Warrior Spirit

by Cassie Miles

  With basset hound puppies under each arm, Trevor exited through the back of the store. Sierra was right behind him, carrying more puppies.

  Even the windowless concrete corridor that ran behind the shops felt too claustrophobic for Trevor. He gulped down a couple of breaths, struggling against the tension that coiled inside his belly like a sleeping rattlesnake.

  He marched past the SWAT team sharpshooters with a quiet explanation. “We’re evacuating the pet store.”

  Behind their face shields, each of the men nodded in understanding. And they smiled at the wriggling dogs. Apparently puppies were a passport to anywhere.

  At the rear of the sporting goods store, he and Sierra made a quick turn. The lock on the rear door had been blown with excessive force, demolishing half the wall beside it.

  They were inside.

  “So far, so good,” Trevor said.

  “What do we do with these little guys?” Sierra lowered her face for a sloppy kiss from a chocolate-brown poodle with big luminous eyes.

  As Trevor watched her interact with the pooch, he had to wonder how he had gotten himself into this position. He was partners with a vegetarian crazy lady from Brooklyn. And they were going up against dangerous men who were in possession of lethal nerve gas.

  His weapon? Puppies.

  He strode toward a small office with a door. “Put the dogs in here.”

  “They’re going to make a mess on the floor.”

  He glared at her. Obviously Sierra had lost her mind. “This is a life-and-death situation. Not the time to worry about puppy poop.”

  “We should get the doggies out of here. If the nerve gas is dispersed, they’ll be killed.”

  “And so will we,” he pointed out. “Let’s try to focus, Sierra.”

  They closed the door on the puppies, and she led him to the rear of the crowded storeroom. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Back here, there’s only a wall dividing our stockroom from the other store.”

  “What kind of wall?”

  “It’s not very thick,” she said. “Olson’s Outdoor Sporting Goods used to own both spaces, then they divided it up and the electronics business moved in.”

  “Tell me about the setup in the electronics store.”

  “It’s the same as here. Showroom in front. Stockroom in back.”

  It seemed logical that the Militia would keep their hostages locked in a back room where they wouldn’t get in the way. But was there a Militia guard watching them?

  Moving as a team, Trevor and Sierra cleared away the stacks of sporting equipment until they had an open space of wall. He pressed his ear against the drywall and listened. He distinctly heard conversation. A whimper. A gasping sob. “They’re back here.”

  “How do we get them out?”

  They needed to make a hole in the wall to see if there was a guard. Trevor had the feeling they should move fast. He glanced at his wristwatch. An hour had elapsed since the assault on the sporting goods store. “We’d better hurry.”

  “Why? The Militia knows it’s going to take some time to put together the helicopter and ransom money.”

  “Or maybe not. We can’t take the chance that they’ll wait.”

  With the tip of his pocketknife, he carved a hole in the wall on the sporting goods side. The plaster crumbled easily. Sierra had been right. The walls separating these stores were insubstantial—nothing more than thin drywall on either side, with one-by-three supports every eighteen inches. He whispered, “I need something to make a hole we can see through.”

  She rifled through equipment and came up with a ski pole.

  Gently, he pushed the tip of the pole through the wall. It made a circular spot for viewing. When Trevor peered through, he was looking through shelving stacked with boxes. He could see the hostages—women and children huddled together. There was no sign of a guard.

  DISGUISED IN THE GEAR of a SWAT sharpshooter, Boone Fowler had positioned himself on the Galleria’s second floor. From this angle, he could see directly into the command center in Victoria’s Secret.

  Eight minutes ago, he’d spotted Sierra and a tall guy who looked part-Indian talking to the county sheriff. Who was that half-breed? Could he be the man responsible for disrupting the Militia’s other attacks?

  When they’d headed to the pet store, they had passed within ten feet of Boone. He had been sorely tempted to shoot Sierra Collins then and there. The woman was a thorn in his side. Thanks to her interference, his men were holed up in the electronics store instead of in sporting goods.

  His fingers had tensed on the automatic rifle he held in his gloved hands, but he had managed to curb his instinct for revenge. Sierra would die—like everybody else—when the potassium cyanide was dispersed.

  The Militia assault had not gone precisely according to Boone’s plans. First, there’d been the confusion in the sporting goods store. Perry’s quick thinking had saved that situation. Then the bomb in the food court failed to demolish the center support beam, and firefighters had managed to contain the blaze too easily.

  Rising disappointment fed Boone’s impatience. More than once he told himself to calm down. Though the destruction was far less than he’d hoped for, this action wasn’t a total failure.

  The taking of hostages assured that media attention would be widespread and in-depth. In Boone’s televised statement, he’d made sure to mention terrorism. The Puppetmaster ought to be pleased about that. And there was still opportunity for large scale devastation to humans.

  He permitted himself a cold smile. The lethal nerve gas would guarantee fatalities. The hostages would die. That much was damn certain. And the sheriff, the feds and the cops who had gathered in command central would be affected in spite of their gas masks.

  He stared back into the lingerie shop where they were huddled. And then Boone saw what he was looking for. Cameron Murphy.

  There was no man on earth he hated more than Cameron Murphy. Because of him, the Militia had been apprehended and thrown into the Fortress. Because of him, the alliance with the Puppetmaster was necessary. Surely, Cameron Murphy had to be the person who had foiled the previous Militia actions.

  A uniformed deputy came up beside Boone. He paused and asked, “Is this your position?”

  “That’s right,” Boone said, confident that the face shield would make identification impossible. “Any new developments?”

  “Nothing I know about.”

  Boone nodded toward command central, using this unwitting deputy to get more intelligence about Cameron Murphy. “Who’s that guy with the cowboy hat? The one talking to the sheriff.”

  “Former military,” the deputy said. “He’s a bounty hunter now. From what I hear, he’s got a team that works with him. Big Sky Bounty Hunters. These guys were handpicked from Special Forces.”

  “Looks like all the law enforcement personnel in the state of Montana are here,” Boone said.

  “Just about.” The deputy touched the brim of his hat and moved on. “Good luck.”

  “Same to you.”

  Big Sky Bounty Hunters. Finally, Boone had a name for his nemesis. Better yet, he had them right where he wanted them. In the line of fire.

  He raised the walkie-talkie to his mouth, flipped the communication switch and contacted Perry. “Initiate final action. Five minutes.”

  AS SOON AS TREVOR ascertained that the hostages were unguarded, he had called to them and warned them to move quietly so the Militia wouldn’t be alerted. There were eleven people packed into the crowded stockroom of the electronics store. One older man. Six women—four adults and two teenagers. And four children.

  The hostages worked from their side to move stock away from the wall so they could make a hole and escape. At the same time, Trevor and Sierra chipped away at the plaster separating the two stockrooms.

  He knew how risky it was to attempt this rescue. If the Militia discovered their scheme, they wouldn’t hesitate to kill one or more of the hostages. They’d already proved themselves
to be ruthless.

  “Quietly,” he told them. “Move very quietly. But fast.”

  Trevor wouldn’t expect a medal for this action. The fact that the FBI negotiators had not initiated a rescue attempt indicated that they’d been warned or threatened.

  “Are we doing the right thing?” Sierra whispered. Her breath was hot in his ear.

  He nodded. The fact that the Militia wasn’t bothering to guard these people made him even more certain that the hostages meant nothing to them. Their goal was to release the nerve gas and kill lawmen. These people locked in the stockroom were nothing more than collateral. “Keep at it, Sierra.”

  Soon they had a hole the size of a doggy door. The four children came through. All of them were obviously terrified, silent with shock. Traumatized.

  “Sierra, get the kids out of here,” Trevor ordered.

  “Right.” She turned to the children. “Follow me.”

  “No.” In a wavering voice, a little girl dared to resist. “I won’t leave without my mommy.”

  “Hush now,” Sierra whispered. “Your mommy is going to be fine. Right now, I have an important job for you. We need to take care of some puppies.”

  As she led them away, Trevor continued to chip at the wall. The hole needed to be considerably larger for the adults to fit through.

  The danger was imminent. He could feel it in the prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck. At any second, the door to the stockroom could swing open and one of the Militia might march through.

  Trevor instructed the hostages. “Move something in front of the door so nobody can get in.”

  The teenagers, who probably spent more time at the mall than was good for them, sprang into action. They shoved a couple of cardboard crates in front of the doorway.

  Trevor motioned to one of the adults. “Come on. Shoulders first. I’ll help you.”

  As she wedged her way through, into his arms, Trevor heard someone behind him. He turned and faced the deputies who had helped in the puppy evacuation. “Give me a hand,” he said. “Let’s get these people out of here.”

  With three of them working on the wall, the hole widened quickly. The hostages were free.

  Instead of weaving through the concrete corridors behind the stores, Trevor escorted his little band to the front of the shop and out through the mall.

  As the last teenage hostage raced out the glass doors to the safety of the parking lot, he heard a commotion from the electronics store. Standing just outside the mall, Trevor witnessed the final assault through the glass doors.

  A smoke bomb exploded. Through the whirling smoke, five Militia men rushed into the Galleria. All of them wore gas masks. In a synchronized motion, they whipped off their vests and threw them to the floor.

  Simultaneous explosions made a blinding flash.

  Immediately the Militia retreated. Their mission had been accomplished.

  Trevor stepped back, putting distance between himself and the Galleria. He knew the purpose of the detonation. Lethal nerve gas had been released into the air. Those who were exposed would start with coughing. Their throats would close. Their flesh would itch and burn like fire. Their eyes would be blinded. And then death.

  There was nothing Trevor could do to save Cameron Murphy.

  Chapter Nine

  Sierra had some reservations about returning to the secluded log headquarters of Big Sky Bounty Hunters. It was here, in the basement level interrogation room, that Trevor had tied her to a chair and asked all those questions that she still couldn’t quite remember. That day had been less than a week ago, but it seemed like ancient history.

  So much had changed. The hovering possibility of danger had become a cruel reality. People had died at the Galleria. The current body count was seven. All of them were lawmen or firefighters. Over twenty-five others, including Cameron, were in the hospital, being treated for exposure to potassium cyanide.

  Sierra could no longer pretend that she was capable of facing the Militia all by herself. And luckily, she didn’t have to. She and Trevor were partners.

  In the barn behind the headquarters, she sat on a rough wooden bench and leaned back against the barn wall, watching as he tended the horses. Trevor worked hard, mucking out the stalls with a pitchfork, tossing hay, checking the feed. So much energy! She had the sense that he was burning off leftover adrenaline from today’s battle.

  Though the barn was chilly, with both doors open to the afternoon sun, he stripped down to his sleeveless white undershirt. In spite of her exhaustion, Sierra sat up and took notice. How could she not? This was a fine view—one she hadn’t seen before, but had imagined. Trevor had a long, lean body with arms nicely muscled from biceps to wrist. The sunlight glistened on his bronze shoulders and his long black hair, which was tied back in a ponytail at his nape. What would it be like to tangle her fingers in his hair? To caress those tight muscles? To feel that muscular torso pressed against her body?

  For a long time after she lost her baby, Sierra had felt dead inside. It wasn’t so much a depression as an overwhelming sadness. There were weeks when she didn’t leave her bed. Days when she sat and stared, her mind a blank. During that period she could barely manage a conversation with the clerk at the supermarket, much less think about a relationship. Men were the very last thing on her mind.

  Though she’d finally managed to drag herself out of the house and go to work, she was still wary. Men would ask her out, and she’d push them away. Nobody seemed worth the trouble.

  Until now, she hadn’t missed the contact. Until now, she hadn’t known Trevor. Watching him was sheer pleasure. Half of her brain warned her to stay away from him; a relationship could only bring trouble and pain. The other half urged her to pounce on this gorgeous man. No pain, no gain. Did she dare take the risk?

  The chocolate-brown poodle puppy she’d rescued from the mall bounced across the stable and hopped up on the bench beside her. She scooped him onto her lap. Snuggling with the warm, furry animal reminded her that sometimes risks paid off.

  All the hostages had survived. If she and Trevor hadn’t undertaken their risky rescue, those people surely would have perished, and the fatalities at the Galleria would have been much higher.

  Too bad they couldn’t do anything about the Militia. The thugs had escaped. Every damn one of them. In the melee after their explosive vests were detonated, they’d retreated. Nobody was sure which way they went, only that they were gone.

  Trevor came over to her bench. He slipped into a plaid wool shirt, leaving it unbuttoned, and sat beside her. He was close but not actually touching her. “Have you got a name for that puppy?”

  “Not yet.” She stroked the curly fur. “I can’t keep him. Not with my work schedule. I don’t want to get too attached.”

  “But he needs a name.”

  “Why?”

  “A name defines who you are. You know that.”

  “I do?”

  “Because your name is Sierra, you left Brooklyn and came west to the mountains.” He looked down at the puppy. “Without a name, he doesn’t exist.”

  “This sounds like a Cherokee thing.”

  “Could be,” he admitted. “When I was born, my father stayed around long enough to name me.”

  “He called you Trevor?”

  “No. A Cherokee name.” He scratched behind the puppy’s ears. “This poodle needs a brave name. Something that will make him ferocious.”

  “How about Rex?”

  The puppy cocked his head and peered up at her with his black, shoe-button eyes. His pink tongue poked through his tiny sharp teeth, and he almost looked as if he was grinning.

  “Rex,” Trevor said. “King of all poodles.”

  Curious, she studied the man who sat beside her. “Are you going to tell me your Cherokee name?”

  He shrugged. “It’s not important.”

  “Come on,” she teased. “Partners are supposed to tell each other everything.”

  “And we’re still partners?�
�

  “Of course,” she said without a shred of doubt. “Now tell.”

  “My people come from the wolf clan, ancestors of the Cherokee war chiefs. My father must have known that I’d need the strength and cunning of my clan. Being half-Cherokee was sometimes hard and lonely. I had to be tough. So he named me Blue Wolf. Because of my eyes.”

  She saw a flicker of sadness in those eyes as he remembered his past. “Blue Wolf. I like it.”

  “So do I,” he said.

  In the soft glow of afternoon sunlight, his expression subtly changed. Though he remained serious, another emotion appeared. Concern? Determination? “What are you thinking about, Trevor?”

  “Guess.”

  She leaned a bit closer. His eyes were a mystery. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m thinking about you,” he said.

  A pleasant shiver went through her. That look in his eyes…was it desire? The fact that she didn’t know for sure if he was into her meant she’d been out of the dating scene way too long. “In what way are you thinking about me?”

  “Your bravery,” he said. “And your stubbornness. If you hadn’t been so mule-headed about rescuing the hostages, those people would have died.”

  Apparently his interest wasn’t sexual. And she wished that it was. She wanted him to be thinking about her as a woman, viewing her with the same lust she’d been feeling for him. Didn’t he want to make love to her? A few days ago, in her kitchen, he’d admitted as much. “Anything else?”

  “Too much to put into words.”

  His gaze held hers. She could feel him leaning toward her. Their bodies drew closer. She could almost taste his lips. This was the moment when they should kiss.

  Then he looked away. He leaned back against the wall of the barn and closed his eyes.

  Well, fine! Don’t kiss me. She mimicked his posture. They sat in silence. Side by side, not touching.

  From the stalls, one of the horses nickered. There was an outdoorsy scent of hay and saddle leather. Her fingers tangled in the soft puppy fur. She should have been content rather than frustrated.