone, shattered by his interrogation. When she looked up at him, her deep brown eyes reflected a vulnerability that touched his heart and made him feel guilty. He had no right to strip away her dignity and pry into her life. Still, he asked, “Why did you stay here after Lyle was arrested? Why didn’t you go home to your family, where they could take care of you?”

  “Too tired.” The words fell slowly from her full lips. “After my son died, I holed up in my house. Didn’t work. Didn’t do anything. Maxed out my credit cards. I was too miserable to live, and too scared to die.”

  It didn’t take a psychologist to figure out that she’d been severely depressed. “Then what?”

  “I don’t know.” She frowned. “One morning I got up and decided it was time for me to get a job. I’ve been working ever since. It’s time for me to go back to Brooklyn, to forget about Montana.”

  Trevor would do what he could to spare her from the sorrow of her memories. Hypnotic suggestion would make her reawakening easier.

  Gently, he said, “Breathe deeply.”

  Her chest rose and fell.

  “That’s good, Sierra. Inhale. Exhale. Feel the pain and stress flowing away from you. Listen to my voice.”

  Though she had no reason to trust him, Trevor had a natural talent for projecting his will. One of his instructors at Special Forces counterintelligence called it charisma. He offered her reassurance. “I’m not going to hurt you. I want to help you. Okay?”

  “I suppose.”

  “I want you to think about a beautiful place. The mountains. Or the ocean. Maybe a tropical island.”

  “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 o
n 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?”