Warrior Spirit

Instead, he returned to the interrogation room and paced. Seven minutes left. Sierra’s whimpers had stilled to an occasional moan. Five minutes.

There was no need for him to pity her. She wasn’t an innocent little flower. This woman had lived with Lyle Nelson, a murderous bastard. She hung out with the Militia—heartless terrorists of the first order. Sierra couldn’t be entirely blameless. Two minutes left.

Damn it, he couldn’t wait any longer.

When he removed the earphones, she shuddered.

He pulled off the blindfold. Her dark eyes were wide, the pupils dilated. Her mouth twitched as if she couldn’t decide whether to smile or to spit in his face. The drug had taken effect. She was ready.

Gently, he removed the gloves and caressed her cold fingers, encouraging circulation. “How are you feeling, Sierra?”

“Dizzy.”

His first step was to get her talking, encourage her to open up. “But you’re okay, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” She nodded slowly.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said. “Tell me about going to school in Brooklyn.”

“I was good at school,” she said. “All A’s and B’s, and I went to Brooklyn College for a year until I couldn’t afford it. Mom and Dad broke up for good, and I had to get my own apartment. New York is expensive.”

Though her cooperative attitude was drug-induced, Trevor enjoyed this moment of civilized communication. With a damp cloth, he stroked her forehead and wiped the tearstains from her cheeks. “What did you do after you left college?”

“Lied about my age and got a job. I worked for a law firm near the World Trade Center. That was before 9-11.”

“What kind of job?” He quickly directed her thoughts away from the tragedy of September eleventh. For now, he wanted her memories to be pleasant.

“Administrative assistant,” she said. “That’s a mouthful, huh?”

“Yes, it is.”

“First I was a receptionist, but I got promoted. I had a bank account and savings, and I was even thinking about going to law school myself.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Got bored,” she said with a mischievous smile. “On the day I turned twenty-five, I realized that the farthest I’d ever been from Brooklyn was a friend’s wedding in Philly. I wanted some adventure while I was still young. So I cashed in my savings, bought my Nissan and drove west.”

“All the way to Montana,” he said. “Long drive.”

“But not far enough. I meant to keep going until I hit the High Sierras, because of my name, but I kind of ran out of gas.” She tilted her head to one side and studied him. “You’re cute, Trevor. If I took you back to Brooklyn with me, all the other girls would be jealous.”

He smiled, enjoying her flirtation. The TD had loosened her inhibitions as well as her tongue. “When you stopped in Montana, you met—”

“Where are you from, Trevor?”

“A potato farm in Idaho.”

“No kidding! That’s so…rural. Where else have you lived?”

“I spent a year on the Cherokee reservation in Oklahoma.”

Her dark eyes widened. “You’re Cherokee?”

“Part Cherokee.”

“And I’ll bet that’s the part that doesn’t have amazing blue eyes.”

He couldn’t allow this line of conversation to continue. She was a subject. This was an interrogation. “Now I live here in Montana. Like you. This is where you met Lyle Nelson.”

Her sunny attitude faltered. “He was mean.”

“There must have been good times,” Trevor said encouragingly. “Tell me about the good times.”

“No.” Her lips pursed in an adorable pout. “Let’s talk about the Cherokee reservation.”

“Sierra.” He snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Concentrate.”

“I don’t want to talk about Lyle.”

And Trevor didn’t want to push her. But this was his job. Extracting information could be as painful as yanking a molar, but they would both feel better when it was over. “Lyle’s friends in the Militia. Tell me their names.”

“Everybody knows them,” she said, “from the newspapers.”

It was time for Trevor to change gears. Niceness wasn’t going to cut it with her. He held the blindfold so she could see it. “If you were blindfolded, you might be able to think more clearly.”

“No.” Her lower lip trembled. “Don’t put that thing on me again.”

“Talk, Sierra.”

“Lyle’s friends,” she said quickly. “The leader of the Militia is Boone Fowler. He’s a power-hungry creep. All of them are. Bad people. Lyle wasn’t like them. He came from money, you know. He wasn’t trash. But he gave all his money to Boone.”

“Tell me about the others.”

“The one I hated the most was Perry Johnson. He’s nothing but a sadist, pure and simple. I saw him gutting a deer they’d shot for venison, and he was freakishly happy. Perry loved being up to his elbows in blood.”

“Where were you when you saw him?”

“Perry’s cabin,” she said quickly.

That location was already known to the authorities. The cabin had been searched. “Where else? Where are they hiding now?”

“I don’t know.”

Trevor leaned closer, forcing her to concentrate on his face. “Did Lyle tell you any of his plans?”

“No. Nothing.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”