Cassie Miles - Warrior Spirit

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 that much.”