The Stealth Commandos Trilogy

by Suzanne Forster

  “Would you have the church demolished, Mr. Rutledge?” Johnny asked, quietly cornering the executive. “And then what? You’d build a gas station in its place? Or a storage yard?”

  He allowed the man to fumble overlong with his answer before posing another, equally damaging question. “Or maybe you’d sell the land to the highest bidder? Its market value has appreciated considerably in the twenty years since the church was built, hasn’t it?”

  Over the next quarter hour Johnny continued to stalk the flustered executive, flushing out his moral ambiguities with the stealth and cunning of a natural predator.

  He had changed, Honor realized, bringing the stone to her lips as she sensed how much. The fiery pride she remembered was still there, evident in the taut slash of muscle that rode his jawline. But it was fueled by a new, more potent weapon—ruthlessness. She could see the cold calculation at work in his eyes, the native intelligence. Like a cat, he was infinitely patient with his prey. And like a cat, merciless.

  “What is the value of a small community church?” Johnny asked, posing the question to the executive as he turned to the gallery, his dark gaze sweeping the room. Honor pressed her back against the wooden bench, afraid he might see her. But his eyes passed over her without any sign of recognition.

  Her heart was pounding wildly. Once she’d decided to make the trip, she’d convinced herself that if she could watch him work, she would be better prepared to deal with him in person. She couldn’t have been more wrong. After observing his performance today, the prospect of coming face-to-face with him terrified her. The press was right. He did have killer instincts. His prowess in the courtroom lent him an aspect of danger and unpredictability, of deadly advantage.

  And yet she had no choice in the matter. She had an appointment the next morning. She’d made arrangements with his secretary to see him at ten, and so far the appointment hadn’t been canceled, even though she’d used her own name. It had surprised her that he would be willing to see her. Was it possible he didn’t remember her? It had been so many years.

  Her thoughts drifted automatically to the only other time she’d seen him in a courtroom. She’d been called at the last minute by the prosecution as a surprise witness. Johnny had been charged with three counts of assault and battery against high school boys his own age. She’d fought against testifying, pleading with her father not to make her take the stand; but he’d been unrelenting, and finally he’d persuaded her it was the right thing to do. To her eternal regret, she had believed him.

  She would never forget the confusion in Johnny’s expression as her name was called, and she walked to the front of the courtroom, tears in her eyes. By the time she’d told the prosecutor what she knew, Johnny’s confusion was gone, replaced by pain and rage. It was her testimony that had convicted him.

  Honor adjusted the gold bracelet band of her wristwatch, opening and refastening a clasp she knew was already secure. It was now thirty minutes past her scheduled appointment time with Johnny, and it wouldn’t have surprised her if he was intentionally keeping her waiting. If he’d hoped to make her nervous, it was working. The minutes were ticking away in her head like a countdown to Judgment Day.

  She’d taken in every detail of his beautiful but severely appointed reception room—from the neo-modern decor and the striking black-and-white photographs hanging on the walls to the sleek thirtyish receptionist who’d greeted her without the slightest hint of curiosity.

  Honor had even taken inventory of her own clothing, wondering if the sandwashed silk suit she wore was appropriate. Were its dusty pink hues too pale for her fair skin? The shawl collar overly feminine?

  As she tucked an errant strand of blond hair into the softly braided coil at the nape of her neck, she glanced up at Johnny’s office door. The dark wooden portal was a compelling trigger to her deeper fears. Her mind made a startling leap ahead, trying to predict the future, imagining what consequences awaited her on the other side.

  How would he react to seeing her after all these years? If she’d been dealing with any other man, she might have been able to convince herself that years could make a difference, that time had worked its own healing process. But she’d seen him in the courtroom; she’d watched his skill at using the witness’s weaknesses against him. He’d been unrelenting.

  She knew in her heart that if Johnny Starhawk was the kind of man who sought revenge, she would be all but helpless against him. It wasn’t just the guilt she harbored. She was not a fighter by nature. She didn’t have the instinct for it. He did. It came to him through ancient bloodlines. She could remember reading historical references about travelers who reserved the last shot in their revolvers for their own heads if they were captured by Apaches, so excruciating were the tribe’s methods of torture thought to be.

  Honor pulled a magazine from the table in front of her and chided herself for being an alarmist. She didn’t need Johnny to scare her; she was doing a fine job of that herself.

  “Ms. Bartholomew? Mr. Starhawk will see you now.”

  The magazine slipped from Honor’s hands. She rose, unbearably nervous.

  He was standing by the window, seemingly unaware of her as she entered his spacious office. His profile tugged cruelly at her emotions. There were things about him that hadn’t changed, things that would never change—from the high arc of his cheekbones to his fine, sensual mouth. The promise of male beauty in his youth was stunningly realized in his dark and brooding features.

  But it was the shadowed melancholy in his expression that caught at her heart. It dragged her back eighteen years, bringing home a painful awareness. This imposing man was once the sad and lonely boy she’d known.

  For a moment she forgot to be cautious. She wanted to walk over and touch his arm, to be whisked back in time to the river where they used to meet, to see his dark eyes regarding her with silent wonder. It astonished her now to remember how much she’d loved that lithe, dusky-skinned boy. No one had reached inside her silence but Johnny, no one had touched her heart and brought her out but him. . . .

  She said his name, whispered it softly.

  He inhaled sharply, and she thought she heard his breath tremble as he released it. But when he turned toward her, and she caught the icy glint of his eyes, she knew she was wrong. Johnny Starhawk, the man, had no melancholy left in him, no sad emotions where she was concerned. Only coldness.

  “To what do I owe the . . . honor?” he asked. The edge he put on her name was cruel.

  “I’m here to—” She broke off, sensing the futility of appealing to his sympathies in any way. “I was in the area, and I thought—”

  “In the area?” He cut her off softly, savagely. “Don’t patronize me, Honor. And don’t waste both our time. Just tell me what you’re doing here.”

  She stepped back, frightened. “All right then. I’m here to ask for your help, that’s all. But it’s important.”

  He approached the desk, a faint smile compressing his lips. “My help?” he said, taking in her clothing, hair, and jewelry as though they were incriminating evidence of a plot to exploit the masses. Even as a young girl, she’d sensed his unspoken disapproval of her family’s wealth, and yet now, from all appearances, he’d gone to great lengths to surround himself with expensive trappings.

  “I’m not asking for myself,” she said.

  “Ah, that explains it.” He flashed a quick, cold smile. “Slumming, are we? Got some worthy cause you want the courtroom warrior to promote now that he’s made a name for himself? Maybe I could be your poster boy?”

  Honor steeled herself against his cutting tone. His ability to slice to the bone with words had always intimidated her. But at least he’d made clear the rules of this game they were about to play. The gloves were off. He meant things to be nasty. Still, she realized, for all his apparent desire to wound her, there was something fiendishly beautiful about his wrath, and she, after all, was a deserving target.

  He nodded toward one of the chairs that faced h
is desk.

  She took it, relieved when he sat down as well. Somehow he didn’t seem quite so dangerous across the expanse of teakwood, perhaps because their heights were more equal. She gauged him to be at least six foot two, several inches taller than she was at five foot five.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d remember me,” she said, making a clumsy attempt at conversation. “It’s been a long time.”

  The bones of his face seemed to sharpen as he stared at her, intensifying the dark, flaring angles. “You don’t give yourself enough credit,” he said. “I’ve been trying to forget you for eighteen years.”

  Honor touched the hem of her jacket with unsteady fingers, adjusting the silky material. She’d opened herself for that blow. What she hadn’t expected was that he would so readily admit how affected he’d been by her.

  She glanced up, wishing she could express to him how sorry she was, longing to say anything that would help heal the wounds. But even if she’d been able to summon the words, it wouldn’t have been safe to utter them. The cold white flame that burned in his eyes told her not to try anything so condescending as an apology after all this time.

  “Maybe I should tell you why I’m here,” she suggested.

  “Yes.” He leaned back in the leather executive chair, ebony hair cascading down his back. “Do that.”

  “I’m sure you’re aware of what’s happening on the White Mountain Reservation.” She hesitated, anticipating a reaction, and got none. “They believe something’s polluting the groundwater.”

  “What does that have to do with you? Or me?”

  Honor saw no choice but to tell him what had happened. It was the only way to explain why she was there. The shaman had told her that he’d called and written Johnny, asking for help, but Johnny had turned down his requests. Obviously the old man intended Honor to be a troubleshooter. She’d been sent in to fix a problem no one else could.

  “Your grandfather came to my bookstore in Scottsdale,” she explained. “He asked if I would talk to you.”

  “He came to you? Why?”

  “Perhaps because of my father,” she said, sensing that now wasn’t the time to reveal Chy Starhawk’s real reasons. “They say it’s runoff from the Bartholomew mines that’s fouling the pastureland water.”

  Johnny didn’t respond except to tilt back and rest his head against the chair as he studied her. Tough break, but it’s not my problem, he seemed to be saying.

  “I know you’re not on the best of terms with your grandfather,” Honor continued, goaded by his silence. “But isn’t there something you can do? The tribe’s livelihood is at stake.”

  The light caught his hair, giving it an iridescent sheen as he swung around in the chair and stared out the window. “I did do something,” he said. “I wrote the tribal council and offered to send someone in my place, one of my colleagues. He’s a bright young lawyer, familiar with both environmental and tribal law.” He turned back from the window. “My grandfather refused.”

  Honor wasn’t surprised. The shaman hadn’t mentioned Johnny’s counteroffer, but Honor knew a substitute would never satisfy the old man. The warrior he’d seen in his dream had been his grandson.

  Honor considered telling Johnny what she knew of the dream, hoping it would help him understand his grandfather’s urgency. Her only hesitation came from knowing about the dark prophecy associated with Johnny’s origins. There was bad blood between Johnny and Chy Starhawk.

  Months before Johnny’s birth, the shaman had had another dream, one that foretold tragedy. Johnny’s mother had become pregnant by an Irish artisan with whom she was desperately in love. But the man didn’t share her feelings, and when he abandoned her, she became despondent. Two days after Johnny’s birth, she drowned herself in a river that ran through the reservation. Her suicide seemed to fulfill the dark prophecy, and Johnny had never been able to escape it. It had caused him to be shunned by those in his tribe who still believed in the ancient ways. It had made him an outsider among his own people.

  “Why are you here. Honor?”

  Johnny’s question startled her. “I thought I told you,” she said. “Your grandfather asked me to come, and I felt . . . an obligation.”

  “An obligation? In what way?”

  The hooded interest in his eyes made her cautious.

  If he’d been at all receptive or compassionate, she might have told him that she was there because of him, that she was trying to atone in this way for her part in what had happened. It would have been such a relief to unburden herself of the guilt she’d lived with, to share the heartache. All she’d ever wanted was his forgiveness.

  But she couldn’t open herself up that way. Everything about him seemed poised for some retaliatory move. She was aware of the flicker of alertness in his gaze, the glare of rapidly contracting pupils. He had the instincts of a hunting cat, and he was waiting for her to reveal herself, to give him a fatal glimpse of her vulnerability.

  “If the Bartholomew mines are involved,” she said finally, “then I have a responsibility to try to help.”

  He remained tilted back in the chair, contemplating her. “I’m surprised at you, Honor,” he said, his voice dangerously soft. “I never thought you’d go up against your father this way. But then betrayal comes naturally to you, doesn’t it?”

  Honor bit back a stunned gasp. Did he hate her so much? “That’s unfair,” she said, her voice shaking. “My father and I haven’t spoken in years. I could hardly bear the sight of him after your trial. He—”

  She broke off, wanting desperately to put the blame for what happened on her father, yet knowing she couldn’t, not totally. He had put terrible pressure on her. He’d made promises he didn’t keep, but she was the one who’d taken the witness stand. She was the one who’d testified.

  “My relationship with him has deteriorated completely,” she said, her voice flattened by the weight of despair she felt. “I left home after college. I haven’t seen him since.”

  Johnny rose abruptly and walked to the window, staring out. He was a formidable figure in the streaming light, icy and remote, his jaw tautly flexed.

  Honor drew in a breath, gathering herself, trying to remember what she was there for. “I didn’t come here to drag up the past,” she said. “And even if I had, it’s clear that the last thing you want to hear from me is how sorry I am. But I am sorry—” She caught back a sob, startled at the raw pain locked up in that one word. “Terribly. Now . . . please, couldn’t we put our differences aside for a moment and talk about the reservation?”

  He remained at the window, his gaze fixed on some distant point. “Go ahead,” he said after a moment. “Talk. Apparently that’s what you came here for.”

  His supreme indifference in the face of her pain angered her. She found herself wanting to say something that would shake him up, force him to respond. Anything was better than his glacial contempt. “Those mountains were your home once,” she said hotly. “Is all that gone, your sense of community, of belonging? And if you don’t care about the people, what about the animals and the trees? I can’t believe you want to see all that natural beauty destroyed, contaminated with toxic runoff and chemical sludge.”

  He sighed wearily, impatient with it all. “Aren’t you getting carried away, Honor? The tribe has access to lawyers from the Indian Legal Services. The offer of my colleague is still good if they want it. They’ll be fine.”

  She rose out of the chair. “But, Johnny, they want you! You’re one of them, for God’s sake. Have you forgotten you’re half-Apache?”

  He whirled on her, the icy flame leaping in his eyes. “Forgotten?” he said. “I wish to hell I could forget. What would you like me to remember about my Apache heritage. Honor? That my warrior ancestors believed in retribution? That vengeance was a matter of honor? An Apache never forgets a betrayal, never forgives. Is that what you want me to remember?”

  She stepped back, trembling. His body was taut, poised to strike, alive with uncoiling threat. She h
ad always known in her soul that if something turned Johnny Starhawk cold, he would be a dangerous man.

  “Get out of here, Honor,” he said harshly. “Make a run for it now, while I’m still feeling civilized enough to let you go.”

  Two

  ALONE IN HIS OFFICE Johnny was grimly aware of his own raging pulse. It had been eighteen years since he’d seen her, but she hadn’t changed. She still had that same hesitant, maybe-we-could-be-friends smile he’d found irresistible when they were teenagers. She was still golden, still as pristine and untouchable as he remembered. And God, achingly beautiful with all that trembling anguish in her voice. Even when she was trying to be tough, her blue-gray gaze was wistful, pleading to be understood.

  He swept a hand through his hair, shoving back the darkness that had fallen over his eyes as he stared at the door she’d just fled through. He thought he’d conquered his feelings for her. He’d thought himself free, but perhaps he would never be free of her. From the first moment he’d set eyes on her in the dingy corridors of Roosevelt High School so many years ago, he’d known she was boo begoz’aa da, forbidden to him.

  Her father’s wealth and position alone made her unreachable, but something far more basic than that had kept him at a distance—her pale beauty. Her eyes were the same color as the morning mists that rose off the river bordering her family’s estate, separating it from the reservation. He’d noticed her walking there, a pensive dreamer, haunting the opposite shore. She’d had a translucent quality he associated with fragile things, rose petals and dragonfly wings. A hard touch—a man’s touch—would surely leave marks on her body. At sixteen that thought had both aroused and frightened him.

  He might never have spoken to her at all if she hadn’t broken the barriers with her shy smile. He’d noticed her glancing at him when they passed in the hallways at high school. But when he’d turned, she was always too far away, darting in and out of his focus like a deer seen through rifle sights. Finally one day, his curiosity aroused, he’d followed her to her locker. He was standing across the narrow corridor, waiting when she turned. There was nowhere for her to run, nowhere to hide, and after a moment of visible panic, she’d found her smile again.