by Cassie Miles
When she glanced down at the beige Formica tabletop, he caught a glimpse of an attitude that worried him. Though Trevor wasn’t trained in reading body language like Mike Clark, he recognized the signals. Her lips pinched together, holding back the truth. Sierra was behaving like a person who had something to hide.
Trevor remembered Murphy’s suspicion that she might still be in contact with the Militia. They might use her to get their hands on the chemicals needed for bomb-making. “Sierra, is there something you want to tell me?”
“I have a feeling that I already told you too much.” She rested her fingertips on the table and stared down at them. “It’s a funny thing. Not funny as in ha-ha, but weird funny. When I woke up in that horrible little room, I couldn’t remember what we talked about.”
He said nothing. Though he had promised to tell her the truth, now wasn’t the time for him to confess that he’d used a truth drug and then a hypnotic suggestion to relieve her painful memories.
“I keep getting flashes,” she said. “I remember a darkness. A disconnected static noise. Then I hear my own voice talking.” Her fingers tapped a nervous tattoo on the table. “Why can’t I remember?”
“Sometimes it’s better not to question.”
“Wrong.” She looked up at him. “If there’s one thing I learned from being engaged to Lyle, it was that I need to know the truth.”
“Know this.” Trevor reached across the table and covered her hands with his. “You said nothing incriminating. Nothing that made me think less of you.”
“As if your opinion matters to me?”
She lifted her chin. Her fixed gaze challenged him, but beyond her apparent hostility was a raging heat. He felt her drawing closer to him. Whether she liked it or not, the magnetic pull between them was an irresistible force.
Did she remember their kiss in the interrogation room? He sure as hell remembered that moment when he’d held her pliant body in his arms. She’d called to him. She’d asked him to kiss her, and he’d responded. The taste of her warm honeyed lips was indelibly imprinted in his sensory memory.
Abruptly, she leaned back in the booth and pointed to the air express package. “What’s this?”
“Let’s take a look.”
Using his pocketknife, he cut the tape on the package, which had a return address in the Bronx. According to Murphy, Lombardi wanted him to open it right away. Trevor peeled off the paper and revealed a white cardboard box. The stamp on the top said Angelo’s Bakery.
Trevor lifted the lid. Inside were six pastries. He turned the box toward Sierra. “For you.”
“Cannolis. Oh my God!”
Finally, he’d done something she approved of.
With satisfaction, he leaned back in the booth and watched as she savored the first bite of cannoli. A lusty moan escaped her lips. She gasped. Then moaned again.
“Hey, now.” Ginny returned to their booth with the strawberry milkshake. “What’s going on over here?”
“Cannoli.” Sierra licked powdered sugar from her mouth and glanced up at the waitress. “I’m telling you, this is better than sex.”
She grabbed Trevor’s pocketknife and cut off a piece for Ginny. “Try it.”
The waitress tasted the pastry. “Oh, yes.”
“From New York,” Sierra said. “Trevor got them for me.”
Ginny gave him a grin. “I guess you know the way to a woman’s heart.”
“Through her cannolis,” Sierra said.
She cut off another piece and passed it to Trevor. He took a bite. The sugary, creamy texture melted on his tongue. “Good.”
“That’s it? Good?” Sierra stared at him. “It’s great. Totally.”
The sugar rush lowered her defenses, and she chatted happily as she worked her way through the milkshake and another cannoli. For the first time, there seemed to be no hidden agenda between them, no secrets.
He found himself beginning to hope that she might trust him. He pressed the advantage. “You know, Sierra, since I’m going to keep watching you anyway, we might as well spend this time together.”
“Give it up,” she said. “Nobody’s after me. You don’t have to keep watching me.”
“You’re still my best lead.”
She glanced up at him, then quickly lowered her gaze to the sugar feast spread before her on the Formica table. Her guard went up again.
He asked, “Have you been contacted?”
She scooted to the edge of the booth. Before she could stand, he caught hold of her forearm. His grasp was firm. “Sierra, these men are dangerous.”
“You don’t have to tell me that.”
“You’re not the only one in peril.” How much could he tell her about the bomb-making? If she was in contact with Boone Fowler, she might pass the information along. “If you know anything about their whereabouts, you’ve got to tell me.”
“I don’t know where they are.” She pulled her arm from his grasp and closed the lid on the cannoli box. Standing, she dug three bucks from her back pocket and placed them on the table. “This is for the milkshake. Thanks for the cannolis. Way better than beef.”
Before he could ask another question, she darted toward the exit of the diner. The door slammed shut behind her.
Through the window, he watched her cross the road and return to her job at the nursery. Damn it! He knew she was keeping something from him, something about the Militia.
When she was under the influence of the truth drug, she’d said that she hated them. And Trevor believed her. He’d swear that she was not sympathetic to Boone Fowler, but she didn’t understand the urgency or the danger to herself. And others.
Chapter Six
The next morning, Sierra left her duplex at a few minutes before eight so she’d have time to get to her job at the Galleria by nine-thirty. She hadn’t slept well. Her dreams were haunted by visions of Boone Fowler and Perry Johnson, his sadistic sidekick. On the phone, Boone had said he’d see her today or tomorrow at the Galleria. He’d said she’d get what she deserved, and she really didn’t think he was talking about her share of the loot.
She closed her front door gently so she wouldn’t disturb her neighbor. The October morning was chilly, and her breath frosted the air. In her front yard, the autumn leaves clung stubbornly to the shivering branches of the cottonwood tree.
As she strode down the sidewalk, she glared at Trevor’s Jeep, which was parked directly behind her car on the street. He emerged from the driver’s side, leaned across the hood and nodded to her, making no effort to hide the fact that he was keeping surveillance.
She called out, “Give it up, Trevor.”
“Good morning, Sierra.”
“I mean it,” she said. “You don’t have to watch me.”
“We’ll see.”
The man was relentless.
Without saying another word to him, she slid behind the wheel of her little Nissan. A glance in the rearview mirror showed that he was back in his car—ready to follow her to work.
In some ways, it was reassuring to have a big, tall, handsome bounty hunter as a full-time bodyguard. Kind of like a guardian angel. She scoffed. Trevor? Angelic? When she thought of him, saintliness was the last thing that came to mind.
Her reliable little car started up on the first try, and she pulled away from the curb. She kept to the speed limit in Ponderosa, where the local sheriff liked to hand out tickets, but when she merged onto the two-lane route leading to Helena, Sierra hit the gas. There wasn’t much traffic, wasn’t much of anything except an incredible panorama of buttes, promontories and distant, snow-capped peaks. This had to be the most scenic commute in the world, especially for Sierra, who had grown up riding the subway.
When she came to Montana, she hadn’t known what to expect. In the back of her mind, she might have been thinking she’d find herself a man who was nearly as spectacular as the landscape. A handsome cowboy with tight jeans and broad shoulders—a man like Trevor.
Last night, when she’
d looked out her front window before going to bed, she’d seen him leaning against the pole of the corner streetlight. In his shearling coat, with his arms folded across his chest, and his flat-brim hat, he was the very archetype of a cowboy. Strong and silent. A manly man.
She sighed. Last night, she could have invited him into her home, could have offered to share the cannolis, could have had some friendly conversation. Yeah, right! As if they’d spend the night talking! She was pretty darn sure what would happen if she opened the door to Trevor. He’d been truthful about wanting to get her into the sack. If she lowered her guard, there would be touching and kissing and everything that came after that.
Was that such a bad thing?
Damn right, it was! She’d already allowed herself to be swept away by her cowboy fantasies with Lyle. Look how badly that turned out! There would be no more cowboys in her life. Not now. Not ever.
She turned on her car radio. The local newscaster was babbling about Prince Nikolai Petrov of Lukinburg. Ever since his visit to Helena, the people of Montana were fascinated with him. Not that Sierra blamed anybody for their interest. Nikolai was a real live prince—like in the fairy tales. And judging from his photos in the newspaper and on television, he was gorgeous with thick, curly black hair and sexy bedroom eyes. Not to mention the tailored Armani suits.
As a bonus, Nikolai had principles. He’d stood up to his dictator father and denounced the terrorism in his country, which was exactly what he was doing this morning in an address to the United Nations. His accented baritone came over the radio. “Terrorism is an international disease, and my homeland, Lukinburg, is infected. The United Nations must intervene. The terrorists are everywhere. They could strike anywhere. And they must be stopped.”
Sierra replied to the radio. “Damn right, Prince.”
As a native New Yorker, she was no stranger to terrorism. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened. She’d lost two friends on 9-11. When she thought of that terrible day, she felt anger—a boundless rage against cowards who attacked innocent people.
Terrorists were everywhere. Even in Montana.
She glanced in her rearview mirror and spotted Trevor’s Jeep. Should she tell him about the phone call from Boone Fowler? Trevor already suspected her of being in contact with the Militia. If she confirmed his suspicion, he’d be obliged to tell the police. Then she’d be taken into custody for questioning—an ordeal she never wanted to live through again. After Lyle and the other Militia were arrested, she’d been grilled like a trout, answered a thousand questions by law enforcement officers with suspicious eyes. Interrogators. Like Trevor.
Those were the darkest days of her whole life. She’d been so isolated. Then she lost the baby. Her son.
“Damn you, Lyle. You got what you deserved.”
She turned the radio to an all-music station and cranked up the volume, hoping to drown out the dialogue inside her head. More than likely, Boone had told her he was coming because he wanted to scare her. He wouldn’t show.
But if he did?
She glanced in her rearview mirror again. Her decision was made. She would tell Trevor about that phone call.
HANGING OUT IN A MALL HAD never been Trevor’s idea of a good time. On Monday, when he followed Sierra, he had already discovered just about everything he wanted to know about the Big Sky Galleria in Helena. There was a food court and two big department stores, one on each end. The mall itself was two stories tall, open to the ceiling, with shops lining the walkways on both levels. Standing at a railing on the second floor, he looked down into the first-floor sporting goods store where Sierra worked.
His position provided a good surveillance point, even though he didn’t need to worry about having Sierra notice his presence. She damn well knew he was following her.
Last night, when she’d peeked out her front window and seen him, Trevor thought she might invite him inside. She’d stared for a long time before she let the curtain close, and turned out the lights. Apparently, she didn’t care that he was bored to death and freezing his butt off.
After sleeping in his Jeep night after night, he was on edge, anxious for something to happen. And he wasn’t the only one. From cell phone contact with the rest of the bounty hunters, Trevor knew they all shared his mood. Watching and waiting, they were on high alert, aware that a bomb attack from the Militia might be imminent.
He strolled over to the escalator and went downstairs, figuring he might convince Sierra to join him for coffee on her morning break.
The store right next to hers sold electronics. On the giant screen television in the window, Trevor recognized Prince Nikolai giving a speech. The crawl under his picture said “Prince denounces Lukinburg terrorists. Secretary of Defense urges U.S. to step up plans to intervene.”
Intervention. Terrorists. Regime change.
Words of war. With politicians and princes, it was too much talk and too little action. In Trevor’s opinion, the way to handle this Lukinburg terrorist situation was not to deploy massive numbers of troops. All it took was one covert unit of Special Forces—a unit like the one formerly commanded by Cameron Murphy. These specialists could enter Lukinburg, assess the situation and, if possible, neutralize the terrorists.
As he stepped into the entryway of Olson’s Outdoor Sporting Goods, his cell phone rang. Though he could see Sierra staring at him from behind the counter, Trevor paused to answer.
It was Mike Clark. “Blackhaw, are you in Helena?”
“At the Galleria. What’s up?”
“Lombardi and I turned up a lead and we need your interrogation skills. We’re at the Sage Garden Shop.”
Trevor knew the location. He’d driven past the place on his way into Helena this morning. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
He disconnected the call. He turned toward Sierra, who was coming toward him with a determined look in her eyes. No doubt she intended to give him another piece of her mind. Not this time.
He gave her a wink, turned on his boot heel and walked away. Finally, he had something useful to do.
IN A MOTEL ROOM at the outskirts of Helena, Boone Fowler listened to chatter from a police scanner while his men checked and rechecked their weapons.
So far, Boone had picked up nothing of interest on the radio scanner. It sounded like just another day. This wasn’t going according to his plan. Sierra should have told somebody about his phone call. She should have summoned law enforcement, including the unknown men who had been pursuing the Militia and thwarting their previous efforts.
He turned off the scanner. The time had come for Boone to pump up his men, to fuel their eagerness.
“We’re making a statement,” he said. Shoulders back and chest out, he knew that he presented an imposing figure. “We’re going to show the world that a well-trained band of men can outsmart and outmaneuver the cops, the feds and the National Guard.”
A murmur went through the Militia. They were prepared for this assault. Thanks to financing from the Puppetmaster, they were well-equipped and armed to the teeth. Dressed entirely in black and wearing enough body armor to make them invincible, they were on the move.
“You know we’re doing the right thing,” Boone said. “Like the American patriots in the Revolution, we will show the corrupt U.S. government that we demand our God-given right to freedom. No more taxation. No more regulation. No more suppression.”
Their gleaming eyes focused sharply on him. They were breathing heavily, anticipating the life-and-death assault that lay before them.
“This is a battle,” Boone said. “We will avenge our fallen comrades. Men, are you with me?”
“Yes!”
“You have your assigned tasks. Perform them well.”
“Yes.”
“We are free men. Americans. Glorious and free. And we will succeed.” His voice lowered. “Prepare yourselves for battle.”
They gathered up their automatic weapons and vests lined with explosives and pipe bombs. The Militia was ready to take on t
he world.
TREVOR ARRIVED at the gardening shop in a matter of minutes. He pulled into the parking lot beside Mike Clark’s van and leaped from his Jeep. “What’s up, Clark?”
“Lombardi and I were keeping an eye on this place. To see if any of the Militia were dumb enough to come shopping here for sodium nitrate and sulfur.”
“Were they?”
“Somebody bought thirty bags of fertilizer.”
“Militia?”
“Not exactly,” Clark said with a grin. “But I think you’re the right man to do this particular interrogation.”
He slid open the door to a no-frills paneled van he used for hauling. There were no seats inside the flatbed, and the only light came from the front windows. Tony Lombardi crouched near the front seats. He held a gun on a man, who was gagged, his hands cuffed in front of him.
Trevor peered into the rear of the van and recognized Danny—the ringleader of the jerks who had come after Sierra at Lyle Nelson’s funeral. “Well, well,” Trevor said. “We meet again.”
Danny’s eyes got big. Apparently, he remembered the beating Trevor had given him. Because Danny was already intimidated, this interrogation ought to be a piece of cake.
Trevor nodded to Lombardi. “Leave me alone with this son of a bitch.”
“I don’t know, man.” Lombardi played along, helping Trevor build on Danny’s fear. “The last time we left you alone with a subject, the guy nearly died.”
“I hear he committed suicide,” Trevor said.
Behind the gag, Danny whimpered.
“Suicide, huh?” Lombardi shook his head. “I’m not surprised. You have a reputation as the toughest, most brutal interrogator ever trained by Special Forces.”
“I earned that rep.”
Lombardi gave their prisoner a pat on the shoulder. “Good luck, man.”
When Lombardi left the van, Trevor removed his hat and climbed inside. In spite of what Lombardi had said about brutality, he seldom found it necessary to touch his interrogation subjects. The threat was enough.
Inhaling a sustained breath, he took on the attitude of an interrogator. He cleansed his mind of empathy, kindness and charity. There should be no evidence of softness or human emotion. The goal of interrogation was single-minded focus on obtaining accurate information.
