Warrior Spirit. Cassie Miles

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 spite 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