Warrior Spirit

by Cassie Miles

  “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.”

  “Hold it,” Lombardi said. In an instant, his smart-aleck attitude transformed to seriousness. “My analysis of the soil samples from Lyle Nelson’s boots led us to the deserted copper mine. That’s where they stayed after the jailbreak.”

  “After that,” Trevor said, “they dispersed. Lyle Nelson went to Sierra’s house.”

  “If she hates him so much,” Lombardi asked, “why didn’t she turn him in?”

  “She was in a hostage situation,” Trevor said.

  “Do you believe her?” Murphy probed.

  “She wasn’t holding anything back.” Trevor vividly recalled the agony she’d gone through in revealing her most closely held secret, about her miscarriage. “She doesn’t know where the Militia is hiding out.”

  “Nonetheless,” Murphy said, “Sierra Collins might be of value to us.”

  “How so?”

  “If she hates the Militia as much as she claims, they might feel the same way about her.”

  “Are you suggesting they might come after her?”

  “Revenge,” Murphy stated. “It’s part of the Militia’s creed.”

  “I agree,” Clark said as he joined them. “Sierra didn’t make any friends at the funeral when she spat on Lyle Nelson’s coffin and said he should burn in hell.”

  “That took nerve,” Lombardi murmured. “She’s a Brooklyn babe, for sure.”

  Trevor hadn’t been thinking of Sierra as a potential victim, but it was a strong possibility. If the Militia wanted to teach her a lesson… “Damn it!”

  “Problem?” Murphy asked.

  “I might have made her situation worse. I might have antagonized a couple of sympathizers at the funeral.”

  “Might have?”

  “Three men threatened her,” Trevor said. “I took them down.”

  “Geez,” Lombardi said. “Good way to keep a low profile, Blackhaw.”

  Though the bounty hunters didn’t go out of their way to keep their identities secret, they didn’t advertise their presence. Outside of law enforcement, most people weren’t aware of their existence as an organized group.

  “I’ll keep an eye on Sierra,” Trevor said. “If the Militia comes after her, I’ll be ready for them.”

  Murphy nodded. “That’s as good a plan as any. Those snakes have gone underground, and we’re not having much luck in finding their den.”

  Powell went to the board and gathered his darts. He grumbled, “This should have been over. The Militia isn’t smart enough to keep evading us.”

  “Don’t underestimate them,” Murphy warned. “We’re not the only ones in the dark. State and national law enforcement are also involved.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Powell said. His beloved Isabella was Secret Service. “I think there’s somebody else working with the Militia, pulling their strings. Somebody has got to be financing them.”

  Though the other men nodded in agreement, Trevor’s mind was elsewhere. He’d heard all these arguments before and agreed with them. The Militia might have started out working alone, but it seemed they could now be part of a larger terrorist campaign.

  His thoughts returned to Sierra. How could a single, innocent woman hope to stand up to the Militia, much less to a greater force of evil? Her actions at the funeral had been gutsy, but not wise. It would be his job to protect her now.

  While the other men made plans and divided up duties, Trevor returned to the basement interrogation room, where Sierra still slept peacefully as a tawny kitten with a full belly of sweet cream. This kitten had claws, he reminded himself. When it came to defending herself, she was more like a tiger cub than a domesticated tabby cat.

  Carefully, he unfastened the restraints on her arms, legs and waist. With light strokes, he massaged her hands to encourage circulation. Though the skin above her wrist was soft and pale, her palms were callused from hard work. She’d mentioned that she had two jobs. Where? What kind of work?

  Trevor frowned. Sierra had an active schedule. Keeping an eye on her was going to be difficult unless he could convince her to invite him into her life, to let him get close…but not too close. He needed to maintain emotional distance. Getting personally involved with her would be a mistake.

  Yet as he settled down to watch patiently while she slept, his heart stirred. She was different. She touched him in ways no one had before.

  SIERRA WAS STUCK in a nightmare—aware that she was dreaming but unable to wake. Surrounded by thick fog, she spun around and saw Lyle stalking toward her. This was only a dream. Not real. Lyle was dead and buried. He could never hurt her again. Yet he reached out with long skeletal fingers.

  His face was horrible. His eyes bulged from their sockets. His chin hung slack, and there were purple bruises around his neck. They said he’d hanged himself in his prison cell, but she didn’t believe it. Lyle was too mean to commit suicide.

  His jaw creaked open. He spoke. “Sierra, find my killer. You owe me t
hat much.”

  “I don’t,” she protested. “I don’t owe you squat.”

  She started running. Her feet were numb. She could hardly move. But she couldn’t let Lyle touch her and pull her into the grave with him.

  She ran as fast as she could, into the trees. The forest closed around her. Then she saw another man, tall and still. His long black hair fell to his shoulders. His startling blue eyes drew her toward him. “Trevor,” she whispered.

  His arms enfolded her. This felt so real; she could hear his heart beating, could smell his masculine scent. Her fingernails scratched against the cotton of his shirt. When she looked up at him, she was amazed by how handsome he was—his high cheekbones and straight nose. And his lips…

  She wanted to kiss those well-shaped lips. Well, why not? She could hardly blame herself for dreaming. “Kiss me, Trevor.”

  His mouth joined with hers. An incredible warmth flowed through her veins. Oh God, this was good. It seemed right. She felt alive and strong.

  His mouth moved against hers, and she darted her tongue across the surface of his lips. He responded with the skill and strength she had come to expect from him after knowing him for only a few short hours. Pure sensation washed over her. This kiss was sexier than anything she’d felt before, sexier than going all the way with most men.

  With a sigh, she separated from him. Awash in pleasure, she leaned back and enjoyed the fantastic awakening of her sensuality. “Oh, Trevor.”

  She lifted her hand to her tingling lips. So good. So very good.

  Then Sierra opened her eyes and blinked. Trevor was nowhere in sight. She was alone in the square, featureless room. Her arms were no longer tied down, and she raised her hands to her face. Her cheeks felt warm, probably because of her sensual dream. Or something else? What was it? Though she was refreshed and alert, her mind was blank, as though recent memories had been swept clean.

  She knew that Trevor had brought her to this place. He had tied her up and asked her questions, and she remembered feeling angry and sad. But why?

  “Lyle,” she said.

  Sierra pushed herself out of the chair, went to the door and twisted the handle. Trevor stood in the hallway outside. He nodded to her.

  He was as gorgeous as in her dream. Tall and lean and muscular. His black hair, pulled back in a ponytail, glistened. And those blue, blue eyes!

  But he wasn’t her fantasy lover. This man was her captor, and she hated his guts. “I want to go home.”

  “Sure thing,” he said. “Come with me.”

  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 me
ssage. 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.”

  Perry yanked on his line and reeled in another trout, which he added to the string. When it came to hunting and fishing, he was second to none. His skill kept them well-supplied with trout and venison. And he was, as Raymond had mentioned, highly intelligent.