Warrior Spirit

“That supposed suicide was a little too convenient,” Clark replied. “Too bad we can’t get you clearance to interrogate Warden Craig Green.”

Trevor scanned the mourners and focused on one woman. She was something special to look at. Sunlight glowed on the honey-blond highlights in her hair. She had dark eyebrows and high cheekbones. Even from this distance, her eyes seemed to flash with fiery intensity. Unlike the other mourners, she stood straight and proud, with her fists on her hips. Trevor adjusted his binoculars to check out her curves. Very nice.

“The blonde standing by the casket,” he said. “Who is she?”

Clark took a moment to zoom in. “I don’t know her name, but I’ll tell you this. That is one angry woman.”

Mike Clark had also been trained in strategic intelligence collection. His greatest talent was reading body language and subtle emotions. Trevor referred to him as “the human lie detector.”

Trevor studied the blonde. “She doesn’t look like she belongs here. Her black coat is something a city gal would wear.”

“And it’s a little shabby,” Clark said. “Like she’s fallen on hard times. Maybe that’s why she’s so mad.”

The preacher finally made his way to the grave-side. He opened his Bible. Through their transmitter, they heard his sonorous voice, quoting scripture.

The mourners removed their hats and bowed their heads…except for the blonde. Her full lips pinched tightly together, as if she were holding back a strong emotion.

“Something else about her,” Clark said. “She’s deeply unhappy. Doesn’t want to show it, but she must have cared about Lyle Nelson.”

“Sierra Collins.” Trevor made the identification. “She fits the dossier profile for Nelson’s ex-fiancée.”

She’d be the perfect person for him to interrogate. For several months, she’d been privy to Nelson’s secrets. According to one report, Nelson had contacted Sierra when he escaped from prison with the other fugitives. He might have told her his plans or indicated the whereabouts of the Militia’s current hideout.

The mourners sang an off-key rendition of “Amazing Grace” as the coffin was lowered.

“…Ashes to ashes,” the preacher intoned. “Dust to—”

Sierra interrupted. With her fingers clenched into fists, she strode to the edge of the grave.

A silence fell on the mourners as they waited to see what she’d do. Would she speak? Would she throw herself, weeping, into her ex-boyfriend’s grave?

She spat on the coffin. Her voice came clearly through the transmitter. “You owed me, you miserable son of a bitch. Burn in hell!”

Trevor couldn’t help but be impressed by her gall. “You were right, Clark. That’s one troubled lady.”

She’d said that Lyle owed her, which made Trevor think she might have been promised some kind of payoff. That made sense. He could only think of one reason why such a beautiful woman would hang around with the likes of Lyle Nelson: money. She was a girlfriend for hire—a tough, heartless woman who traded on her good looks to get what she wanted.

This time, however, it appeared that she’d made a miscalculation. Spitting on the coffin was a transgression that wouldn’t be easily forgiven.

Three burly mourners grabbed Sierra Collins and forcibly escorted her through the cemetery, away from the grave. When a reporter tried to follow, one of the men snarled and the reporter backed off. They were headed for the road, where many vehicles were parked.

Trevor figured it wasn’t going to be good news for Sierra when these guys got her alone. He tucked his binoculars into his saddlebag. “I’m going after them.”

“Need help?”

“Three of them and one of me.” Trevor liked those odds. “I don’t think it’s a problem.”

“I know you can deal with three friends of the Militia,” Clark said. “But can you handle that little spitfire?”

“I’ll try.”

He flicked his reins, and the mustang stallion emerged from the pine forest. Trevor urged his horse to a gallop at the edge of the trees. Smokey, the mustang, didn’t need encouragement. This stallion liked to run hard and fast.

In minutes, they approached an outcropping of rocks and trees. Sierra and her three captors were hidden from the view of the people at the cemetery.

One of the men had his hand over her mouth.

Suddenly, he yanked his hand away. “She bit me! Damn you, Sierra.”

“Let me go,” she snarled. “Leave me alone, Danny.”

“Can’t do that,” he said. “You insulted my friend, and you’ve got to pay.”

Trevor rode up at full gallop. The mustang stopped short, and he dismounted in one fluid move. “What’s the problem here?”

“None of your business,” said the one she’d called Danny. “Ride on.”

“You boys are friends of Lyle Nelson,” Trevor said. It was a statement, not a question. “That means you’re enemies of mine.”

He sized them up. The one on the left was as tall as Trevor’s six-foot-three-inch height, but he was skinny as a stick and pasty-faced. None of these guys was in good shape. Nor did they have Trevor’s training in hand-to-hand combat.

Though he didn’t take the impending battle lightly, he was confident. His muscles tensed, and he focused his energy. Behind his eyelids, his mind became crystal clear.

He could take these guys.

Walking fast, he strode into their midst. There was one on his left, another on his right. Danny was still busy trying to subdue Sierra.

The guy on the left pulled a handgun from the waistband of his jeans. Big mistake.

With a swift kick, Trevor disarmed him. A chop to the throat brought him to his knees, gasping. His wind-pipe wasn’t completely crushed because Trevor had aimed carefully and held back on his assault. He didn’t want to kill these guys. Just to teach them a lesson.

The second man attacked from behind. Trevor snapped around, delivering a karate chop that broke his nose. The assailant fell back, moaning.

Danny released Sierra and made the tactical error of charging at Trevor. It took little more than a side step and pressure on the pain center at the elbow to direct Danny’s clumsy charge into the nearby boulders. He crashed, then slid down the rock face, unconscious.

The other two staggered to their feet. Trevor motioned them toward him, but they both took off running, leaving the handgun behind.

Trevor picked up the gun. He searched Danny, and found another pistol. He stowed both weapons in his saddlebag.

The immediate threat was gone, but he didn’t want to hang around while the other two men recruited a mob to come after him.

Picking up his hat, Trevor dusted off the brim and approached Sierra.

“Nice job,” she said. “Is that karate?”

“A type of karate. It’s more like Korean street fighting.”

She was even more attractive in person than when he’d observed her through the binoculars. Her thick hair was multicolored and tawny like the pelt of a cougar. Her eyes were dark. She held up one palm, signaling him to keep his distance.