Warrior Spirit

by Cassie Miles

  In some ways, it was reassuring to have a big, tall, handsome bounty hunter as a full-time bodyguard

  When she’d first come to Montana, Sierra hadn’t known what to expect. In the back of her mind, she might have been thinking she’d find herself a man who was nearly as spectacular as the landscape. A handsome cowboy with tight jeans and broad shoulders—a man like Trevor.

  Last night, when she’d looked out her front window before going to bed, she saw him standing watch. In his shearling coat with his arms folded across his chest, he was the very archetype of a cowboy. Strong and silent. A man’s man.

  Still, an aura of danger surrounded Trevor that made her uneasy. She’d already allowed herself to be swept away by cowboy fantasies once. Look how badly that turned out!

  There would be no more volatile cowboys in her life. Not now. Not ever.

  Warrior Spirit

  Cassie Miles

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  Here’s to Thursday nights with the Vietnam vets

  and the mariachis.

  And, as always, to Rick.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  From the balcony of her Denver high rise, Cassie Miles has a view of the gold dome of the Colorado State Capitol and the front range of the Rockies. If she could figure out a way to add the ocean, she’d have the best of all possible worlds. Though a typical day is all about writing and reading, there’s always time for a walk in the park or a longer trip to the foothills for a hike or to watch the rock climbers and para-sails.

  Recently voted Writer of the Year by Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, Cassie attends critique groups specializing in mystery and in romance, the perfect balance for Harlequin Intrigue. One of her daughters once described her writing this way. “Romantic suspense. You know, kiss-kiss, bang-bang.” If only it were that simple.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Sierra Collins—Transplanted from Brooklyn to the wide-open spaces of Montana, Sierra was once engaged to Lyle Nelson, a lieutenant in the Montana Militia for a Free America. She has reason to hate the Militia, but will she betray them?

  Trevor Blackhaw—The former Special Forces commando is legendary for his fierce interrogation tactics. What secrets will this half-Cherokee loner draw from Sierra?

  Lyle Nelson—Though engaged to Sierra, there’s no room in his cold heart for anything but the Militia.

  Warden Craig Green—For years, the warden ran the inescapable Fortress Prison with an iron fist. He’s days away from retirement.

  Snake—So mean that nobody remembers his real name. Snake is the warden’s favorite enforcer in the prison.

  Boone Fowler—The leader of the Militia plots a horrible and spectacular act of terrorism.

  Perry Johnson—Sadistic Militia lieutenant who wants to take slow revenge on Sierra.

  Cameron Murphy—This highly decorated former Special Forces colonel is head of the Big Sky Bounty Hunters, determined to recapture the Militia after their jail break.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Prologue

  Lyle Nelson strained against the shackles that chafed his skinny wrists and ankles. Under armed guard, he was being returned to the Fortress, the most impregnable penitentiary in the state of Montana. A hellhole.

  White-hot rage burned inside his chest. The only way he could contain his fury was to remind himself that his stay at the Fortress was temporary. He’d be back outside. Soon. And he’d take bloody revenge on every soul who got in his way. It didn’t matter who died. Cops. Feds. Women and children. They would all be sacrificed for the Militia’s sacred cause.

  The guards shoved him into a special isolation cell. No windows. Heavy iron bars. The walls were stone, and voices echoed.

  Though Lyle knew it was cold in here, beads of sweat collected on his forehead and upper lip.

  “I want to see the warden,” he yelled. “And I want to see him now.”

  “You’ve got no right to make demands.”

  “Tell Warden Green that I’m here,” Lyle snarled. “He’ll see me.”

  The guard snapped his billy club against the bars. “Shut up.”

  If Lyle had been free, he’d strangle this moron guard with his bare hands. “Get the damn warden.”

  “I’m here.” The warden strode across the concrete floor. “I want a close look at the man who thought he could break out of the Fortress and get away with it.”

  For a moment, Warden Craig Green stared into the flat blue eyes of Lyle Nelson, knowing that he was face-to-face with pure evil. The recapture of this fugitive was the worst possible thing that could happen to Green.

  He turned away from the bars and gestured to the guards. “Leave me alone with him.”

  Grumbling, they filed out of the room.

  Lyle stood close. His white-knuckled fingers clutched the iron bars. “I want out of here, Green.”

  “That’s not going to happen.” Only a few weeks ago, Green had arranged for all the imprisoned Militia to escape. He’d been well paid, but he couldn’t take that sort of risk again. “I can’t pull off another prison break.”

  “You’ve got no choice,” Lyle hissed. “If you don’t break me out, that cushy little retirement you’ve got planned is going to blow up in your face.”

  Green had been afraid of this threat. “You can’t—”

  “The hell I can’t. I’ll squeal. I’ll tell everybody about your part in the escape.”

  “Okay, Lyle. Hang tight. I’ll take care of you.”

  He turned on his heel and marched from the room. On the way back to his office, the warden made a detour through cell block A. As he passed the inmates, he paused outside the cell of a hulking, dark man. Nobody remembered his real name. They called him Snake because he was the most vicious and feared inmate in the Fortress.

  Warden Green had a special relationship with Snake. They exchanged a nod.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Green sat behind his desk in his office. He wasn’t surprised when the door was flung open and one of the guards darted nervously inside. “Sir, we have a situation.”

  Calmly, Green asked, “What kind of situation?”

  “It’s Lyle Nelson, sir. We found him hanging inside his cell. He’s dead.”

  Green lowered his head to hide the grin that curled the edges of his mouth. “Notify the coroner.”

  Chapter One

  It was a beautiful day for a funeral.

  At the edge of the pine forest overlooking the only cemetery in Ponderosa, Trevor Blackhaw reined in his dappled mustang stallion. He gazed into clear blue October skies. Beyond the western edge of the wide valley, distant peaks glistened with new snow, but the fields were dry. The wheat and alfalfa had been harvested.

  Trevor heard the crunch of hooves on dry pine needles as Mike Clark expertly maneuvered through the old-growth forest. His sweet little gray mare nuzzled up beside Trevor’s mustang. The stallion—a ladies’ man—gave an appreciative snort.

  “You gotta love this countryside,” Clark said.

  Trevor agreed. Though he’d grown up on the Snake River Plain in Idaho and was accustomed to spectacular scenery, he loved Montana. It felt more like home than anywhere else he’d lived, including the year he’d spent on the reservation in Oklahoma looking for his full-blooded Cherokee father. Trevor never met his father but was proud of his heritage. In s
pite of his blue eyes, his features showed his Cherokee ancestry, and he wore his black hair long.

  He turned toward Clark. “The burial of Lyle Nelson doesn’t deserve such beautiful weather.”

  “Damn right,” Clark said. “That miserable worm should have been dumped with the garbage, left out in a cold ravine to be torn apart and eaten by the coyotes and grizzlies.”

  “Yeah?” Trevor tipped back the flat brim of his battered western hat. “Tell me how you really feel, Clark.”

  “Look at that crowd at Boot Hill Cemetery. It’s not right that Nelson’s funeral is a big event.”

  A couple of hundred yards from where Trevor and Clark watched on horseback, the black-clad mourners gathered around a pine casket. These were the people who sympathized with the terrorists who called themselves the Montana Militia for a Free America.

  Standing outside the weathered picket fence encircling Boot Hill was a much larger contingent—the townspeople who hated the Militia. Some of them held signs. Others shouted insults.

  And then there was the media. Swarms of them.

  Anything to do with the Militia made headlines. For two months, the authorities had been chasing Militia fugitives who’d escaped from the Fortress penitentiary. They seemed uncatchable and had taken on an aura of ghostly infamy. None of them would be foolish enough to show up at the funeral.

  “Let’s get started.” Clark flipped open a minireceiver no larger than a cell phone. Last night, they’d planted a listening device on the coffin. The transmission was excellent—good enough for them to hear the mourners clearing their throats and sighing. “What are they waiting for?”

  “The preacher.” From his saddlebag, Trevor took out a pair of high-definition binoculars and focused on a bald preacher wearing a long black overcoat. “I see him over by the parked cars. Looks like the preacher’s giving an interview to CNN. Praise the Lord and pass the microphone.”

  Clark took out his own binoculars. “Tell me again what we’re looking for.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Any specific individual? A signal?”

  “We’ll know when we see it,” Trevor said. “We need a lead on our next bounty.”

  Trevor and Clark were members of Big Sky Bounty Hunters. Their job was to track down criminals and return them to justice. And they were very, very good at their work. All the bounty hunters were former Special Forces commandos, bonded in brotherhood and recruited by their leader to this new life in Montana. Each of them was well-trained in a specific field.

  Their current bounty was the escaped MMFAFA. The payoff for each member was one hundred thousand dollars. Not that the money mattered. Trevor would have gladly apprehended these murderous bastards for free.

  “There’s another reporter coming over to the preacher,” he said. “It’s Kaitlyn Wilson.”

  That lovely little investigative reporter had shown herself to have a heart of steel in uncovering corruption at high levels.

  “If Kaitlyn’s here,” Clark said, “Campbell can’t be far behind.”

  They both scanned the crowd for a glimpse of bounty hunter Aidan Campbell, who had his hands full, trying to protect the headstrong Kaitlyn. Trevor had been surprised when Campbell, the extreme sportsman, had fallen hard for that female tornado. A man just couldn’t predict where his heart might lead.

  “I know what you’re really here for,” Clark said. “You’re looking for somebody to interrogate.”

  “Whatever it takes to get the job done.”

  Clark cocked his head to look at Trevor. “Someday I’d like to observe one of your interrogations. To study your technique.”

  “Negative,” Trevor said. “You don’t want to know what goes on in the interrogation room.”

  Clark shrugged and looked away. “Probably not.”

  Even among the bounty hunters, Trevor had a reputation for ruthlessness. He was kind of a legend, recognized as the most effective interrogator ever to be trained by Special Services counterintelligence. When he went after information, he never came up empty-handed. Grimly, he said, “I should have had a chance to question Lyle Nelson.”

  “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 l
ittle 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.