Finally, he forced himself to speak. “I’m doing this because I don’t think you can pull off this mission by yourself.” Well, that was true. But Chase didn’t want to confuse Dana any more. She didn’t need to know that, on top of everything else, he wanted her, loved her. Wrong time, wrong place, as usual.
Swallowing hard, Dana nodded and looked away from Chase’s intense gaze. “Oh, I see. Okay, that’s fair. I don’t feel like getting killed, to tell you the truth, and I’d welcome you along. You’re the expert, really. I’m a bumbling novice in comparison.”
His arms fell to his sides. “Listen, Dana, don’t misunderstand. You’ve done well these four weeks. There aren’t a lot of men or women who would have worked as hard or come so far. It’s just that Grandmother and I believe, with me along, you’ll be freed up to focus on finding the pipe. Once you get your intuition in gear and locate it, I can run interference and protect you while you recover it. You’ll need a hundred percent concentration to tune in. If you’re distracted, you can’t focus and you won’t find it.”
It hurt Dana to think that the only reason Chase was coming along was to be her big, bad guard dog. But under the circumstances, she was grateful. In her heart, she had a dreadful feeling that she could be killed. She’d never spoken about that fear to Chase or her grandmother.
Dana nodded and gave him a quick smile, hiding her heartache. “I’m really glad you’re coming, Chase, for many reasons.”
“You’re a good team member, Dana. We’ll work well together. The rest of this week we’ll spend in tandem, refining our skills and trying to establish a rhythm with one another. Particularly on the rock climbing portion.”
Dana swallowed her disappointment. Well, what had she expected from Chase? One fiery, soul-melting kiss hadn’t changed anything. She couldn’t pick up on him psychically because he kept up defensive walls. For the most part, Chase was always armored, and Dana wasn’t quite sure how he felt toward her.
She could still remember the feel of his blazing, branding mouth. That, she would never forget. But had it been just lust for him? Dana didn’t know, and now was not the time to ask. Deep in her heart, she wished that Chase might desire her on all levels and not just for sex. She had been powerfully drawn to him from the beginning. Dana could admit that much to herself—but never to him. Not now, at least.
“Well,” she said, more cheerily than she felt, “let’s get busy, then. We need to learn how to work as a seamless team so Rogan and his women don’t hear or sense us coming.”
Pain was bright in her eyes, but her voice didn’t reveal it. Chase savagely told himself not to reach out and touch the tousled hair at her temple. Dana was exceedingly vulnerable in that moment, and he saw her struggling to put her personal pain aside and focus on the mission.
Her unselfish quality only made Chase want her more. Giving her a rare smile, he said, “Let’s go get our climbing equipment. We’ll spend the rest of the day going up and down the canyon wall. It’ll help us mesh as a team. We have to be fast and silent.”
As they walked back to the hogan, his mind turned to Rogan Fast Horse. What was the bastard planning? Chase could sense that he was close to initiating the Storm Pipe once more. Would they be in time to stop him? Every passing moment pushed the world further into chaos and imbalance. The more entrenched they became, the more uncertain Chase felt. Everything felt tense. As if lightning was about to strike.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“DAMMIT!” Rogan yelled at Blue Wolf, who sat smugly with the Storm Pipe in her arms. “That pipe is ready! I want to gather the circle of women tomorrow morning and use it.” Breathing hard, he towered over her. Blue Wolf’s upper lip lifted in a sneer, and he itched to slap the bitch. How dare she refuse to use the pipe when he wanted it used!
“It’s not ready yet, and I’m not about to let you abuse this pipe, Rogan.” Her heart beat heavily in her breast. The Storm Pipe lay like a sleeping baby cradled in the crook of her left arm.
Blue Wolf saw the rage building in Rogan’s dark eyes. Oh, she knew he wanted to hit her, no question. But he didn’t dare. The pipe had bonded with her. Only her. The other women were merely catalysts to help move the pipe’s gathering power around the circle. The energy would build up and up—eventually into a forty-thousand-foot-high thunder cloud that would be loosed upon Rogan’s next target, Hornsby of the Bureau of Indian Affairs.
Frustrated, Rogan paced the room. The cedar floor shone in the dawn light filtering in the small window. His footfalls reverberated through the space. The door was closed, and Rogan knew most of the other women were still asleep. It was only 5:30 a.m. As he went toward the window, he struggled to get ahold of his anger. Clasping his hands behind his back, gazing out into the compound, Rogan steadied his voice.
“The pipe is ready. I can feel it, Blue Wolf.”
Shrugging, she gently stroked the golden elk-skin bag in which it lay. “I don’t agree. I work with this pipe daily. I meditate with her for an hour each morning and an hour at dusk.” Blue Wolf lifted her chin defiantly and glared at Rogan’s hunched back. “The pipe is almost ready. But not quite yet.”
Turning on his heel, Rogan witnessed the defiant set of Blue Wolf’s mouth. She was stubborn, and he had a dilemma. The pipe was bonded with Blue Wolf, not him. He couldn’t even touch it for fear of being instantly electrocuted. Dammit! His hands literally itched to jerk the pipe bag out of her grasp. Instead, he fought for control. Eventually, he would have his way and Blue Wolf’s power wouldn’t be an issue.
The woman had weaknesses. Rogan’s eyes were drawn to the carved turquoise wolf’s head hanging from a thick leather thong around her throat. She was never without her namesake, the wolf’s head crafted by her well-known artist father. Her late father had been creative, but an abusive alcoholic. Rogan couldn’t understand why Blue Wolf continued to revere the drunken bastard who had knocked her around as a child. The medicine woman’s long, hooked nose was crooked and bent, showing how many times her father had hit her with his fist. Maybe that’s why she hated men, Rogan decided. He’d been beaten routinely and understood. Yet that turquoise wolf’s head remained with her. As did the powerful and valuable Storm Pipe. Jealousy ate at Rogan.
“That pipe is ready to go, and you damn well know it. You’re just being stubborn because I want to use it.”
Nostrils flaring, Blue Wolf again lay her hand across the pipe bag. “Rogan, you’re always in a hurry. You forget, I’ve known you since we were teenagers. I’ve seen your restlessness, your impatience with everything and everyone. You’re right—I’m not about to let you tell me when the pipe I carry is ready for use.” She patted it lovingly. “As I said, she is not quite there yet.”
Rogan approached her and snarled, “Well, when will it be ready?” His voice sounded like the hiss of an angry rattlesnake.
“Soon.”
Throwing up his hands, he yelled, “Well, when the hell does soon mean?”
Blue Wolf didn’t cringe at Rogan’s drama and threats. The other women did, but she refused to. No man scared her anymore.
Steadily, she held Rogan’s blazing gaze. His fists were clenched at his sides. She sensed his desire to strike her, but he really didn’t dare. If he ever laid a hand on her, Blue Wolf would disappear from the compound with the Storm Pipe, never to be found by this bastard again. And Rogan knew she’d do it.
“I will let you know when the pipe is ready to perform. Besides, you had the Russian ambassador targeted as the next victim. Why did you change your mind?”
Rubbing his stubbled jaw, Rogan muttered, “That’s none of your business.”
“I read the newspapers, Rogan. I see that the FBI and CIA are hunting for terrorists. Could it be that you’ve gotten cold feet? Are you afraid they’ll find us?” Blue Wolf snorted. “Now is not the time to become cowardly, Rogan. So what if the feds are looking for something they don’t even realize exists? No one will ever suspect a pipe capable of doing that kind of damage. I think you’re wrong to target the he
ad of the BIA. I think your original plan to take out the Russian ambassador is far better. That will create the world tension that we want.”
“You’ve seen the papers,” Rogan reminded her as he paced. “They hint at nuclear war. Russia and the U.S. are already on high alert with one another. Well, I don’t want a nuke hitting us over here. Instead, I’m going to kill Hornsby, and then we’ll send a letter to the FBI giving them our list of demands. They must improve all Native Americans’ lives.”
Blue Wolf sighed. “It’s not a bad idea, but if you send a letter after Hornsby is killed, the FBI will know that some Native American is a potential threat. Worse, they may see all of us as home-grown terrorists. They’ll start to tear up every reservation in the U.S., looking for us, even though they’ll never realize who wrote the demand letter.”
“Do you have a better idea of how to get the U.S. government’s attention? The whites were wrong to imprison us on these reservations. We are the first Americans! We were here long before those bastards.” Rogan punched his index finger in Blue Wolf’s direction. “I want changes for the better for all of us, on every reservation. I want off the dole. I want our people to be respected and have industry come in so we can make a decent living, and not live in poverty as we have for over a hundred years.”
“I don’t disagree with your goal, Rogan. But I sense you need to be very careful about the letter and where you send it from. Once they get it, they’ll have FBI agents crawling around here like ants.”
“I’m not that stupid,” he declared. “I’ll write the letter and have one of our women drive to California and drop it into a mailbox in Los Angeles. That will throw them off our scent. I’ll warn the feds that if they don’t give us the equality we demand within six weeks, we’ll kill the president of the United States. And they will understand it isn’t an empty threat.”
Blue Wolf knew Rogan had spent years writing a document detailing how the U.S. government should release all Native Americans from the poverty of the reservation system. She’d read it, suggested changes and approved the subsequent draft. The only question was could Rogan push through changes this way? She knew that U.S. officials didn’t negotiate with terrorists. Right now, newspapers were reporting that the vice president had died of a sudden, unexpected heart attack. Still, the terrorism warning level had been initiated, and there were articles in the paper hinting that the FBI was looking for a “terrorist sleeper cell.” Well, Rogan’s team were the cell. But Blue Wolf was positive they’d never be found, because white men simply didn’t know the power of a ceremonial pipe.
“As soon as you decide the time to use the pipe, let me know,” Rogan muttered, all his anger dissolving.
“I will,” she replied. It was Tuesday. “I feel that by Saturday the pipe will be ready to go.”
“Then we’ll schedule the circle for Monday, because I want that bastard sitting in his office in D.C. when it happens.” Gloating to himself, Rogan turned on his heel and left the meditation room.
As he did so, his scalp prickled, and Rogan sensed danger once again. But where was it coming from? Was it Blue Wolf herself? Or could the FBI have somehow found a lead? Scratching his head, Rogan moved out to the main area of the lodge, where two huge pillars, stout cedar trunks with the bark removed, supported the roof. Looking around, Rogan felt inexplicably jumpy. Who the hell was stalking them?
ANNIE BALLARD GASPED as she shot up into a sitting position. Her hand against her throat, she could feel her pulse bounding wildly. Light from the streetlamp leaked into her apartment window. She shakily wiped her brow and quickly got out of bed, grabbing the notebook and pen from a nearby stand. With trembling fingers, she recorded the horrific vision she’d just experienced.
For the next fifteen minutes, she tried to remember every detail, every face she’d seen, and the feelings surrounding the images. By the time she’d finished, Annie felt a terrible chill working up her spine. The Carson City apartment was warm, but she was cold. She pulled her yellow fleece robe from the end of the bed and shrugged it on. She had to have a cup of tea. No way could she go back to bed.
The clock read 4:00 a.m. Shaken, she walked on bare feet through the carpeted apartment to the kitchen. First thing this morning, she would call David Colby, the FBI agent, and let him know what she’d seen. It could be the clue they had been hoping for.
“THIS IS THE BIGGEST wild-goose chase I’ve ever gone on,” David Colby griped to Annie Ballard as they drove down the main street of Carson City, Nevada. They’d flown in two days earlier. The FBI kept a few apartments there, and they’d each moved into one on a temporary basis. Annie had recounted the powerful dream she’d had the night before.
“The FBI provided us with a list of survivalist cells in the Carson City area,” Annie reminded him. She looked up at the signs along the street. In her vision, she’d seen an Indian warbonnet on the front of a building on a busy avenue. There was something in that building that would possibly help them. “I gave good descriptions of the faces I saw in my dream to your FBI artist.” She patted the leather purse in her lap. “We have more sketches now.”
Colby wasn’t optimistic. He crept along in the right lane, allowing the faster midmorning traffic to flow by them. The sidewalks had a number of tourists dipping in and out of the many trading posts along the avenue. All tourist traps, in Colby’s opinion.
He’d asked Annie if there were trading posts with Indian warbonnets on the sign here. She’d said she didn’t know, that they’d have to drive around and look for it.
Colby didn’t put any stock in Annie Ballard’s abilities. So far, none of them had panned out.
“There! Look! The warbonnet! Do you see it, David?”
Frowning, he squinted through his dark glasses. Pulling into a parking space, he turned off the engine. Sure enough, about half a block down on the right was a large sign with an eagle feather warbonnet. He shook his head and gave her a glance as he pocketed his keys.
Annie smiled triumphantly at him. “You think I got lucky?”
Colby grinned sourly. “You’re reading my mind,” he teased, easing out of the car. Annie was a nice woman, a kind person. She didn’t brag about what she did; rather, she was like a quiet and unassuming mouse.
He joined her on the sidewalk, and they walked toward the establishment, the sign of which read Chief Eagle Feather Antiques. To Colby, it looked like a touristy trading post.
Drawing a deep breath of warm desert air, Annie hitched her leather purse up on her shoulder. “We’re looking for something, but I don’t know what.”
“A clue?”
“I hope. In my vision there was a powerful, threatening presence in this store. That’s where I saw the man’s face.”
“Will you know where this thing is you’re looking for?”
She shrugged. “I can’t say. Being psychic doesn’t mean I know everything. I just receive ‘hits’ or feelings, and then have to try and interpret them correctly.”
“Hmm…” Colby opened the door and Annie stepped inside. “That and a lot of good ole gumshoe work,” he said. “Nothing like going door-to-door to gather information and evidence.” He heard Annie laugh and saw her nod.
Narrow and long, the place was much more an antique store than a trading post, he realized. There were stuffed buffalo, antelope and bighorn sheep heads hanging on the cream-colored stucco walls. Colby spotted a balding man wearing Ben Franklin–type glasses behind one of the counters. No one else seemed to be around. Colby smelled the scent of leather, and spotted several U.S. Cavalry saddles from the Civil War era on wooden stands, their brass shiny and the bull hide leather well cared for. Bridles from the same period hung on the walls behind them.
Annie wove her way between many rugs, antique tables, chairs and dressers, to the counter. She smiled at the man. “Hi, are you the owner?”
“Sure am. Joseph Spearling. What can I do for you folks? Are you interested in a particular antique or just browsing?” He adjusted his glasses on h
is bulbous nose and set down the pen in his pudgy hands.
Colby came over and offered a smile. “We’re just looking, Mr. Spearling. Mind if we nose around?”
Shrugging rounded shoulders beneath his wrinkled short-sleeved shirt, Spearling said, “Sure, no problem. If you have a question, lemme know. I’ll be glad to try and help.”
“Thanks,” Annie told him warmly. She caught David’s eye as she turned on her heel and walked with him down the crowded aisle. “I’m just sensing,” she told him under her breath, so that Spearling couldn’t hear.
“Fine. Do your thing,” Colby murmured, looking around. There were many glass cabinets filled with Native American objects—necklaces and silver bracelets inlaid with turquoise, beaded feather fans, deer-hide moccasins, beaded horse martingales, parfleche bags and other artifacts. Annie slowly ambled the entire length of the store, perusing the merchandise. What was she looking for? Colby didn’t have a clue.
After many minutes of nosing around, she walked back to the proprietor, who was busy doing paperwork. “Mr. Spearling, I think I need your help.”
Looking up, he pushed his wire-rimmed glasses higher on his nose. “Sure. What are you looking for?”
Annie grimaced. “I’m not really sure.” She pulled out a small notebook as Colby joined her at the counter. “Now, don’t laugh at me, Mr. Spearling, but I had a dream and I saw this in it.” Annie quickly drew the L-shaped object and turned the notebook around. “Do you happen to know what that might be?”
“Let’s see.” Spearling studied the sketch. “Why, I believe that may be an Indian pipe.”
Colby frowned. “A what?”
“A pipe,” Spearling told them. He led them past a long row of glass cases. “Come on, I’ll show you one.”
Annie followed him down the narrow aisle. At the very end, Spearling stopped. He dug in his pocket for a ring of keys, opened the lock on a cabinet and reached in.
“Here you go. This happens to be a Sioux pipe, circa 1890s.” He put a rubber mat on the glass and then carefully laid the red stone pipe head on it.
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