Warrior Spirit

“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.”

“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.”