Praise for the novels of
SHARON SALA

“Veteran author Sala crafts two exciting leads bound by their love of animals and reluctance to trust people.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Healer

“Sharon Sala is not only a top romance novelist, she is an inspiration for people everywhere who wish to live their dreams. Her work has a higher purpose and she takes readers with her on an incredible journey of overcoming adversity and increased self-awareness in every book.”

—John St. Augustine, host, Power! Talk Radio WDBC-AM, Michigan

“Sala’s characters are vivid and engaging.”

—Publishers Weekly on Cut Throat

Sharon Sala has a “rare ability to bring powerful and emotionally wrenching stories to life.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“A compelling page-turner and a reading experience I won’t soon forget!”

—Reader to Reader on Sweet Baby

The Warrior
Sharon Sala

www.mirabooks.co.uk

The older I get, the more I have begun to understand

the words of my elders.

When my grandfather died, my grandmother was

devastated. I remember hearing her say in a tiny,

broken voice, “I thought I would go first. I didn’t

want to be left behind.”

When my father, then my sister, died within two months

of each other, our whole family was broken. Grocery lists

they’d written the week before were still there, but they

were not. I remember my mother’s shattered words.

“No parent should outlive their child.”

Long before my fiancé, Bobby, ever began to get sick,

he told me out of the blue one day, “If anything ever

happens to me, you will be all right.”

Then, when he died, I wailed in a lost, hopeless cry,

“I wish I could go with him.”

In the ensuing weeks after his death, I remembered his

prophetic words and I was certain that he was wrong.

I know he laughs now, because time has proved

that he was right.

Despite the tragedies and sorrows life hands us,

there is always one undeniable truth.

As long as we draw breath, we owe it to the ones

we loved and lost to live out our lives without

wasting them on regrets.

So…just to set the record straight, you were right,

my love.

In honor of those we’ve loved and lost,

I am dedicating this book to the ones

who get left behind.

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

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Prologue

North American Continent—early 1500s

Night Walker, second chief of the Turtle Clan of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, stood on a promontory overlooking the bay of great water near his village. He was a warrior of twenty-nine summers, with a face that was a study in planes and angles. He was also something of an oddity in the tribe, standing head and shoulders above every other warrior. His shoulders were broad, his muscles as hard as the line of his jaw, which, today, was clenched against the angry slap of the wind blowing against his skin. With each fierce gust, his hair—thick, black and straight as the arrows in his quiver—would lift from his shoulders to billow out behind him like the wings of a soaring eagle. As he stood, wearing nothing but a piece of tanned deer hide tied at his waist and hanging to just above his knees, his nostrils flared, savoring the scent of oncoming rain mixing with the ever-present tang of salty air.

For days he’d been having visions that troubled his sleep—bloody visions always ending with death. Troubled by what he believed to be a dark omen of things to come, he’d taken to standing guard on the highest point above the village. Today, when the storm had come in without warning, churning the great water into massive waves higher than Night Walker’s head, he’d felt a foreboding similar to that in his dreams.

Now he stood with his feet apart, his body braced against the storm front as he looked out across the bay, watching the dark underbelly of the angry clouds covering the face of the sun. As he watched, a long spear of fire shot out of the clouds and into the water with a loud, angry hiss, sending water flying into the air. Night Walker flinched, and the skin on his face began to tighten. Every instinct signaled that danger was upon them.

A second shaft of fire pierced the clouds, stabbing into the heart of the great water and yanking his gaze from the sky to the horizon. As he watched, a shape began to emerge from the far side of the rocky finger of land pointing out into the water. It was floating on the water like the canoes of his people, but much, much larger, and with big white wings filled with the angry wind. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen, and the sight left him stunned. The unsettled waters were rolling the big canoe from side to side, and he could see men running about on its floor, scrambling like tiny insects trying to outrun a flood as waves washed over the sides. His heart jumped; then his gut knotted as his sense of foreboding grew.

He turned and looked down at the village. His people were as yet unaware of anything more than the oncoming storm. As he watched, he saw his woman, White Fawn, come out of their tepee and go to the woodpile just beyond. She staggered once from a hard buffeting wind, then regained her footing and went about her task. He knew what she was doing—gathering dry wood before the storm got it wet, which made it difficult to burn. She was a good woman, always thinking of his comfort. The mere sight of her always made his pulse quicken. She was his heart, the other half of his soul, and even though the Great Spirit had not blessed them with children, he loved her no less. It wasn’t until she went back inside their dwelling that he turned back to the water. When he did, a jolt of fear shot through him. The great canoe was now inside the bay, and three smaller canoes filled with strange-looking men were in the water and coming toward shore.

Their presence was a threat to the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, even though he had no words to explain how he knew that. He turned and began scrambling down the steep slope of the bluff, desperate to get back to the village and warn his people.

Antonio Vargas was a pirate with an eye always on the prize just out of his reach. For months he’d heard rumors from Spain that a man named Colombo had found a new route to the West Indies and, in the process, found a land rich in wealth guarded only by a race of savages. In other words, a treasure ripe for the taking.

Before he could act on the notion, an unexpected raid in the night by an English privateer had decimated his crew. They’d managed to escape by sailing into a fog bank. A week later, he’d put into the nearest port and taken on more crew, and for more than a month now, they’d roamed the seas without encountering another vessel or coming within sight of any kind of land. Desperate to recoup his losses as well as his self-esteem, he’d decided to follow Colombo’s path and claim some of those easy riches for himself. Only it hadn’t been as easy as he’d hoped.

They’d been on the water for more than two months, and Vargas had been beginning to fear his decision had been a bad one when land was finally sighted. It was none too soon. His men were weak, some suffering dysentery. He needed fresh water and fresh food. Sighting land was a godsend, but the upcoming squall at their backs was pushing them in toward shore far faster than he would have liked. As he prayed that they would not founder on a hidden reef, they’d done the best that they could to navigate into the bay. Between the swiftly approaching storm and the sheet of rain that they could see coming across the ocean, he was relieved to drop anchor. Giving orders as fast as he could shout them, Vargas watched as his crew scrambled to obey.

It wasn’t until the ship was secure that he took the time to scan the shoreline. Just beyond the shore, nestled up against a backdrop of trees that appeared to be the beginning of a forest beyond, was a village. He couldn’t tell much, but it appeared small, composed of no more than thirty dwellings. A slow smile broke across his face. He’d done it! He’d found Colombo’s famous new land, too. When he returned, he would also be lauded as a daring explorer. All he needed was proof, like some of the gold he heard Colombo had found. Uncertain as to which would be wisest—ride out the storm before it hit, then go ashore, or go ashore now and take the residents by surprise—Vargas let his greed settle the debate. If he waited, whoever lived there might hide or even run, taking their treasure with them.

Barking another set of orders for boats to be lowered, Vargas watched the village through his spyglass while he waited. When he saw movement and then savages gathering and pointing, he realized that they’d been spotted.

“Make haste!” he yelled, pointing toward shore. “They’ve seen us!”

Three smaller boats were lowered, manned by six men apiece. Vargas’s boat took the lead. About halfway to shore, he looked through his spyglass again, and as he did, his heart jumped. Four of the savages were heading toward the water, while the rest of the villagers had begun to gather in the background, obviously as curious about him and his men as he was about them. The wind was still high, churning the waves. The threatening rain seemed imminent, and yet the villagers didn’t seem worried. In response, Vargas’s concern over the storm dropped, too. If they thought nothing of it, then neither would he.

Within minutes, the boats were beached. Vargas vaulted out and strode forcefully through the raging surf, ignoring the rising wind and the sea slapping at his legs. Three of his men followed closely. He could hear them cursing and muttering among themselves about the storm and the cold, angry sea. Although more than half of them were weakened from dysentery, he was beyond caring about creature comfort. Greed rose like gorge within him as he watched the approaching savages.

Their skin was dark, but not as dark as a Moor’s. Their hair was long and straight, and seemed to be woven through with bits of feathers and what appeared to be strips of animal skin. They came without care for the wind whipping about their faces and necks, impervious to the impending storm as they stared at him and his men in fascination.

He didn’t know or care that they’d never seen men with light skin or hair on their faces, or seen people wear clothing, even in warm weather, that covered their entire bodies. He fingered the scimitar at his waist, then slid the palm of his hand from its hilt to the dirk he’d shoved beneath his wide leather belt. He looked past their crude weapons and animal skins to the bright bits of what he took to be gold, mingled with the strange gemstones and shells they were wearing around their necks. His gaze focused on a small pouch hanging from a leather strip around the neck of one of the savages and he imagined it filled with gold, as well. His imagination swelled as he pictured pots of the jewel-like stones within their huts, maybe even lying about on the ground.

When the first savage stepped up to him and lifted his hand in greeting, Vargas reached for his necklace.

Chief Two Crows, principal chief of the tribe, had been as stunned by the appearance of these men as had Night Walker. With no reason to suspect danger, he’d willingly gone down to greet them. But when the tall stranger with the hairy face suddenly grabbed at his medicine bag and sky stones, he grunted and knocked the man’s hand away.

Vargas grinned, then pointed at the chief as he spoke to his men. “So, amigos, the savage does not want to share.”

Someone chuckled behind him as the first drops of rain began to fall. He reached for the pouch, yanking it from around the old man’s neck before he could react, palmed his dirk and slit the savage’s throat.

The old chief’s shock died with him as his blood spurted onto Vargas’s chest.

“Now!” Vargas screamed, then pulled the scimitar from his waist and waved it above his head.

His men swarmed from the boats. With the rain hammering down upon them and the wind pushing against their backs, they raced toward the village, firing their small handguns and hacking at the savages, without care even for woman or child, as they began to run in terror toward the village that would provide no safety now.

Night Walker was halfway down the cliff when he heard the first screams and what sounded like short claps of thunder. But it wasn’t until he heard an answering war cry that he knew they were being attacked. He flashed on the visions he’d been having. Fear increased his speed.

He ran without thought for himself while the thunder of his own heart drowned out the screams of his people. The storm was on top of him now, yet he felt none of it. The fear in his belly lent speed to his strides. Tree limbs slapped at his face and against his chest, marking the smooth brown flesh with long, angry streaks, bringing blood that was quickly washed away by the torrent of rain. Night Walker was unaware of all of it—not the sharp, burning pain from the thorny limbs ripping at his flesh, nor the blood and rain pouring down his body. Even though he couldn’t hear her, White Fawn’s face was before him, her name echoing within his heart. He felt her panic, knew something terrible was happening to her—and that he was not going to be fast enough to save her.

When he finally burst out of the forest into the clearing, it was to a scene of horror. What he saw was worse than his nightmares, bloodier than his visions.

The enemy had come, and the enemy had killed.

Everyone.

The only signs of life were the strangers, ripping clothing from the People’s bodies, yanking totems and medicine bags from around their necks. Laughing as if their greatest joy in life was desecration.

When Night Walker saw a tall man with a hairy face reach down and rip the sky stone from around White Fawn’s neck, shock rolled through him. Her head lolled lifelessly as the man shoved her limp body aside with his foot. Night Walker saw the rain pouring down into her dark, unseeing eyes, flooding her nostrils, washing the blood from her face.

He screamed—first in horror, then in rage.

With the bodies of his people strewn about like maize husks tossed by the wind, he pulled the first arrow from his quiver, notched it and took aim. The arrow cut through the downpour in a blur, piercing the throat of the nearest man, who dropped the booty he’d been carrying and grabbed at both sides of the shaft. His eyes bulged as a bubble of blood popped on his lips. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Night Walker notched another arrow, took aim and let fly, watching with grim satisfaction as, one by one, the unsuspecting invaders dropped where they stood. Their cries of pain or shock went unnoticed by the others, drowned out by the sound of the storm. He fired off another arrow, then another and another, until he’d emptied his quiver, leaving them with a band of far fewer men than when they’d landed.

It wasn’t until he grabbed a club and a spear from a nearby hut and began running toward them, screaming an endless war cry, that the others realized he was there.

A man named Miguelito Colon saw the crazed savage coming toward them and shouted at Vargas over the storm.

Vargas spun just in time to see the attacker run Colon through with a spear. Even though he was accustomed to hand-to-hand combat, he flinched as Colon’s guts spilled out on the ground, the spear still quivering in his belly.

Vargas roared in anger, surprised by both the savage’s sudden appearance as well as the shocking number of his crew who now lay dead. As the rain blurred his vision, a cold wind whipped through the village, suddenly chilling him to the bone.

At that moment, it crossed his mind that he should have waited until the storm passed before coming ashore. But nothing could change what was, and the savage was only one man—little more than a lingering nuisance.

“Get him!” he shouted, waving his men toward the tall, nearly naked man coming at them on the run.

Arturo Medajine grabbed for his handgun, took aim and fired. But the powder was soaked, and by the time he dropped the gun to reach for his sword, the savage was upon him.

The savage swung his wooden club as he passed, cracking Medajine’s skull. The man never knew what hit him.

Night Walker’s gaze was still fixed on the man who’d killed White Fawn. As he passed her grandfather’s corpse, he grabbed the spear from Brown Owl’s lifeless hands then leaped a small child’s body.

The next man to come at him did so with a broadsword. Night Walker dodged, then speared him in the gut. The man was still screaming as Night Walker took the sword out of his hands and decapitated him where he stood.

Vargas was shocked. The savage was still alive and downing his men one after the other. Compared to the others they’d encountered, this one was extremely tall—as tall as Vargas himself. Before he could react, thunder rattled the ground on which they stood. The lightning bolt that followed struck nearby, so close that they were all momentarily blinded. By the time Vargas could see clearly again, the savage was less than a hundred feet away and another of his men was dead.

His fingers tightened around the hasp of his scimitar as a storm gust staggered him.

“Damnation,” he cursed, and then swung his blade in the air. “Peron! The savage! Stop him!”

Luis Peron was at home on the deck of a ship, but, weakened from dysentery and slogging around in the mud with the armload of furs he’d just dragged out of a hut, he was at a huge disadvantage. Still, Vargas was his captain, and orders were to be obeyed. He dropped the furs and was reaching for the knife in his belt when a blow from the savage’s broadsword split his breastbone.

He dropped where he stood.

Vargas’s heart ricocheted against his rib cage. This wasn’t happening. He’d fought the most heinous of men—in seaports, on the sea, in the dark, beneath the subtle glow of a full moon, even in the alleyways of London, England, in full daylight. So why had killing one savage become such a difficult feat?

Nervous now that his men were too few, and knowing he was dangerously out of his element, Vargas began to retreat, taking the remaining men with him.

“Back to the boats!” he yelled, and then, without waiting to see who followed, he started running, now facing the full fury of the storm.

The few surviving sailors gladly obeyed and headed for the boats, following Vargas’s retreat. But for every two steps Vargas took, the storm slowed him by one. Afraid to look over his shoulder—afraid to slow down—all he could do was keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Even though the intruders were falling one by one beneath Night Walker’s hand, he felt no satisfaction. Revenge would not be done until he had spilled the blood of the man who’d cut White Fawn’s throat and ripped away her medicine pouch. Not until he watched the tall, hairy-faced thief draw his last breath would the fire in his gut cease to burn.

When the invaders suddenly turned away and began running back to their canoes, Night Walker panicked. They couldn’t escape! They had to pay for what they’d done.

He caught up with the slowest of them within seconds, grabbed him by the hair hanging out from under his water-sodden hat and yanked.

The man’s white-rimmed eyes had one last glance of the sky before Night Walker’s flint knife sliced across his jugular and an arterial spray of red shot across his line of vision and everything went dark.

Night Walker only grunted as the body fell at his feet. He was nothing but one less man between him and the one who’d killed White Fawn.

Another flash of lightning shot out of the clouds, striking the bluff on which Night Walker had been standing only a short time ago, momentarily blinding him. Even as he kept running, there was a subconscious part of him that wished he’d still been on that bluff when the fire had come down. Then he wouldn’t be feeling this horrible, rending pain. Then he wouldn’t have to face burying every person he’d ever known and loved.

By the time his vision cleared, the strangers were at the edge of the great water and pushing off from shore, piling into one canoe as fast as they could climb, leaving the other canoes behind. Rage surged as he lengthened his stride. He couldn’t let them get away. Not now. Not when he was so close.

Then he saw the tall one—the leader—grab the oars and begin to paddle against the surge. Still too far from shore to reach them in time, Night Walker knew that revenge was slipping away. When the other men began to row, as well, he knew his chance had flown.

By the time he reached the water, they were as good as gone, but his rage and fury were not. He ran out into the surf until the backwash from the storm reached his knees. He lifted his arms above his head, screaming into the storm—cursing the man with White Fawn’s sky stones, calling for the Old Ones, pleading with the Great Spirit, offering his soul for the right to avenge the deaths of White Fawn and the dead Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya.

As the canoe moved farther and farther away, he stood there in the water, and screamed and shouted, pointing toward the canoe, then slapping his chest and opening his arms as if embracing the storm.

He was daring them to come back, to face him man-to-man—to give him a chance to avenge his people in an honorable way. But it was obvious these men had no honor, because they kept rowing in the opposite direction.

Vargas couldn’t believe it. The bastard was still daring them—slapping at his chest as if offering the broad expanse as a target. After the humiliation of turning tail and running, he couldn’t resist the offer, but he was too far away to throw a knife, and his pistol was empty. He wasn’t sure if he could load his gun again in this downpour, but he was damn sure going to try. He crouched down in the boat, then pulled his jacket up and over his head. Using it as a cover, he began trying to load his gun. The boat was rocking so hard he kept spilling his powder. Twice he dropped the lead shot. His hands were shaking from exertion, but his determination won out. Rising from the bottom of the boat like Neptune coming up from the bottom of the sea, he threw off his jacket, stepped up onto a seat, bracing himself against the rock and roll of the boat. The savage was still there, holding his arms out at his sides and shouting words Vargas could not understand, although their meaning was clear.

He took aim and fired.

The sound of the shot rang in his own ears. Even through the downpour, he could smell the burning powder. In his mind, he could almost see the shot spanning the distance between himself and the savage.

He held his breath—waiting to see the savage drop, just as the others had done. Only then would the whole sorry sortie be behind him.

Night Walker had screamed until his voice was nearly gone. He’d prayed and begged and cursed the Old Ones, demanding to know why he alone had been spared. The muscles in his body were starting to tremble. His gut was a knot of pain. He’d pulled at his hair and ripped his own flesh with his fingernails, needing satisfaction—wanting to die.

Then he saw the leader suddenly stand up in the canoe and point at him.

He screamed into the wind and slapped his own chest over and over, daring the man to come back and fight, but the invaders were still moving toward their winged canoe.

There was a loud noise, and then everything, including time, seemed to slow down. It was still raining, but suddenly it was as if he were seeing each raindrop as it fell, hearing his own heartbeat over the roll of thunder, feeling the exhalation of his own breath more sharply than the wind hitting him in the face. In the midst of that reality, he saw something fly from the hand of the man who’d killed White Fawn, coming at him, cutting through the rain, pushing aside the air with a high-pitched whistle.

He stopped, his arms dropping at his sides as he watched it come, accepting that this was death. The Old Ones had heard his prayer. Whatever this was, it would end his life in battle in an honorable way. He would join White Fawn and the others. He would not walk this land alone.

He waited. Unblinking. Barely breathing. Watching as death came for him.

Then it hit.

He waited to feel pain.

Expected to see his own blood pouring down his chest.

Instead, it bounced off the broad expanse of his chest and fell into the water.

He grabbed his chest in disbelief.

“No!” he screamed, then spun toward the village, striding to the shore, staring at the bodies, willing them to rise up and walk. This couldn’t be happening.

He’d tried to avenge them, but the enemy was escaping.

He’d tried to die, to go with them, but he’d failed at that, too.

He looked over his shoulder. The man in the canoe was staring at him in disbelief. Night Walker’s misery was complete. He didn’t notice that the wind had died and the rain had quit falling. All he could think about was everything he had lost.

Then the clouds parted, and a single ray of light poured down onto the shore, bathing him in what felt like fire.

So…now I will die.

He arched his back, lifted his arms above his head, closed his eyes and waited to be consumed. Instead, he heard drums, then voices, and even though he couldn’t see them, he knew he was in the presence of the Old Ones. When their chants turned into words, he fell to his knees.

“Night Walker—son of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, son of the Turtle Clan—we hear you. Brave son of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, you have fought well. You have honored us in life as you honor us in death. Look now to the great waters. Look upon the face of your enemy and know that whatever face he wears, you will always feel his heartbeat. Son of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, we have heard your prayer. Son of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, listen to our words. You will live until the blood of your enemy is spilled upon your feet. You will live until you feel his last breath on your face. Then and only then, will you be as all men. Then and only then, will you suffer and grow old. Then and only then, will you live until you die. But for now it as you have asked. You will live.”

The light disappeared. The clouds blew away. Night Walker swayed, then staggered where he stood. The Old Ones were silent. The fire was gone, and he was not consumed. He looked to the water. The enemy was climbing aboard the great canoe and scrambling about as if they were crazed.

He saw the tall bearded man standing at the front of the canoe, staring toward shore. He felt the man’s blood pulsing through his body in an urgent, panicked gush, though he did not know why.

Vargas was in shock. He had witnessed the savage’s baptism in fire, expected to see him incinerated, been shocked to see him standing safely on the sand. The men around him began talking in hushed tones, attributing magical powers to the fact that though the savage had been shot, the bullet had bounced off his flesh like a single drop of rain. That he’d been struck by lightning and walked away unharmed.

Vargas was afraid. He didn’t know what had just happened, but when it came to the supernatural, he was out of his element. Yet what other explanation could there be? The savage had killed more than twelve of his men single-handedly, been shot without suffering a wound and been struck by lightning without being burned. The man should be dead, and yet they were the ones on the run and the savage was standing alone on shore, watching them go.

He knew his crew was scared. They’d all been through something they didn’t understand. But it was over. It was over, and he was still alive to tell the tale. He wanted to turn his back on the whole thing and pretend it had never happened. But there was the matter of all those dead men, and the still-pressing need for food and fresh water.

He felt the eyes of his men on him, waiting to see what would happen next. He’d lost face when he’d let one single man—and a savage, at that—put him on the run. He turned his back to shore and faced the crew.

“Hoist the anchor!” he shouted.

Even though two men ran to do his bidding, no one would look at him. A shiver of fear ran through him. Sailors were a superstitious lot. If they lost trust in him, his own life was in danger.

He shoved one of the crewmen who was running past him. “Weakling! Make haste, or I’ll feed you to the fishes.”

The sailor staggered, quickly righting himself before hurrying to do what he’d been told. The captain was angry, and they all knew him well enough to know that he would take his anger out on whoever was closest.

But the ones who’d been on shore with Vargas weren’t afraid of him—not anymore. They’d seen him panic. They’d seen him turn tail from only one savage and run like a woman toward safety. They were sick and hungry, and someone needed to be blamed for their situation. Vargas was the logical target.

By the time the moon rose that night, Vargas was standing at the end of the plank, begging for his life. It never struck him that the savages he’d killed that morning had been doing the same thing. He didn’t feel remorse for what he’d done to them—only that his life was going to end in such a humiliating fashion.

A shot rang out.

Unlike the shot he’d fired at the savage that morning, this bullet quickly found its mark. He felt a fire in his chest, and then he was falling, falling.

Water closed over his face, then washed up his nose, choking off the curses he was heaping on the heads of his mutinous crew. The last image that swept through his mind before he died was of the savage pointing at him from shore.

One

Georgia—Present Day

Despite the hundreds of years that John Nightwalker had been on this earth, he had yet to feel completely comfortable wearing clothes. And from the look the female bank teller was giving him as he stood in line at the First Savannah Savings and Loan to cash a check, she would have been perfectly happy to help him strip.

John felt her gaze but was ignoring all the signals. Not only was he not in the mood for dallying with a stranger, she was wearing a wedding ring—a big no-no for him. He shifted from one foot to the other, then looked down at the two little boys clinging to the legs of the woman in front of him and grinned. The oldest one smiled back, while the younger one continued the exploration of his right nostril with his index finger.

“Hi,” the older one said. “My name is Brandon Doggett.” He pointed toward the little guy. “That’s Trevor Doggett. He’s my little brother.” Then he pointed at his mother’s backside, which John had already noticed was quite shapely. “That’s my mama. Her name is Doggett, too.”

When Mama Doggett realized her name was being bandied about, she glanced over her shoulder to see who her son was talking to. Her eyes widened slightly as she saw John Nightwalker’s face. The smooth coffee skin, high cheekbones, strong chin and nose were telling of his Native American heritage, but it was the sexy smile and glint in his eyes that stopped her breath. She might be married, but she wasn’t dead and the man was stunning.

“I hope the boys aren’t bothering you,” she said.

John grinned. “No, ma’am.”

“Daddy calls her Lisa,” Brandon offered.

Lisa Doggett rolled her eyes as John chuckled.

The low, husky rumble of his laugh made the female teller lose count of the cash she’d been dispensing. With pink cheeks and a muttered apology to her customer, she began again.

Lisa Doggett, being next in line, finally reached the teller and proceeded with her business. When they were done, the teller handed each little boy a lollipop, which they promptly peeled and popped into their mouths. Lisa flashed John a shy goodbye smile and started toward the front door with her sons in tow.

Being next in line, John moved up to the window, patiently waiting as the teller keyed in some data from her previous customer. There was a moment of silence—a soft, peaceful sound of shuffling feet and the distant murmurs between loan officers and their clients—then John felt the atmosphere change. To him, the room was suddenly stifling and charged with an anger he didn’t understand.

“Sir. How can I help you?” the teller asked, but John didn’t respond.

His gaze went from Lisa Doggett and her boys, who were on their way toward the exit, to the surrounding customers waiting in line. Suddenly one of the two boys cried out, then turned around and ran. John noticed a toy car in the middle of the lobby and figured it had fallen out of a pocket. He saw the mother’s irked expression turn to one of quiet patience as she waited for her son’s return.

His attention moved from them to the rest of the crowd. At first glance, no one stood out, and then his gaze fell on a tall, heavyset man standing in line on the other side of the lobby. He was wearing a pair of faded Levi’s and a heavy denim jacket. The jacket seemed out of place, considering the outside temperature was in the high eighties. That alone immediately set him apart. The man’s lower jaw jutted from his face like a bulldog’s—a strong protruding lower jaw that extended beyond the tip of a nose that had obviously been broken more than once. His skin was ruddy, his hair a brittle yellow color. John could feel the tension emanating from him. He didn’t know what was going to happen but sensed it wouldn’t be good.

As he continued to watch, the big man headed toward a teller, walked up to the window and slid what appeared to be a white cotton bag across the counter. It looked like an ordinary deposit bag, but when the teller’s face turned pale and her eyes widened in shock, John tensed.

He could see the man’s lips moving, but he was too far away to hear what was being said. All of a sudden the teller’s eyes rolled back in her head as she dropped to the floor in a faint. Everyone heard the thud as her head collided with the hard marble floor. The teller next to her screamed out for help as everything ground to a halt.

Wallace Deeds cursed beneath his breath, unable to believe what had just happened. In all the years he’d been doing this, he’d never had anyone faint on him before. He was a criminal, but he wasn’t stupid. At this point, his best bet was to retrieve the note he’d handed to the teller and calmly walk out of the building. To his dismay, the note was no longer on the counter. It was on the floor beside the unconscious woman.

“Crap,” Wallace muttered, and slid his hand in his pocket, taking comfort from the gun he could feel inside. He glanced up and around, quickly sizing up the number of people inside the bank against his need for dough. He opted for a hasty exit.

But his plan was screwed by a secretary who’d come to the unconscious teller’s aid. She was on her knees beside the woman and feeling for a pulse when she discovered the note.

I have a gun. Put all your money in the bag and keep quiet or you’re a dead woman.

Unaware that he’d been made, Deeds was already heading toward the door when the secretary stood up and screamed.

“Stop him! He has a gun!”

Wallace cursed and turned. The bank guard was pulling out his pistol and coming toward him on the run. Without thinking, Wallace grabbed the nearest customer by the arm and put her in a choke hold as he pulled out his own gun and fired a shot into the ceiling.

“Everyone on the floor! Now!” he screamed.

The bank guard stood his ground, still aiming his weapon and shouting, “Drop the gun! Drop it! Drop it and let her go!”

John groaned. The hostage was none other than Lisa Doggett, the young woman with the two little boys who’d been in line in front of him.

Bad move. Bad, bad move.

The young mother’s panic was evident as she cast a frantic, wild-eyed gaze at her little boys. Trevor, the youngest, began to cry and started toward her.

“Don’t anybody move!” Wallace roared, waving the gun at the guard, then at the kids and back again.

John knew the man was a hair’s breadth away from shooting someone, whether he meant to or not, and Trevor Doggett’s determination to get to his mother was putting him in harm’s way. There was no time for John to think about the wisdom of his actions.

In one swift move, he pulled a knife from his boot and leaped forward, desperate to draw the gunman’s attention away from the boys, his hostage and the guard with the gun, knowing full well that he was going to get shot. Knowing full well it was going to hurt like hell—but it wasn’t going to kill him.

That was the edge he had over everyone else in the room. He’d faced death and cheated it countless times over the last five hundred years and had every confidence in the world that he was going to cheat it again.

When Wallace Deeds saw the movement from the corner of his eye, he swung his pistol. A man was coming at him on the run.

“Son of a bitch!” he screamed, then fired.

The shot went straight into John’s chest. He felt the impact and a sharp, searing pain, but he didn’t go down.

When Deeds’ hostage fainted and went limp, she became a liability instead of a shield. Disgusted, he shoved her aside and squeezed off another shot. But it was the knife suddenly protruding from his chest that sent his second shot into the ceiling next to the first.

A collective gasp rose from inside the bank, followed by a silence so stark that everyone froze.

Lisa Doggett had come to and was on her knees, shielding her children with her body.

The tellers had ducked behind the counter.

The people who’d dropped to their bellies when the shooting started were staring but not moving.

No one ran.

No one spoke.

But the ones who could see were staring in disbelief at the two giants standing in the middle of the lobby—both bleeding profusely—waiting to see who dropped first.

The pistol slipped out of Deeds’ hand as he reached toward the bone handle of the knife stuck in his chest. But the moment he touched it, he shuddered. Had someone poured hot oil into his chest? He looked up. People’s faces were blurring.

“How…” He sighed, then staggered backward.

John groaned as he put a hand to his own chest. The warm gush of his blood was already slowing as he watched the gunman fall. Wallace’s head hit the tile with a sickening crack, but he never felt it. He was already dead.

The bank guard holstered his weapon and started toward John.

Lisa Doggett was shaking, but she was alive and her children were safe.

People were getting up and yanking out their cell phones, anxious to tell their loved ones what had just happened. While on his belly, one customer had videoed the whole thing with his cell phone, and now he was in the act of forwarding it to his brother. The image of what had transpired would be all over the Internet before nightfall.

Horace Miles, the bank president, was moving through the crowd, making sure everyone was okay. When he saw the blood on the front and back of John’s shirt, he gasped and yelled for someone to call 911.

John was anxious to be gone before he had to explain why the bullet hole in his chest was already nearly closed. He pulled his knife out of the robber’s chest, then wiped the blood off the blade onto the man’s jacket before slipping it back into the sheath inside his boot.

The bank guard reached John and took him by the elbow.

“You need to sit down, son,” he said. “You’ve been shot.”

“I’m okay,” John said.

“The police are coming!” someone said.

Sirens could be heard in the distance. John sighed. He needed to leave—now. He started toward the door, but Horace Miles cut him off. Like the guard, he took John by the elbow and tried to usher him to a chair.

“Please,” Miles said. “You’re bleeding. Let us help you.”

“I’m all right…really.”

But the bank president would have none of it.

Lisa Doggett came toward him, hugging her little boys to her legs as she stared at him in disbelief.

“You saved my life. You saved all of us,” she whispered. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“Yeah…sure,” he said, then gave in to the inevitable. He was caught now, and there was no way out of it.

The two little boys stared at him—silent now in the face of what they’d witnessed.

“Mama’s okay, boys,” John said softly.

Brandon nodded. “You stopped the bad man,” he said.

John just winked and nodded. The pain in his chest was fading swiftly, but the sirens were also getting closer. Moments later, a half-dozen police cars were on the scene, followed by two ambulances. A paramedic team followed the police inside, then, at the guard’s direction, headed for John.

He sighed. How the hell was he going to explain his way out of this?

“I’m okay,” he said as the paramedics dropped their bags and began to cut off his shirt. “I said…I’m okay,” he repeated, and to prove he was right, he pulled up his shirt, revealing the wound that was almost closed.

Both paramedics rocked back on their heels, staring at John and then at each other.

“Mister…how in—”

“Er…uh…I studied with the Dalai Lama,” John said. “Learned how to control bleeding and heal myself with my mind. Ever hear of it?”

They looked at each other, shrugged, and then began packing up their gear while sneaking curious looks at him.

But they weren’t the only ones staring. The bank president was in shock. He’d seen the bullet pierce John’s chest, seen the blood spurting, yet now the wound was nearly closed. He’d seen the other scars on John’s chest, too, and was staggered by what this man had suffered and lived through.

Just when John was getting ready to leave, a skinny man in a suit followed several uniformed officers into the bank, paused long enough to question the guard, then headed straight for John, who recognized the type, as well as the badge clipped to the man’s belt.

Great. A detective. Naturally nosy, disinclined to believe anything he was told. This ought to be good.

John saw him pause to look at the dead man; then he looked straight at John, who stared back without flinching.

Horace Miles stepped into the silent breach by introducing himself as the cop approached.

“I’m Horace Miles, president of the bank. I saw everything.”

“Detective Robert Lee,” the newcomer said, then put his hands on his hips and gave John the once-over, eyeing the bloody shirt as well as the blood on John’s jeans. “So, hero, what’s your name?”

Sarcasm was the last thing John expected. It made him angry. He stood abruptly, well aware that he was now towering over the skinny man’s head.

“Considering the fact that right now, my chest hurts like hell, I don’t appreciate your sarcasm,” he drawled. “My name is John Nightwalker, and I’m not a hero. I was just in the wrong place at the right time.”

Lee wanted to be pissed, but the man was right. “Sorry,” he said. “That came out wrong. Let’s back up and do this all over again. So, Mr. Nightwalker, could you tell me what happened?”

John pointed to the walls where a half-dozen cameras were mounted. “I could…but it appears that Mr. Miles here will be able to provide several different angles on the incident for your viewing pleasure. Suffice it to say, the man tried to rob the bank, took a woman hostage and was pointing his gun at one of her kids. I distracted him. He shot me instead of the kid. I put a knife in his chest.”

Believing John had already been tended by paramedics, Lee’s next thought was the weapon in question. “May I see that knife?”

John winced as he leaned over, pulled up the leg of his jeans, then pulled the knife back out of its scabbard.

The detective’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped as he eyed the wicked blade. It was almost ten inches in length, with its widest point no less than three inches across. The handle appeared to be some kind of bone—maybe ivory. He frowned.

“Hell, mister, that thing’s big enough to fight bears with.”

“Yes.”

Startled by the easy answer, Lee gave John a cool look. “Don’t tell me you fight bears, too?”

“Okay,” John said, well aware he was pissing the man off. But he didn’t care. The detective’s attitude was anything but cordial, and John would have liked a couple of painkillers for his trouble.

Lee’s mouth dropped. “You fought a bear?”

John grinned slightly. “You don’t fight bears, detective. You either outrun them or kill them. I’ve done both.”

Lee snapped his mouth shut and glared.

“Do you have a permit to carry a concealed weapon?”

“Yes, actually, I do.” John pulled out his wallet and produced the license.

Lee eyed it without comment, then handed it back.

The bank president was surprised by the detective’s attitude.

“I’m sorry for interrupting, Detective Lee, but you don’t seem to understand. This man averted what could have been a long, drawn-out hostage situation. He saved a woman’s life and, most likely, the lives of everyone in here. There’s no way of knowing who that bastard would have shot next. Mr. Nightwalker did nothing but defend himself. The robber shot first. Ask anyone here.”

“Oh, I will,” Lee said.

“Am I free to go?” John asked.

“I’m going to need you to come down to headquarters and—”

“Why?” John asked. “Your case is closed.”

“Because you put a knife in a man’s chest, that’s why,” Lee argued, then realized people were staring and pulled back his emotions.

“He shot me first,” John said. “Don’t I get to defend myself?”

“Yes, but—”

“I have a permit for the knife.”

“I’m the one doing the questioning,” Lee snapped.

“Then ask me some questions,” John said.

Lee glared, then remembered that this man had supposedly been shot. “If you’re shot, why aren’t you on your way to the hospital?”

John sighed, resisted the urge to roll his eyes and yanked his shirt off over his head.

“That’s where it went in.” He turned around. “And that’s where it came out. I heal fast.”

The raw edges of burned flesh were obvious, but the wound was almost closed. Lee didn’t believe a damned word of what he was being told but couldn’t figure out the man’s angle.

“No one heals that fast,” he said. “Those are old wounds. You might have been shot, but not today. You and that dead man were in cahoots, and for some reason you backed out and killed him to keep from being brought down with him.”

“Bullshit,” John said, and pointed to the cameras again. “Watch the fucking movie, Detective. I’ve banked here for years. Mr. Miles has my address and phone number if you’re interested. Now…if you’re not going to arrest me, I’m leaving. I need to rest.”

John held out his hand, waiting for the cop to give back his knife.

The silence stretched between them, but John wouldn’t budge. Finally Lee handed back the knife and watched John return it to the scabbard, then pick up his bloody shirt and walk out of the bank without looking back.

Lee was angry and distrustful but had no reason to hold him. Instead, he pointed to all the cameras.

“I want that security footage. Now.”

Horace Miles waved a teller over. “Go to the back and get all the security tapes from today and bring them here, please.”

Savannah was far behind him as John neared the turnoff leading toward his home. Glad the two-hour trip was nearly over, he began to slow down. Moments later, he turned off the main highway and began the long winding drive up the bluff to his house. Owning the land where his village once stood had taken several hundred years to make happen, but once it had, he found an odd sort of peace in living here again.

He’d dodged civil wars, fought through world wars, and had long since gotten over the shock of watching the unsullied beauty of the country go to hell in a handbasket while trying to find the reincarnation of his enemy. It pained him to see refuse washing down once-pristine mountain streams. The clean air he’d taken for granted as a child was now a luxury. Landfills were a scourge on Mother Earth. The Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya would be shocked by what time and people had done.

He owned three other homes in separate parts of the country, and every few years he switched residences to keep from having to explain to neighbors why he never aged. It was simple. He would just change his hairstyle and choice of clothing, then present himself as a relative of the previous owner. So far, the system had proven to be foolproof, but he never took anything for granted. Caution—and finding the soul of the man who’d murdered his people—was always at the forefront of his mind.

For the past three years, he’d been back in Georgia. From his bedroom window he could see the place where he’d laid the bodies of his people to rest. Although their bones had long since turned to dust, his memory of the day was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday.

Usually he took pleasure in the drive up the bluff to his house, but not this time. He was heartily glad it was over. This morning had been unexpected and exhausting. He breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled into the garage, closing the doors behind him. His chest still hurt, but it was no longer open or bleeding. Within a couple of days there would be nothing left but another scar to add to the collection already on his body.

He got out of the Jeep, grabbed the groceries he’d bought earlier and headed for the kitchen. It was a long drive from Savannah, so his only purchases had been nonperishables. When he needed fresh vegetables or anything dairy, he bought it down in Justice, a little town only a few miles away. Justice boasted a population of almost five hundred people and was little more than a spot on the map. Down there, people referred to him as Big John. They knew nothing of the wealth he’d accumulated over the centuries, his skill in the stock market or the goods he imported and exported to different countries. He kept his acquaintances at a friendly arm’s length. The less he shared of himself, the better.

As soon as the groceries were put away, he headed for the utility room, stripping off his clothes as he went. The shirt was a bust. Even if the blood washed out, there was the small matter of the bullet holes. He tossed it in the trash, treated the blood spots on his jeans with stain remover, then tossed everything into the washer and turned it on. When he left the room, he was wearing his favorite outfit—the skin in which he’d been born.

His body was toned, his legs long and lean. His shoulders were wide, and bore the weight of centuries of despair with equanimity. His hair, which had once hung all the way to his waist, was now short and spiked. Instead of the occasional feather he’d once worn in it, there was a tiny silver earring in the shape of a feather hanging from his left ear, his only outward claim to his past.

Even though the wood floors were bare of rugs, he moved silently. The windows he’d left open earlier in the day were now funneling a cool ocean breeze against his skin, which he much preferred to air-conditioning.

On his way through the living room, his gaze automatically went to a small scraping knife decoratively framed and hanging on the wall between a stone ax and a dream catcher. That small piece of flint was all he had left of White Fawn. Regret tugged at his heart as he remembered her—bent over the task of scraping meat from pelts and skins with that very knife—remembered the soft, warm clothing she made for them after the skins had cured. If fate had been kind, he would have died with the others. But he hadn’t died. He’d asked the Old Ones for the impossible, and it had been given, even though he had yet to fulfill his side of the bargain. Angry with himself and what he considered his failure for being unable to find the enemy, he turned off the memories and headed for his room to shower.

Later, washed clean of blood and wearing a pair of old gray sweats, John went about the solitary business of preparing a meal for himself. His life was what it was—but by choice. Yes, there were times when he was so lonely he couldn’t think, when the memory of White Fawn’s laugh was so strong he wanted to weep. Yes, there had been other women in his life through the ensuing centuries, but none that had ever replaced her in his heart.

Living in his skin while the world grew up and old around him had not been easy. He’d been an “uncivilized” man to the hordes who’d invaded, when in his eyes, they’d been the ones with no heart and no civility. They recognized nothing of the indigenous people’s rights, but he’d soon learned the need to be able to communicate with the interlopers, and had become a guide and an interpreter for the explorers and trappers later on.

Throughout the ages, he’d watched the natural beauty of the land on which he’d been born become glutted with people with no conscience, no interest save their own wishes and desires. They’d come on ships by the hundreds, then the thousands. They’d cut down the trees, and built houses and dams; they’d made roads and cities, and fouled the water and the air so many times over the centuries that he’d lost count. When their numbers had been too many and their greed had been too great, then had come the wars. Fighting over religion and countries and the color of skin. It was enough to make a man go crazy, but he’d been raised in the old ways, and warriors didn’t cry. They endured.

After so much time of being a “lesser” member of society because of the color of his skin, the irony that it was now fashionable to be able to claim Native American heritage was not lost on John Nightwalker.

When his food was ready, he filled a plate and took it out onto the patio overlooking the ocean. It was the same place he’d been standing when he’d first seen the devil ship sail out of the storm and into their lives. He cut a piece from the steak that he’d cooked and put it in his mouth, chewing slowly while watching the horizon with a dark, steady gaze. Even though centuries had come and gone since the massacre, old instincts die hard. The need to still stand watch was strong. And even though he didn’t believe fate would be so kind as to send his enemy back to him that way again, he had learned long ago not to trust anyone or anything—not even fate.

What he did know, and had known for at least sixty years, was that the soul he sought had once again been reborn. And he knew this because of the signs that came with it.

The first was always the dream of the massacre, after which he would wake up shaking and sick to his stomach, drenched in sweat. He’d learned, too, that the closer he got to the reincarnated soul, the more rapidly his heart would beat. He’d followed those feelings all over the world so many times he’d lost count, but he had never been able to find his nemesis. When the feelings disappeared, he could only assume that his enemy was dead and once again his soul was no longer earthbound.

He finished his meal in silence, watched the sea until the sun had set behind him, then got up and went inside. He turned on the television in the kitchen as he cleaned up, only to find that the botched bank robbery was the topic of the national news. He watched the film clip without moving, wincing slightly when he heard his name come out of the newscaster’s mouth. Still, it was done, and he wouldn’t have changed anything in any way. When the newscast was over, he turned off the TV and went to bed.

Another day had passed.

One more night alone.

Detective Robert Lee hit Rewind on the bank security tape, then Stop. Then Play. Once again he saw the botched bank robbery in progress, from the moment the teller fainted to the point where the perp headed for the door. He saw the guard grab his pistol as the perp took a hostage. It wasn’t pretty, but it was, in the realm of law and order, what constituted an ordinary screwup, not unlike a dozen other scenarios he’d seen in his eighteen-year career on the force. It was what came next that didn’t make sense. And if he hadn’t been watching it over and over for the last few hours, he wouldn’t have believed it had happened.

When he got to the point where the perp, who they now knew was a man named Wallace Deeds, had taken a hostage, his attention shifted into high gear. First the hostage’s two little boys began to cry. When the smallest boy started toward his mother, Lee began to tense, waiting for that damned Indian to make his move. And even though he knew what was going to happen, it was still shocking to witness. All of a sudden, Nightwalker was in full camera range, running at the gunman and his hostage with a knife in his hand.

Lee watched Deeds spin and fire. He saw the bullet hit the Indian. He saw blood spurt out the back of his shoulder and his shirt instantly turn red. Then Lisa Doggett went limp and Deeds shoved her away. He watched her come to and run to her boys, shielding them with her body. Deeds seemed to be about to fire a second shot, but it never happened. One moment the knife was in Nightwalker’s hand and the next it was in Wallace Deeds’ chest.

Deeds went down, but the Indian didn’t. That was what kept freaking Lee out.

When the Indian bent over and pulled the knife out of Deeds’ chest without staggering or showing any pain, Lee simply couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He wanted to have a reason to go after Nightwalker, but there wasn’t one, and considering the half-dozen new cases on his desk, he knew it was time to let this one go, however reluctantly.

Two days later—Justice, Georgia

Alicia Ponte’s life was one of wealth and privilege. She was the daughter of a rich man, the type of woman who headed committees and organized charity functions. She wore the right clothes, knew the right people and always made the society pages. She had friends, but none were close. She’d had one boyfriend in college and a brief relationship with another man over three years ago, and nothing that mattered since.

At twenty-seven years old, she had always thought of herself as confident and self-assured, but the last twenty-two hours had proved her wrong. She was scared—as scared as she’d ever been—and of someone who was supposed to love her. The irony that she’d waited until now to run away from home was lost in the gut-wrenching fear that kept her moving. But her flight was about to be sidetracked by the need for fuel.

She glanced down at the gas gauge. It was too close to empty to dare trying to make it to Savannah, but according to a road sign she’d seen a mile back, Marv’s Gas and Guzzle should be able to take care of that.

A short while later, she came upon the city limit sign of Justice, Georgia, population: 488. Alicia didn’t care how many people lived here. She just wanted some of Marv’s gas—and maybe a cold drink and a snack—then she was back on the road. Only, running wasn’t going to solve her problem. She couldn’t run forever. She needed a place to hide. That she was hiding from her father was nothing short of horrifying, but there was no denying what she’d accidentally overheard.

Her father—Richard Ponte, the largest arms manufacturer in the western hemisphere—was selling weapons to the enemy in Iraq, as well as to the American soldiers who were fighting them. Profiting from the war in the most hideous manner and arming both sides with the same most up-to-date munitions money could buy.

Her father had been overseas for almost a year, opening a new recycling plant in Taiwan, overseeing the closing of a tire factory in India. She’d visited him a couple of times but had opted to go back to Miami. It made her uncomfortable to know that he was taking advantage of the poverty and strife in those countries by paying the workers only a fraction of what he would have had to pay American employees. Once he was back, she was excited to have company for dinner again.

She’d been on her way into his office to see if he would be staying home for lunch when she realized he wasn’t alone. She heard her father and his old friend Jacob Carruthers talking, and she smiled to herself, thinking she would get to share a meal with Uncle Jake, as well. Just as she started to knock, she heard her father curse, which shocked her. He didn’t behave like that in her presence, and she knew if she went in now, he would know that she’d heard him. So she hesitated, and as she did, she heard something far worse.

The phrase “shipment of arms” was common in her father’s world, and she normally thought nothing of it. It wasn’t until she heard the name Osama bin Laden that she knew something wasn’t right. Then, as she listened, for the first time in her life, she knew the true meaning of the phrase “her blood ran cold.”

Osama bin Laden was happy with the goods.

She put a hand to her lips to keep from gasping aloud. There had to be some mistake. Then she heard her father mention a delivery in Afghanistan to al Qaeda. Then the Kurds and Mohammed al-Kazir. The nail in her father’s coffin was when she heard Jacob say that bin Laden would double his offer if they could deliver before the end of the month, and something about the thirteenth being a problem, because it was some kind of holiday.

She heard her father chuckle, then comment with something to the effect that he would make them pay out the ass if they wanted the good stuff.

She felt sick. This couldn’t be happening. The last comment she heard was the one that sealed their fate.

“You know,” Jacob said, “U.S. Customs might start getting wise. There are only so many plows and tractors that one company can import.”

Her father snorted. “I pay enough money under the table to smuggle any damn thing I choose.”

Alicia had no memory of how she’d gotten out of the hall and back up the stairs to her room. The next thing she remembered was being on her hands and knees in her bathroom, throwing up in the toilet. She threw up until her belly hurt and her jaws ached. By the time she managed to drag herself to bed, she was in a cold sweat. The maid had come in to clean, but Alicia had sent her away, claiming she was coming down with the flu.

By the time the maid made it back downstairs, Jacob Carruthers was gone and Richard was on to the next big thing. The maid hesitated in the hallway, then knocked at Richard’s office door.

“Yes,” he muttered, irked at being disturbed.

The maid opened the door just enough to pass on her message.

“Sir…Miss Ponte has taken ill…the flu, she thinks, and said to pass on her excuses because she’s going to skip lunch.”

“Yes, thank you,” Richard said.

Her father had too many irons in the fire to worry about a flu bug unless he was the one getting ill, Alicia knew, so for now she had some time to regroup. She’d never been able to lie and get away with it, and she’d never been able to hide her feelings. One look at her face and her father would have known something was wrong. It wouldn’t have taken him long to get it out of her, so she’d done the only thing she could think of to do: she’d packed a bag and run.

And she was still running. She needed to tell someone what she knew, but her father’s power was great and his reach was long. He had strong ties to almost every arm of the government. She didn’t yet know who to tell or who to trust. Maybe he could live with the blood of innocent soldiers on his conscience, but she couldn’t—wouldn’t. And she wasn’t going to let him get away with it, either. The next day, after he’d left for the office, she left him a note that she was feeling better and was going to take off for a few days at a spa. Then she’d emptied one of her sizeable bank accounts and left Miami in the middle of a thunderstorm—perfect weather to match her mood.

The spa excuse had worked for only one day. When she’d failed to check in, Richard began making calls. When she didn’t return the first call within the hour, he’d called a second time, then a third. By noon, Alicia had a half-dozen unanswered messages on her cell, including a text message from him hinting at concern. After that, she’d stopped keeping track. It was inevitable that she would have to answer, but she wasn’t ready. She was so angry with him that she could hardly think, and at the same time she was afraid. She knew her father’s reputation. He was ruthless when it came to getting his way. He wouldn’t take kindly to having someone mess in his nest, which was exactly what she planned to do. She had to be far enough away—and safely concealed—before she trusted herself enough to call back. And most of all, she had to be certain of her own ability to avoid giving herself away and figure out a way to keep him from tracking her via her phone. There was a part of her that felt like a traitor to him, but she kept reminding herself that at least she wouldn’t be a traitor to her own country. The fact that her father was in bed with the terrorists responsible for the tragic events of September 11, 2001, was chilling.

Unbeknownst to his daughter, Richard Ponte had installed GPS locator systems on every vehicle in his empire, and he already knew her whereabouts. In fact, he had sent Dieter Bahn, his right-hand man, to bring her back. Ponte had no idea what was going on with her, but he was beginning to realize it was serious. He knew she’d emptied one of her bank accounts and that she was running. He just didn’t know why. But he was determined to find out. And when Richard Ponte was determined to make something happen, it happened.

Alicia was focused on the needs at hand, which were food and fuel, both of them less than a quarter mile ahead. She was debating between something sweet or salty for a snack when her cell phone began to ring. She glanced down at caller ID, and her heart skipped a beat. It was her father. Again.

She’d lost count of how many times he’d called. As nervous as she was about it, she knew that communicating would help keep him off her back. She just didn’t know if she could trust herself to stay calm. As the phone continued to ring, she finally made a decision. She pulled over to the side of the road, put the car in Park, then answered. Her heart was pounding. All she could think was, God help me.

“Hello?”

“Thank God!” Richard bellowed. “Alicia! What the hell are you up to? Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

“I’m not up to anything,” Alicia said, hating herself for the quaver she heard in her voice. “I left you a note telling you where I was going. I just wanted a little getaway. I certainly didn’t expect a constant barrage of phone calls, trying to check up on me as if I’m some teenager. For pity’s sake, Dad, get a grip.”

“Don’t start that crap with me!” Richard yelled. “You emptied your bank account and you’re not returning my calls. What am I supposed to think?”

Alicia swallowed past the knot in her throat. “That I’m twenty-seven years old and that it’s my money?”

Richard was so angry he was shaking. He didn’t like to be thwarted, and he didn’t like to be reminded that it was his deceased wife’s money that had set him up for life and left their daughter independently wealthy.

“Is it some man? If it is, I can tell you right now, he doesn’t love you. He’s just after your money.”

Alicia felt as if she’d been slapped. That her own father would deem her unworthy of a man’s love without the money that came with her was, at the least, humiliating. Her voice was shaking when she asked, “Why, Daddy? Why wouldn’t some man love me? Why would you say something like that?”

Richard couldn’t have cared less that he’d hurt her feelings. “I was right,” he crowed. “It is a man. Now listen to me. Quit acting like a child and get yourself back to Miami before you get into something you can’t get out of. You’re too trusting. You’re too naive. Is he there with you now?”

“There is no man,” she muttered, suddenly wishing there was. It would be a far simpler dilemma than the one she was in.

“I don’t believe you,” he said. “You went sneaking out of this house like some bitch in heat. You must have had a reason.”

It was the “bitch in heat” reference that did it. Suddenly the past few days of being sick at heart and scared half out of her mind bubbled up and over. She started talking, and the more she talked, the louder she got, until she was screaming at him just as he’d screamed at her moments earlier.

“The only man in my life that made me leave home was you!”

Taken aback by her sudden rage, Richard had to struggle to answer. “Me? You’re not making sense.”

It was as if someone had opened a festering wound, and now that the pressure was gone, the poison was spilling out of Alicia without a thought for caution.

“I know what you’ve been doing…you and Uncle Jacob. I heard you two talking. You’re selling weapons to the enemy.”

Richard felt the floor tilt beneath his feet. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. “You’re wrong,” he insisted. “I don’t know what you think you heard, but you’re wrong.”

“No. I’m not wrong. You’re the one who’s doing something wrong…horribly wrong. What I don’t get is why, Daddy? Why? We have more money than we could spend in two lifetimes. Why would you betray your country for more?”

Richard felt as if someone had just punched him in the gut. He sat down on the side of his desk before he fell. Son of a bitch…she knew!

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “You misunderstood what was being said. You need to come back now and I’ll explain…I’ll—”

“I don’t believe you. I don’t want to ever see your face again.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

Alicia didn’t know she was crying until she tasted the salt of her own tears. Angrily, she swiped at them with the back of her hand. “What I do is no longer any of your concern.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence, then one last question. “Alicia.”

“What?”

“Are you going to tell?”

Alicia disconnected, threw the phone down in the seat and pulled back out onto the highway, still heading for Justice.

Richard’s heart was hammering so hard he couldn’t catch his breath. How had this happened? They’d always been so careful. He shoved a hand through his hair and then covered his face with both hands as his mind began to race through the possibilities of what might happen next.

She wouldn’t tell. She was his daughter—his own flesh and blood. Surely she wouldn’t turn in her own father? But he couldn’t be sure. She’d sounded so angry. He’d never heard her like that before. So…what next? Sit here and wait for the hammer to fall on his carefully balanced empire—or take back control?

Shock was soon replaced with anger. There had been dozens of times throughout his life when he’d felt as if he’d been here before, in another time and place. faced with ruin through the behavior of others. The longer he thought about it, the more he realized he wasn’t going to sit back and let her destroy everything he’d built. He would get her back first, then figure out what came next.

He reached for the phone and quickly dialed Dieter Bahn’s number. By the time the other man answered, Richard was completely calm.

“It’s me,” Richard said. “How close are you to Alicia’s location?”

“Less than five miles, I think,” Dieter said.

“When you find her, bring her back…even if you have to tie her up to do it. Do you understand?”

Dieter was the kind of man whose loyalty to the man who paid his salary ran bone-deep.

“Yes, sir,” he answered.

“And, Dieter…”

“Yes, sir?”

“Let me know when you have her in the car.”

“Yes, sir. I will, sir.”

Without even bothering to say goodbye, Richard ended the call. Then he stood up and moved to the windows overlooking his estate, the seat of his empire. If things went wrong, he could lose all of this tomorrow. But that wasn’t going to happen. Things wouldn’t go wrong. Dieter would get Alicia, and then…

He paused, jangling the change in his pocket without thinking. What was he going to do with his daughter when he got her back? How could he keep her quiet? What assurance did he have that she would keep his secret? He sighed.

He had no assurance. None.

He caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the window, then yanked his hands out of his pockets and quickly looked away. He’d worked too hard and too long to be brought down by anyone—even his own daughter. If she didn’t comply…

A muscle suddenly jerked at his temple as the thought slid through his mind. Then it would be too damned bad for her. Accidents happen.

John Nightwalker was in his Jeep and heading out of Justice. The sun was warm on his face, even though his eyes were well-hidden behind dark aviator sunglasses as he drove down Main Street. Someone yelled out his name, and he waved before he looked.

It was Mildred, the pharmacy clerk. She’d tried to hook him up with her daughter for the last two years until, thankfully, her daughter had eloped with one of the Samson brothers, who had a roofing business in a nearby town. When Mildred figured out that having a son-in-law who owned his own business was better than a man with secrets, she’d let him be.

He braked for a red light while the wind whipping through the open windows tugged at his hair like the fingers of a jealous lover. His hands, brown and strong, curled around the steering wheel as they’d once curled around the shaft of a spear. Time had not taken the warrior out of the man—only increased it. As he neared the city limits, he glanced down at the gas gauge. Better fuel up now and get it over with, even though the day was hot. He had milk and eggs in the backseat, as well as some fresh vegetables, but a quick fuel stop shouldn’t hurt anything.

He pulled up to an empty pump at Marv’s Gas and Guzzle, waved at a local who was pulling away and got out. He swiped his credit card at the pump just as he’d done countless times before, then began to refuel. It was a slow time of day. There was only one other vehicle in sight, and it had two flats, which told John it had been there for a while.

A flock of gulls circled overhead, probably checking out the fish heads behind the bait-and-tackle area of Marv’s store. He thought about the ocean and decided that when he got home, he would go for a swim. Water was always a source of renewal for him.

The pump kicked off, breaking into his musing. He was replacing the hose when a white BMW wheeled off the highway, coming toward the pumps at a high rate of speed. He stepped back in reflex, even though the car was going to be stopping on the opposite side from where he’d parked.

All of a sudden his heart started beating erratically and his stomach knotted in pain. The air around him felt charged with an electricity that, in the last five hundred years, he’d experienced only a handful of times before.

Whoever was in that car was either the reincarnated soul of the pirate he’d learned was named Antonio Vargas or someone close to him. His fingers curled into fists as a dark, bloody rage swept through his mind. Suddenly he was seeing the village all over again—puddles of blood beneath rain-soaked bodies, children’s bodies burned and broken, clothing ripped and ornaments cut from the corpses of his people.

The need for revenge swept through his mind so fast that he staggered. Then he caught a glimpse of a tall, shapely body, the silhouette of a beautiful face, hair as black as midnight, and knew a moment of regret. What an irony, that the soul he sought had come back in such a form.

Then their gazes met, and within the space of a heartbeat, all the warning signs John had come to recognize were gone and he knew this wasn’t the person he sought, although there had to be a connection.

Her face was heart-shaped, her features strong but perfectly proportioned. Full lips marked a wide, expressive mouth that was, at the moment, twisted in some sort of grief. When his gaze moved back to her eyes, he felt himself drowning in the tears blurring her vision.

Pain shot through his gut so fast it left him momentarily breathless. He hated to see a woman cry. They stared at each other, eye to eye, separated by less than a yard. Finally John found his voice.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

Alicia shuddered. His voice sifted through her wounded spirit like cold water on a burn, easing the shock and pain of what she was feeling, if only for a moment.

“No…I, uh…” She swiped at the tears on her cheeks and then threw back her head, unaware that the simple lift of her chin had given her the look of an able opponent, not a victim. “Crap,” she mumbled, her fingers shaking as she tried to pull the nozzle away from the pump. “I need gas.”

Not wanting to lose the connection with her, John moved a step closer.

“Swipe your card. I’ll pump it for you,” he offered.

But Alicia knew that credit card transactions could be traced, and since the last thing she wanted was to let her father know where she was, she hadn’t even brought a card with her.

“Uh…I’m going to pay cash.”

John pointed toward the sign at the pumps. “Then thank the economy for the problem, but they won’t turn on the pump until you’ve prepaid.”

“Yes…of course,” Alicia said, and tried to put the nozzle back on the pump. But her vision was still blurred from tears, and she kept missing the slot.

“Here, let me,” he said softly, then swiped his own card, waited for the approval to come up, then stuck the nozzle in her gas tank.

Alicia took a deep breath. When the stranger moved between her and her car, she suddenly shuddered. In spite of the mess she was in, she didn’t understand the urge she felt to put her hand on the back of his neck. Instead, she began digging through her purse, pulled out a handful of bills and then found herself fixated by a single bead of sweat that had escaped his hairline and was sliding down the jut of his jaw.

Her nostrils flared as the thought of being naked under this man flashed through her mind.

God. Where had that come from?

When the man turned around, Alicia thought that from the look in his eyes, he was on the same page.

“Thank you for your help,” she said, and thrust the handful of bills into his hand.

Before John could respond, another car pulled off the highway and up to the pumps, coming to a stop right behind the woman. He saw her eyes widen and her pupils dilated in shock.

“Oh no. Oh God…He found me.”

Two

John didn’t know who the man was, other than a big bald bodybuilder, but the woman was obviously afraid of him. He made a point of never involving himself in marital discord, but there was no way he was going to lose track of her until he figured out how she fit into the puzzle of the soul he sought. He replaced the nozzle and stepped back to watch from between the pumps as the man continued to approach.

“Get away from me, Dieter,” Alicia warned.

Dieter paused, smiling openly as if to say this was out of his hands.

“Come, come, Alicia, your father wants you to come home.”

“How did you find me?” she asked.

Dieter shrugged. “GPS.”

Alicia’s lips went slack. “You’re not serious. Dad has a tracking device on my car?”

“They’re on all his cars,” Dieter said. “I would have thought you’d known that.”

“It’s obvious I don’t know him nearly as well as I thought I did,” she muttered.

Dieter took a step closer. “So you’ll come with me now?”

Alicia’s pulse skipped as she took a nervous step back. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Oh, but you are,” Dieter said, and lunged, only to find himself suddenly face-to-face with a man who’d come out of nowhere.

Dieter frowned, then looked at Alicia. “Who is this? Is he with you?”

John answered, “Who I am is not what you should be worrying about. I heard the lady tell you to back off at least twice, and you’re not paying attention.”

Dieter jabbed a finger at John, poking him in the chest. “You aren’t part of the equation,” he said. “I take my orders from her father, and he wants her home.”

When John grabbed the finger and twisted it backward, it sent a shooting pain up Dieter’s arm all the way to the back of his jaw. Even worse, it somehow rendered him immobile, and he didn’t know why.

“Ow! Shit! Let me go. Let me go!” he yelled.

But John continued to maintain pressure as he addressed Alicia. “I take it this man isn’t your husband?”

Alicia’s voice was shaking. “No, he works for my father.”

“Did you do something illegal?” John asked.

Alicia rolled her eyes. “No.”

“You’re not wanted by the police?”

“No. Lord, no.”

“I’m assuming you’re of legal age.”

Alicia stifled a snort, which John interpreted as a yes.

“Then I’d say you’re free to do what you want.”

Alicia’s eyes filled with tears all over again.

“I’ll never be free again,” she said, more to herself than to John, but he heard it and knew her peril was working to his advantage.

John looked back at Dieter, whose face was turning paler by the minute.

“Are you going to keep following her?”

“It’s my job,” Dieter moaned, still trying to figure out why he felt numb all over.

“Then I guess she’ll need a head start,” John said, then grabbed Dieter’s neck with his other hand and squeezed. Dieter dropped between the car and the gas pump like a stone.

Alicia shuddered. What had just happened? “I need to hide,” she mumbled, still staring at Dieter’s body.

“Why are you afraid of your father?”

She wiped her hands across her face. “This is a nightmare. Please…I need to get another car and get to a place where he can’t find me until I can figure all this out.”

John exhaled softly. Bingo. Right into his lap.

“I can help.”

Alicia swayed where she stood, then looked up. His eyes were so dark that she couldn’t see the pupils. She shivered. She didn’t know this man from Adam. He could be a serial killer, a sadist—anything. Then she asked herself: Was her father any different? Should she trust the devil she knew or the devil she didn’t?

John felt her pulling away. He had to act fast.

“My name is John Nightwalker. I live about fifteen miles from here, and as you can see, I have a car. You’ll have to leave your car here anyway, and I’ll help you all I can. Just tell me what you need.”

Alicia saw his lips moving, but she’d lost track of his words as soon as he’d said his name. The skin was still crawling on the back of her neck, and she had the strangest urge to cry.

“So…what do you say?” John asked.

Alicia blinked. “Um…I, uh…”

“You can trust me,” he said.

Somehow she knew he was telling the truth.

“Yes, okay.”

John’s pulse skittered, then settled. Was this it? Was this the beginning of the end of his search?

“Better get your things out of your car,” he said.

“What about him?” she asked, pointing to Dieter.

“I’ll take care of that,” he said.

She hurried to get her suitcase. When she turned around, John was pulling a six-pack of beer out of his Jeep. He popped the top of a can and forced Dieter’s lips far enough apart to pour the tepid amber liquid down his throat. At that point Dieter coughed and came to, hacking and spitting. John helped him up, opened the door to Dieter’s car, then squeezed the same nerve on his neck that he’d squeezed before and once again rendered him unconscious.

John grunted softly as he maneuvered the other man into the driver’s seat. Once he had Dieter behind the wheel, he poured the contents of two more cans of beer onto his clothes and then onto the seat, tossed the rest of the six-pack onto the floorboard, then stepped back and shut the door. To the observer, Dieter would now appear to be drunk and passed out in his car.

John turned toward Alicia. “Get in,” he said as he took the suitcase out of her hands and put it in the backseat.

Alicia took a deep breath and looked back down the road on which she’d been traveling. She knew what was behind her. Time to take a chance on what was ahead. Then she looked at John, exhaled slowly and scooted into the passenger seat as John slid behind the wheel.

“Buckle up,” he said, and pulled out onto the highway.

She began fumbling with the seat belt as he picked up his cell phone and punched in a number.

“Police. Whatcha need?”

“Hi, Carl, it’s John Nightwalker. I want to report a situation at Marv’s Gas and Guzzle. There’s an abandoned car at one pump and a drunk passed out in the car behind it. Someone needs to get those two cars towed out of the way so people can get gas when they need it.”

“Is the drunk a local?” Carl asked.

“Nope. Out-of-state license. Don’t know anything more.”

“Figures,” Carl said. “I’ll get someone down there right now. Thanks for calling.”

“No problem,” John said. There was a glint in his eye as he disconnected.

“Thank you,” Alicia said.

John nodded.

At that point, the silence inside the Jeep became uncomfortable. What on earth had she just done? Alicia wondered, realizing how completely she’d given herself over to this man. All she could do was pray she hadn’t put herself into a more dire situation than the one she’d been running from.

“I won’t hurt you,” John said, then turned and caught her staring. Once again, he looked straight into her eyes.

It was a fleeting look, but there was something in it that Alicia found comforting. A second or so later, he turned his attention back to the road, but it was enough for her to relax.

She shivered slightly, then leaned back against the seat as the wind whipped through the windows, putting her long dark hair in disarray. But her appearance was the last thing on her mind. For the first time since she’d starting running, she felt as if she was at least partially in control. Maybe this nightmare was going to have a positive outcome after all.

Richard waited for the phone call from Dieter telling him that he had Alicia and was on the way home, but it never came. He left a scathing message on Dieter’s cell, then left to attend a business dinner, confident that everything was under control and his subordinate was just off the radar for some reason.

Dieter, however, was not as certain. Waking up in jail was the single biggest shock of his life. He’d been in jail before, but he’d always seen it coming. This time, he had no idea how or when—or why—it had happened. He swung his legs off the bunk, swiped his hands across his face, then stumbled to the bars, rattling them to emphasize his demand.

“Hey!” he yelled, then winced. Yelling made his head ache. “Jailer! Jailer! I need to make a phone call. It’s my right. I get to make a call.”

A few moments later, the door across the aisle opened and a tall scrawny man in a khaki uniform sauntered in. Dieter stared. The man was rail-thin with a hawk nose and a big bushy mustache.

“What?” the man drawled.

“I get to make a call! Bring me my cell phone.”

The jailer shrugged. “You use our phone and reverse the charges…understand?”

“I don’t understand anything,” Dieter muttered. “How did I get here?”

“Hauled your drunk ass in, that’s how.”

Dieter frowned. He hadn’t been drinking. He’d been—“Oh hell,” he muttered. Alicia. The big Indian. Richard was going to kill him.

“Here’s the phone,” the jailer said as he thrust a cordless headset through the bars. “Make it quick.”

“Where am I?” Dieter asked, realizing he didn’t even know the address of the jail.

“You’re in jail, mister,” the jailer said dryly.

Dieter cursed beneath his breath. “Very funny. What’s the name of this godforsaken place?”

“You’re in Justice, Georgia, and I hope the irony of that is not lost on you.”

Dieter glared. “I need privacy.”

“Tough shit. You get one call, and I’m not going anywhere.”

As Dieter punched in the number, it occurred to him that he was probably safer in jail. At least here, Richard would have a harder time killing him. However, Richard didn’t answer the call, and Dieter was forced to leave a message.

“Mr. Ponte, it’s Dieter. I’m in Justice, Georgia…in jail. I caught up with Alicia at a gas station, but she wasn’t alone. She had someone with her who knocked me out. I’m not sure how I got from there to jail, but I need someone to bail me out.”

As soon as he’d disconnected, he handed the phone back through the bars. The jailer took it, smirked and slammed the door behind him when he left.

Dieter dropped back down on the bunk, then put his head in his hands and groaned. This wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.

Alicia was accustomed to the best. The best cars. The best clothes. The best of everything money could buy. So when John Nightwalker said he was taking her to his place, she didn’t expect to find much of a house at the end of this road through nowhere, but to say this exceeded her expectations was an epic understatement. His home was a magnificent edifice of wood, rock and glass that appeared to have grown from the very bluff on which it was sitting.

The front of the house faced the driveway, which left the back to overlook the ocean. She could see all the way through the soaring front windows to two stories of glass at the back that seemed to go on forever—disappearing up and into the startling blue of the sky overhead. The panorama they would reveal up close had to be amazing.

Her breath caught in the back of her throat. The beauty of it was obvious, but it was the loneliness she sensed along with that beauty that brought tears to her eyes.

She got out without speaking and walked toward the rim of the bluff, mesmerized by the view beyond. But the longer she stood there, the more she felt he hadn’t built here for the view. As she looked around the area, she realized that from where she stood, it would be impossible for anyone to get to him without being seen. She couldn’t help but wonder what demons John Nightwalker watched for when he looked through those windows.

“Welcome to my home,” John said.

Alicia couldn’t find the words to answer. She just nodded, then turned around and followed him back to the car, picking up her suitcase as he took the groceries and led the way inside.

John was so wired he could hardly focus. After centuries of waiting for this day, it was the closest he’d ever been. Only once before had he been so near. But that had been ages ago, on a train running through Central Europe. That day he’d known, as surely as he knew his own name, that the man he sought was only a few cars away. He’d felt the rhythm of his heartbeat as the pain of recognition spilled through him. He’d been running through the cars, searching for the person who held the key to all he sought, when a hard jolt sent everyone flying out of their seats, followed by the sounds of buckling metal and steam spewing into the air as the train derailed violently. He woke up some time later to the sound of people screaming and a horrible emptiness that meant one thing: the gut-wrenching knowledge that whoever it was he’d been after was dead, but not by John’s hand.

Nothing had been resolved.

Now his mind refocused on the woman at hand as he stepped aside to let her in. The way he figured it, playing things cool and easy was the best way to alleviate her fears, although staying calm around her was almost impossible. He’d waited so long for revenge. He needed to find out if her father was the man he sought. He guessed that he was, but couldn’t be sure—wouldn’t be sure until they were standing face-to-face.

He didn’t know what was going to happen after this quest was over, but right now he didn’t care. If he turned to dust, so be it. Revenge was a cold mistress, and he was tired—tired of it all.

“The kitchen is through here,” John said, leading the way.

But Alicia was so enthralled by this place that she kept lagging behind. The walls were a pale blue. The floor tiles were oblong, rather than square, and in an off-white color with gold veins scattered throughout. The furnishings were different shades of gold and blue, with snow-white throw pillows of every size. She could see a huge library off to the left, containing what appeared to be a well-organized office. The walls were covered with art and artifacts, most of which appeared to be of Native American theme or origin. The ocean breeze funneling through the open windows billowed the sheer white drapes hanging from ceiling to floor like earthbound kites. The faint scent of salty air permeated the rooms, along with another pleasant but less distinctive scent. It took her a few moments to locate the source, and when she did, she was once again surprised. A huge vase of wisteria sat on a waist-high table in the hall, giving every room access to the sweet, sweet smell of the blooms.

“The flowers…”

John paused and turned. “Yes?”

“They’re lovely,” she said softly.

For the first time John felt a sense of guilt. This woman was obviously in dire straits, or at least she thought she was. She was also stunning to look at. He needed to remember that her well-being was just as vital for him, albeit for different reasons, as it was for her.

“They were White…uh…my wife’s favorite,” he said, glancing toward the vase of white and lavender flowers, the slender stalks drooping from their weight. “They used to grow wild where we lived.”

Alicia’s eyes widened. Past tense. “She died?”

John flashed on White Fawn’s sightless gaze and the blood spilling from the gash in her chest, then stifled the anger he still felt. “Many years ago,” he said shortly, and changed the subject. “Let me put the perishables up, and then I’ll show you to a room. You’ll be comfortable here until you figure out what you need to do, okay?”

“Yes, and, John…thank you,” she said.

He nodded, well aware that she wouldn’t be all that grateful if she knew of his ulterior motives.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, stifling another twinge of guilt.

Alicia was standing on the balcony off John’s bedroom, overlooking the ocean, watching the light fading from the sky. She’d asked permission to see the view, and he’d made himself absent to let her enjoy it. Now a faint sliver of moon hung awkwardly against a growing darkness as a few wispy clouds passed in front of it. Night birds were beginning to call. A stiff breeze lifted the hair from Alicia’s neck, chilling her all the way through. She wrapped her arms around herself as a shudder ripped through her.

From behind, she heard a footstep, then felt the weight of something soft and warm settling on her shoulders. The gesture was both thoughtful and unexpected. As she pulled the edges of the sweater close around her, the scent of musk and a fainter scent of cigar smoke wafted toward her.

She hadn’t seen John smoke, yet she recognized the singular scent of fine cigars.

“Thank you,” she said softly, then looked back toward the water. “This is all so beautiful, but I’m sure you already know that.”

John knew she was referring to the view, but for the first time since she’d walked into his house, he was looking at her and seeing her as the beautiful woman she was, not just as a means to an end.

“Yes…very beautiful,” he said.

Alicia looked up, caught his gaze on her and lost her train of thought.

“Talk to me,” John said suddenly.

“I…uh…”

“Where do you live?”

“Most of the time in Miami.”

“Is that where your father is?”

She nodded.

He stifled a smile. Now he knew where to go. His suitcase was already packed. He was willing to leave her here on her own if she chose, or she could keep on running. But tomorrow morning, he was going to Miami.

Even though he’d gotten the information from her that he needed, he decided to keep her talking. The more he knew, the more likely his success would be, and he was long overdue for success.

“Why are you running from your father?”

Alicia pulled the sweater up beneath her chin and looked back across the water.

“It’s an ugly story.”

“I’ve heard ugly before.”

She was startled by the undisguised anger in his voice, reminding her that she was about to spend the night with a stranger. Still, he’d taken a chance for her. He deserved to know that what he’d done might put him in danger.

“A few days ago I overheard my father and an old friend of his discussing an impending business deal. It had to do with selling weapons to terrorists…the same people our soldiers are fighting in Iraq.”

John was stunned. It was the last thing he’d expected to hear. “Are you sure? I mean…is there a possibility you misunderstood?”

Alicia pivoted, her voice rising as she answered. “To my knowledge, there is only one Osama bin Laden, only one group called al Qaeda. Do the words ‘delivery in Afghanistan, money transfers to Geneva,’ suggest anything to you?”

John flinched as if he’d been kicked in the belly, then walked past her in the darkness, bracing his hands against the balcony rail as he stared off into the night. He’d waited an eternity for justice, but did his personal justice supersede the safety of thousands of young servicemen and women?

He turned abruptly, a looming silhouette against the sky.

“His name…What’s your father’s name? How would he have access to those kinds of people?”

“His name is Richard Ponte. He’s the largest arms and munitions manufacturer in the western hemisphere.”

Darkness hid the shock on John’s face. It seemed that the soul of the man who’d killed his people had not learned much during the ensuing centuries. Then another thought surfaced. Alicia Ponte was clearly afraid of her father’s wrath, so…what did she think he would do to her?

“Does he know you overheard that conversation?”

Alicia’s shoulders slumped. “As of this afternoon, yes.”

A chill ran through John’s body that had nothing to do with the temperature outside.

“You fear him because…”

“Because when I figure out who in Washington, D.C., I can trust, I’m going to turn him in.”

John couldn’t believe it. The Old Ones must be cackling among themselves over the twist they’d just delivered. If Richard Ponte was indeed the man he sought, he was going to have to stand in line to get to him.

“What lengths do you think he’ll go to, to stop you?”

Bile rose in the back of Alicia’s throat. This was the question that had been hanging at the back of her mind ever since she’d left Miami. Saying aloud what she feared was only going to give life and power to the fear, but she had no choice. By going with John Nightwalker, she’d put him in the same tenuous position in which she’d put herself.

“Whatever it takes to silence me.”

Even as John asked, he couldn’t wrap his mind around what kind of man could commit such a heinous act. “You think your own father would have you killed?”

“In a heartbeat.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence, which Alicia finally broke.

“So…about now I’m guessing you wish you’d left me standing back at Marv’s Gas and Guzzle.”

She didn’t know there were tears on her face, but John saw them. Damn it…he didn’t want to feel sorry for her. Then she took a deep breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob.

“Well, hell,” he muttered.

Alicia saw a tiny flicker of moonlight catch on the tiny silver feather hanging from his ear as he moved toward her. Before she knew it, she was in his arms, with her nose pressed against his chest.

“What I wish is that you didn’t think your father is capable of killing you. That’s too much for anyone to bear,” he said quietly.

The rumble of his voice lulled her into a false sense of security. He was big and strong, and he’d come to her rescue. Lord knew she needed help. But she couldn’t continue this way without pointing out the obvious. She lingered one last moment longer, then stepped back.

“John…you have to know that by helping me, you’re putting yourself in danger.”

“You don’t need to worry about me.”

“But—”

John shook his head. He’d made his decision. He would help her get her story to the appropriate people first, then go after his own revenge. It was the right thing to do. The only thing.

“Seriously, I can take care of myself—and you—if you’ll let me.”

“I’ve already involved you too far.”

“Then the discussion is over,” John said. “I’m in. So how are you going to handle this?”

Alicia shrugged. “Carefully, that’s for sure. My father has friends in high places. I’ve got to make sure that I tell someone who won’t give me up to Dad.”

John stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned around, gazing back out across the water. As he wrestled with his conscience, he could hear the waves hitting the rocks that jutted out from the beach into the black, bottomless depths. Decency was winning out over revenge, and it wasn’t making him happy.

“I might know someone,” he finally said.

“In D.C.?” Alicia asked.

He nodded.

“And you trust him?”

John turned. “As much as I trust anyone.”

Alicia frowned. There was a tone in John’s voice that she didn’t recognize. It felt like sarcasm, but that didn’t make sense. Still, she wasn’t in any position to be picky.

“Then I thank you,” she said. “But it needs to be soon. If Dad believes I’ll give him up, he’ll run. He has the whole world in which to hide, and if he does, you know what that makes me? A sitting duck, that’s what.”

“I’ll make some calls tomorrow. But for now, you need to get some sleep.”

Alicia nodded, then lifted her chin. With a quiet grace, she took off the sweater he’d put around her shoulders, handed it to him with a slight nod, then turned around and walked back through his bedroom, then across the hall to her own.

John’s fingers curled into a fist as he clutched the sweater. It was still warm from her body. Muttering a soft, unintelligible curse, he followed her inside, locking the doors behind him. By the time he’d set the security alarms, the light was out in her room. He paused in the hallway by her door, then turned and entered his own suite.

It was time to rest, and to hope that tonight would be a night without dreams. But after the excitement of the day and the fresh hope that his quest would soon be over, it was too much to ask.

She looked up from the cooking fire, smiling at his approach. Her smile widened when she saw the haunch of deer meat he carried on his shoulder.

“I have made your favorite,” White Fawn said.

Night Walker inhaled appreciatively as he laid the deer haunch aside and squatted down beside his woman to peer into the cooking pot. The ground maize had been cooked to a thick porridge consistency, and flavored with strips of pemmican and fresh berries.

Night Walker dipped the stirring stick into the pot, then tasted it.

“More berries,” he said.

White Fawn laughed out loud. “You always say that,” she said as she thrust her hand into a basket beside the fire and scattered another handful of small black berries into the pot.

When Night Walker cupped the back of her head, she leaned into his touch.

“I would lie with you,” he said softly.

An ache spread through White Fawn’s belly as she saw the look in Night Walker’s eyes.

“And I with you,” she answered.

Night Walker set the pot beside the fire and threw a blanket over the meat to keep off the flies, then followed his woman into their hut. He pulled the flap over the doorway, shutting them in and the rest of the village out.

With one pull, the skins he wore tied around his waist fell at his feet.

White Fawn was already naked. Without taking her eyes from his face, she lay down on the furs that were their bed and waited for him to join her.

When he did, he made no pretense as to his intentions.

He lay beside her, then rose up on one elbow and slid his hand between her thighs, gently nudging her legs apart.

White Fawn’s heart was already beating fast, anticipating the pleasure that was to come.

In one swoop, he was inside her. She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him down, burying him deep. When he began to move, she met him thrust for thrust, and for a while, time stood still.

The scent of woodsmoke mingled with the passion-induced sweat from White Fawn’s body. Her tight, wet heat pulled at Night Walker with every thrust. She was everything beautiful to him, his own personal aphrodisiac. He would never get enough—could never get enough—of the woman who held his heart.

Slowly, slowly, the rhythm of their lovemaking became less steady, more frantic, harder and harder, until it burst within. White Fawn held him as he spilled his seed into her so-far-fruitless womb, then wept quiet, happy tears as he collapsed on top of her with a soft, satisfied moan.

John jerked, then sat up abruptly, searching the shadowed corners of his room for the woman he’d been making love to. His shoulders slumped as he wiped a shaky hand across his face and crawled out of bed.

He didn’t think about his guest as he walked naked through the house, quietly disarmed the security system and strode outside. The cool air felt good against his heated skin as he made his way down the backside of the bluff to the water below.

The steady ebb and flow of the ocean pulled at his senses like a drug as he walked into the surf. The water was cold—so cold—but he didn’t care. He needed the shock of it to wash away the dream—which was, if he’d ever stopped to analyze himself, ironic. While remembering their love and what he’d lost was often too painful, it was the memory of what had happened to her that kept him focused and sane.

When he was knee-deep in the ocean, he dove headfirst into the next wave and began to swim, fighting the current because it was the only enemy at hand. He swam until his muscles burned and his legs felt like jelly. Only then did he stop. Treading water, he turned to look toward shore. From this distance, his house was barely the size of a child’s building block, but the anger was gone. All that was left was a bone-deep weariness.

Without thinking, he began the long journey back, one stroke at a time.

Dawn was imminent on the horizon as he came out of the surf, his head down, his shoulders slumped. His steps dragged as he began the climb up the bluff.

Alicia woke up suddenly, her heart thumping, her eyes wide with fright. For a second she couldn’t remember where she was or how she’d gotten there. Then her gaze centered on a dream catcher hanging on the wall opposite her bed, and a face slid into her mind.

John Nightwalker.

She rubbed her face with her hands, then swung her legs off the bed and stood, stretching slowly as she made her way to the bathroom. A few minutes later, she came out just as the digital readout on the clock flicked over to ten minutes after six. The bed looked inviting, but there were too many unknowns in her life for her to be able to go back to sleep.

She needed to get to the authorities as soon as possible. The quicker she put a stop to her father’s dealings with terrorists, the sooner she would be safe. Once everyone knew, it would serve no purpose to keep her quiet. Nothing else would stop him. She’d grown up seeing his ruthlessness firsthand. Her mother had been the one who’d taught her what it meant to love. Her father’s lessons in life consisted of disappointments and lies. But her mother had been dead for years now, and Alicia was a woman long grown and strong. And she swore that determination—the one trait she’d inherited from her father—was going to prove to be the one that took him down.

Her suitcase was open on the floor. She thought about getting dressed, but it was nearing daybreak, and the idea of watching the sun come up on the horizon to signal the beginning of a new day was too enticing to miss. She noticed that the alarm system had been turned off, so she felt no concern as she hurried downstairs, then out the French doors to the terrace beyond. She walked to the edge, then out onto the grass and headed to the edge of the bluff.

A sea breeze instantly caught the hem of her nightgown and threaded it between her legs as she braced herself against the railing. The view was everything she’d expected and more. Already the line between dark and dawn was fading fast. In the east, there was an aura of pink and orange playing at visibility. Just another minute or two, and the sun in all its glory would be evident.

Alicia found herself watching intently, trying to guess the exact moment of its appearance, and because she was so focused on the sky, she didn’t see the man swimming in the water below. But then the sun broke, and all of a sudden the day was there. She smiled slowly in appreciation and was about to turn back when she saw him, waist deep and emerging from the ocean as steadily as the sun had appeared from below the horizon.

The first thought that crossed her mind was awe. The second was lust.

He’d been a commanding figure in clothes. Naked, he was magnificent. Even from this distance, the copper perfection of his body was impossible to ignore. Muscles everywhere they should be, wet and glistening in the new light of a new day. Then she looked past the obvious to the way his head was hanging, and the slight but weary slump of his body. He walked across the sand as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and something told her that had nothing to do with a strenuous workout.

A lump rose in her throat. Then he paused. When she saw him cover his face with his hands, her vision blurred. She could feel his sadness from here. But why? She thought of the way he’d spoken about his wife, and her heart ached. She’d never known love like that.

It wasn’t until John dropped his hands and looked up the bluff toward his house that Alicia realized he could see her. Now she was stuck. If she moved suddenly, he would think she was ashamed to be caught spying on him. So she did the only other thing she could; she waved and called down, “The sunrise was beautiful!” Then she waved once more and walked back into the house and up to her room.

She swiped angrily at the tears in her eyes as she dug through her suitcase for a clean change of clothes. He could think what he wanted. It was his own fault for walking around naked. Ignoring him would have been a whole lot easier if he had a potbelly and thinning hair.

A few minutes later she was dressed in a pair of blue shorts and a loose white blouse. She walked barefoot down the hall to the kitchen, hoping for a cup of coffee. But she got way more than she hoped for when John came in the back door.

“Good morning,” he said, and strode through the kitchen, leaving sandy footprints on the wood floor.

Alicia nodded, but the answer she might have given was stuck in the back of her throat. He was still unashamedly naked, but that wasn’t what had caused her heart to skip.

It was the scars.

Small ones.

Large ones.

All over his body.

All she could think was, what in God’s sweet name has happened to this man?

Three

Dieter was heartily glad that there were several states between him and Richard Ponte as he listened to his boss berate him up one side and down the other. He shifted the phone from one ear to the other while walking to the impound yard, confident that whatever it was he’d missed hearing wasn’t going to kill him, although Richard might.

“Do you have any idea where she’s gone?” Richard snapped.

Dust puffed up on Dieter’s pant legs as he walked, but he didn’t have the luxury of caring. “Not yet. I just got out of jail, and I’m on my way to get my car out of impound.”

Richard’s voice was quiet, steady—the antithesis of what he was feeling.

“You’d better be in a hurry. You’d better be running, boy,” Richard said. “You’d better finish what I sent you to do or don’t bother coming back, because if you come back without my daughter, I’ll kill you myself.”

Dieter picked up his step, telling himself it was just a figure of speech, that Ponte didn’t really mean it. Then Ponte’s voice got even quieter.

“Do we understand each other?” Richard asked.

Dieter changed his mind. Ponte’s threat was more than serious.

“Yes, sir. I understand. I’ll call you as soon as I have her located again.”

“Make it quick.”

“Yes, sir,” Dieter said, praying for the disconnect. When it clicked in his ear, he breathed a sigh of relief, dropped his phone in his pocket and lengthened his stride.

A short while later he had his car out of impound, heartily thankful that, if this had to happen, it had occurred in such a backwater place as Justice. He’d checked the trunk of his car to find everything he’d had with him was still in place. The black duffel bag was still lying at the back of the trunk, behind a spare tire and tools. He pulled it out, grunting with satisfaction as he checked through the contents, making sure everything was still there.

Two handguns with a fairly large supply of ammunition. A nice set of lockpicks, along with a couple of small hand drills—tools any burglar would want. A first-aid kit with two different vials of drugs meant to render someone unconscious, along with the necessary supply of syringes. Any cop worth his salt would have searched and confiscated all this. He thought of the skinny, smart-ass jailer who’d smirked at him, and snorted. The laugh was on them, and they didn’t even know it.

Satisfied that all was in place once again, he zipped up the bag, shoved it back behind the spare tire and slammed the trunk lid shut. As he got back in the car, he already knew his next destination would be the last place he’d seen Alicia Ponte. At a place called Marv’s Gas and Guzzle.

Daisy Broyles had come to work for Marv Spaulding on her sixteenth birthday and had been here ever since. Job security had been assured after she’d turned nineteen and married Marv. Now they lived in the little brick house behind the store, which suited Daisy just fine. She liked small-town living, and Justice, Georgia, was small-town personified.

This morning was passing much like every morning did. Herbert and Hubert Cooper, two old bachelors who happened to be identical twins, had come in around seven o’clock, downed their usual three cups of coffee and two of Daisy’s fresh-baked cinnamon rolls apiece and then left with a wave and a promise to be back tomorrow.

Marshall Walters’ daughter, Sue, had stopped by for gas to mow their lawn.

Three little boys came in with a dollar apiece and spent fifteen minutes arguing between themselves before settling on pop and candy. And the morning went on, with a steady flow of locals stopping by.

The morning scent of cinnamon rolls was slowly being replaced by the food Daisy was preparing for the lunch rush. She already had a dozen burritos fried up, a pan of crusty chicken strips, a big bowl of potato salad and a bowl of slaw. She was wrapping her chocolate-chip cookies in clear plastic for individual sale when she saw a car pull off the highway and park near the door.

She frowned, recognizing the car. No one had ever pulled a stunt like that here. Passing out drunk at one of her gas pumps was ridiculous. He could have killed someone driving drunk. Yesterday, it was all anybody had wanted to talk about when they’d come in. She was tired of the subject, and tired of the jackass who’d done it. Marv had reminded her last night that they’d been lucky the sorry sucker had stopped before he’d passed out. Like Marv told her, if the drunk had still been driving when he’d conked out, they might have had a mess on their hands. What if he’d hit the pumps? What if he’d run into another customer? Finally Daisy had relented, admitting Marv had a point.

But seeing the man walking toward the door didn’t mean she was ready to sell him some more booze so he could get behind the wheel and drive again. With that thought in mind, she braced herself against the counter, crossed her arms over her ample bosom and set her jaw. Southern women had their ways. If he argued with her, she would show him what a real steel magnolia was all about.

Dieter didn’t know he’d already been made, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Finding Alicia’s car parked right beside his in the impound yard hadn’t made him feel any better about the situation. It was his own fault for giving away the GPS business. He’d just assumed she would have known. Now she was running again, but in what—and with whom? He needed to find out who that big Indian was she’d been with yesterday. He was the only lead he had.

The bell over the door jingled, then played a short burst of “Dixie” as the door swung shut. Surprised by the unexpected tune, he was actually grinning as he spied the clerk. But from the way she was glaring, she didn’t look happy to see him.

He shifted his attitude to all-business as he moved toward the counter.

“Uh…ma’am…I was wondering if you were working here yesterday?”

Daisy glared. “I work here every day. You buying gas?”

Dieter stuttered. “Uh…no, I was wondering if—”

“Cokes are on sale. Ninety-nine cents for a 16 ounce.”

“No thanks, I was just—”

“Goes good with the cinnamon rolls. Dollar apiece, but they’re homemade and worth every penny.”

Dieter was slow, but he finally caught on. Nothing came free, not even information. He grabbed a Coke and pointed toward the bakery case. “I’ll take two,” he said as he dug in his pocket for money to pay.

Daisy sacked up two cinnamon rolls, added a napkin and took his money. Only after she’d realized he wasn’t in the market for booze and had done some fair trading—money for goods received—was she ready to listen.

Dieter stood, waiting for her to nail him again while the condensation on his cold pop ran between his fingers and dripped on the floor. The smell of cinnamon was enticing. He wished he smelled as good, and thought about taking time to find a motel for a shower and shave. But dealing with body odor was going to have to come second to the task at hand.

“Uh…”

Daisy frowned. “Speak your piece, mister. I ain’t got all day.”

Dieter nodded. “Yesterday, I, uh…”

“Oh, I know all about yesterday. You passed out drunk in your car right out there at my pumps. I don’t take kindly to drunk drivers.”

Dieter didn’t intend to go into details. He just needed answers, and the way he figured it, an apology would get him further than an explanation.

“I’m real sorry about all that,” he said. “I hope you weren’t put out in any way.”

Daisy sniffed. “I might have missed a customer or two, seeing as how you were blocking one side of the pumps.”

Dieter nodded. “Yes, well…like I said. I’m sorry.”

Daisy frowned. “So what’s your problem today?”

“Yesterday, before I…uh, I mean…there was a man at the other pump when I arrived. I was wondering if you noticed who it was…or if you knew him?”

“I didn’t even see you until they came to haul you and your car away. Unless they come in, I don’t pay them much mind. Lots of people come and go here, and most pay at the pump with credit cards these days. Pumps won’t work unless they come in and pay me first, or use a credit card,” Daisy stated. “What did he look like?”

“He was a little above average height. Native American, with short dark hair and a silver earring in on ear.”

“Oh. That sounds like Big John,” Daisy said.

Dieter’s pulse kicked. She knew him. Maybe things were going to work out after all.

“John. Yes, yes, that’s the name he gave. Do you know where I can find him?”

Daisy’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why?”

“Uh, well…we were talking, and he mentioned he had a car for sale. I thought I’d drive by and take a look at it, since I’m still in the area.”

Daisy frowned. “I don’t know exactly where he lives. All I know is it’s that way.”

She pointed north.

“I seem to have forgotten his last name,” Dieter added.

“Nightwalker,” Daisy said. “His name is John Nightwalker.”

Dieter smiled. “Thanks so much,” he said, and headed out the door. He opened the Coke and took a big bite of a cinnamon roll before he put the car in gear and drove away. Things were already looking up.

Richard Ponte was alternating between panic and pure unadulterated rage. This was a nightmare. His carefully balanced empire was in danger of toppling, and all because of his own blood. A part of him knew it was his own fault. He’d been so confident of the power he wielded that he’d gotten careless, doing business at home. He knew better. But he hadn’t done better.

He glanced at his watch. It had only been an hour since he’d last talked to Dieter. He palmed his cell phone, resisting the urge to call Alicia again—to try to talk her into coming home on her own. After the fight they’d had, he knew that wasn’t going to happen. She hadn’t seemed to care about where the money came from that had afforded her the luxurious lifestyle she’d enjoyed. Who knew she could turn into a flag-waving bleeding heart? The truth was, he didn’t really know her at all, and this incident was proof of that. And learning she was no longer alone had been shocking. Where had the man Dieter described come from? How and when had she met him? It was all a mystery—and a mess.

The phone began to ring, jarring him out of his reverie. He glanced at the caller ID and then relaxed, shifted into business mode and answered with his usual voice of authority, and the morning continued.

Alicia was pouring herself a refill from the coffeepot when John came back into the kitchen. This time he was dressed, thank God. She didn’t think she could take another reality jolt like that without making a fool of herself.

“Did you find everything you needed?” John asked as he got a cup down from the cabinet and filled it.

Alicia lifted her cup. “Coffee was enough.”

John’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he raked her body with a slow, assessing gaze. Then he reached back in the cabinet, got down two bowls and pointed to a door behind her.

“There are a couple of kinds of dry cereal in the pantry. Pick one for yourself. I want Cocoa Puffs. Would you mind passing them over?”

“But coffee is—”

“You’re too thin.”

Alicia’s mouth dropped. In the world of high fashion, there was no such thing. She reached for the Cocoa Puffs and handed them to him, and as she did, she began to smile. The cartoonlike characters on the cereal box were such opposites of the persona this man projected. She eyed the other box of cereal, touting health and bran, then opted for Cocoa Puffs, as well.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had chocolate anything for breakfast before.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Why not?”

Alicia paused with the bowl in her hand, and even as the words were coming out of her mouth, she knew how ridiculous they were going to sound.

“I guess because no one ever offered it.”

John’s eyes widened as he turned, staring at her as if she were a curiosity.

“Haven’t you ever made a meal for yourself?”

She felt heat on her face and an odd sense of guilt, as if she’d been examined and found lacking.

“No.”

He thought of White Fawn, down on her knees scraping bits of flesh and tallow from the insides of skins, hanging slivers of deer meat over small fires to smoke and dry. Picking berries to add to his meals, the tips of her fingers stained blue from their juice.

Then he took a slow breath and nodded. Judging her wasn’t any of his business, although he couldn’t resist a small dig.

“Sounds to me like you should have run away from home a long time ago.”

“You’re probably right,” she shot back. “Pass me the cereal when you’re through, please.”

He grinned and handed over the box.

Alicia felt its weight in her hand, but at that moment, she couldn’t have moved to save her soul. That smile…Sweet mercy. Thankfully, he turned his back on her to retrieve the milk from the refrigerator. By the time he came back, she had pulled herself together and had filled her bowl.

“Don’t float it,” she muttered, when he began to pour milk on her cereal.

He paused, eyeing the intent expression on her face as she watched the little chocolate puffs rising with the milk. He didn’t want to admit it, but she intrigued him.

“Then pour it yourself and consider it your first stab at cooking.”

Alicia’s face burned even more. She’d been rude, but not intentionally.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “That came out as a demand, and I didn’t mean for it to.”

John shrugged. “You’re not running for Miss Congeniality…but we need to remember that you are running. So sit down and eat. When we’ve finished, we need to make a plan to get you to the proper authorities.”

Alicia wanted to be angry. She wasn’t used to being talked to this way, but her own sense of justice made her admit she’d asked for it.

“Yes. Thank you,” she said, then took the spoon he offered and followed him to the kitchen table.

They ate in silence. Every now and then, Alicia would sneak a peek at his face to see if he was still irked with her, but he seemed to have let it all go, which was fine. She thought about the scars on his body and wanted to ask, but she’d already been rude once. Adding to her list of transgressions didn’t seem like a good idea, not when he was helping her like this. So she dug into her cereal, enjoying the sugar-loaded treat more than she would have imagined.

Once John looked up and caught her in the act of staring. Instead of looking away, he surprised her by staring back.

Before she could move, he reached over and swiped his thumb across the corner of her mouth. “Chocolate milk.” When he licked the milk off his thumb in a slow, studied motion, an ache shot through her belly so fast she groaned.

“You okay?” he asked.

Hell no. “Other than the fact that you’ve discovered my ineptitude at feeding myself, my inability to take care of myself and the fact that I can’t keep all my food in my mouth, I’m just peachy.”

It was the sarcasm that got him. He grinned.

“Point taken.” He got up and put his dirty dishes in the sink. “Don’t rush on my account. I’m going to the office to check my e-mail and make a few calls.”

Alicia nodded, while another concern suddenly surfaced. She didn’t know a thing about what he did or how he got the money to live this way.

“What do you do for a living?” she asked.

He paused, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully, then shrugged. “These days, I mostly buy and sell stuff.”

“Oh…you play the stock market?”

“I don’t play at anything. One facet of my life is importing and exporting things, some of which are antiquities.”

“Really? Like what I saw hanging on your walls?”

“No, most of those are family relics. Feel free to look around. I won’t be long.” He turned and left.

Alicia nodded, then eyed his purposeful stride, along with his backside, with honest female appreciation.

Once she finished eating, she set her dishes in the sink as he’d done, then glanced out the windows. The wind was up. Whitecaps rode the waves all the way in to shore and then out again, while the waves crashed against the rocks. Not a good morning for a stroll on the beach, although it mirrored the turmoil in her life.

She needed to think. She knew senators, congress-men—all kinds of Washington, D.C., bigwigs…but they were also her father’s contemporaries. His cohorts. They were people who’d been to dinner at their Miami home, who’d vacationed with them at their villa in Italy. Which ones—if any—could she trust with her information? She’d grown up watching her father buy loyalty the way other people bought groceries. If she told the wrong person, she would be signing her own death warrant.

She wandered past the library, then down the hall into the living room, where Native American artifacts had been hung in tasteful abandon. But she wasn’t really seeing them for the worries and thoughts going through her mind. Then her gaze landed on some photos, and she moved a little closer.

They were obviously old—tintypes, sepia-colored daguerreotypes, even an old panorama-style photo taken on the rim of some mountain that overlooked a great chasm with a river far below.

She squinted her eyes to read the tiny label affixed to the bottom of the frame, noting that it was of a portion of the Grand Canyon and the river was the mighty Colorado. The photo to the right was of a single figure, a Native American man with hair hanging almost to his waist. His face was painted and his chest was bare. He was wearing a breechclout made of skins, with some kind of leggings. It was hard to make out details, considering the picture was an old sepia print, and faded at that.

But Alicia hadn’t been raised in her father’s business without some of it rubbing off, because it was the rifle he was cradling in his arms that caught her attention. It looked like a long rifle. One of the old single-shots that required patches and powder and lead balls. She glanced at his face again, partially hidden by the long fall of hair on either side, then started to move on when something caught her eye.

She leaned closer, peering intently at the man’s bare chest. There was a crescent-shaped scar right below his collarbone on the left side of his chest, just like one of the scars she’d seen on John’s chest this morning, when he’d walked into the house naked. She glanced up at the face in the photo, studying the features beneath the paint. Something about them…

“Fierce-looking creature, isn’t he?”

She jumped. The deep rasp of John’s voice in her ear was unexpected.

She nodded, then glanced at the collar of John’s T-shirt, curious about the similar scar, but the shirt concealed it.

“Do you know who he is? There’s no name on the photo.”

John glanced down at her, then shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged.

“A distant relative.”

“Oh…that explains why I thought he looked a little like you.”

John’s mouth twitched at the corner as he pretended to study the photo a little closer. It wouldn’t do to tell her flat out that it was him, and that he not only remembered the day the picture had been taken, but that he still had the rifle he was holding.

“I guess, to the whites, all Indians look alike,” he said, and then changed the subject. “Regarding your situation…have you figured out how you’re going to inform the authorities of what your father is doing?”

Alicia frowned. She didn’t think of herself as ethnically prejudiced and didn’t like him attributing that bias to her.

“I didn’t say that,” she replied, ignoring his question. “I said he looks a little like you. In fact, you even share a similar scar. Right there,” she added, pointing to the photo.

Without thinking, John’s hand moved to his chest, feeling the scar beneath the soft fabric of his shirt. He started to ask her how she knew about his scars, then remembered he’d walked bare-assed through the house right in front of her this morning, and sighed. It served him right.

“Hmm, I guess we do,” he said. “I never noticed.”

“You have a lot of scars,” she said.

“Yes.”

Alicia thought he would elaborate, but when he didn’t, she didn’t have the guts to ask him why.

“Now, about those phone calls,” John said. “What’s your plan?”

Alicia could tell the discussion about his ancestry was, for the time being, over. And he was right. There were things that needed to be set in motion so justice could be served.

“There are a lot of powerful people who are friends with my father, but this isn’t information that a regular police department would even deal with. Maybe the FBI…only Dad went to college with the deputy director. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not accusing him of being in cahoots with Dad, but I’m also not certain if he’d believe me. I have this image in my head of trying to convince people of the truth while Dad finds a way to make me out to be crazy…claiming I’m trying to ruin him because he disowned me, or something. And I don’t want to wind up in some loony bin, drugged out of my mind to keep me quiet, or six feet under because I was nothing but collateral damage on his path to his personal goals.”

John was listening, but he was also distracted by the fact that from where she was standing, he could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra. It irked him that he’d even noticed, and he chalked it up to the fact that it had been a while since he’d been with a woman. Maybe all he needed was to take another drive down to Savannah, although the last time he was there, he’d gotten mixed up in a bank robbery and shot for his troubles.

“So what do you think?” she prodded.

That you’re not as skinny as I thought. “Uh…that it’s your call.”

She groaned, then turned away and strode to the windows.

John followed.

“Look…if you really don’t trust the powers that be, there’s always the media,” he said.

Alicia’s frustration shifted. “What do you mean?” she asked as she turned to face him.

“You know the newspapers…always ready for the next big scoop. I know a journalist who works out of D.C.—Corbin Woodliff.”

“The Corbin Woodliff who won a Pulitzer a couple of years ago?”

“Yes.”

Alicia’s pulse skipped. That might be the answer. “Can you get me in to see him?”

“If he’s in the country,” John said, watching the play of emotions on her face.

Alicia’s voice rose an octave, evidence of her excitement. “If he broke the news, then the authorities would have to follow through. They couldn’t ignore it. They couldn’t be bought off if there was a huge public outcry.”

John nodded.

A smile began in her eyes, then spread to her lips as she impulsively threw her arms around his neck and hugged him.

“Oh, John…I think you’ve just saved my life…again.”

The first thought that crossed his mind was that he’d been right. She wasn’t wearing a bra. The second was that he’d managed to keep himself involved in her business by being the go-between for her source, which was good. He would do whatever it took to get to Richard Ponte. He wouldn’t let himself care that he was using her. His agenda had been going on too long for him to care about anything or anyone but the end result.

Before Alicia had a chance to register what she’d done, an alarm began going off. She jumped back, startled, as she looked around for the source of the sound.

“What’s that?” she cried.

John’s eyes narrowed. “A security alarm. Someone just came through the gate at the end of the driveway.”

“Was it locked?”

“Yes.” He didn’t add that he had additional security in place, in case anyone tried to bypass that lock.

“It’s not possible that it’s just a delivery…or a visitor?”

“I don’t get visitors.”

Alicia looked at him strangely. “Ever?”

“Ever,” John muttered as he headed for his office to check the security cameras, with Alicia right behind him.

Within seconds of getting to the security screen, he recognized who had triggered the alarm—and so did Alicia.

“It’s Dieter! Oh God…he’s found me! That means Dad knows where I am again.” Panic set in as the ramifications began to unfold. “That means you’re in danger, too. I shouldn’t have—”

John grabbed her by the shoulders. “Stop it! Stay here. I’ll deal with this.”

“But—”

He gave her a slight shake. “No buts. Just sit here and calm down. I’ll be back.”

That was easier said than done, but she did sit down, her gaze glued to the security screen as she listened to John’s receding footsteps.

It hadn’t taken Dieter long to find where John Nightwalker lived. Ironically, his success in locating the man was entirely due to the friendliness of Southerners. After a few wrong turns, he’d come upon a farmer fixing a fence on the shoulder of the road and stopped to ask him if he knew where an Indian called Big John lived.

The man swiped at the sweat on his face with the back of his sleeve, then pointed north. “About two miles on down the road. Got two big iron gates right across the drive. Can’t miss it,” he said, and went back to his fence.

Dieter quickly located the place. But the gates he’d been expecting were something similar to what he’d seen out in the farmer’s pasture to separate one field from another, not these. Not only were they every bit of fourteen, maybe even sixteen, feet high, they locked electronically. They were made of massive iron bars and very similar to the gates at the Ponte estate in Miami. It made him wonder who John Nightwalker was, and what he was doing up in those trees that he didn’t want anyone to see. Those gates told him that further security measures were no doubt also in place, but he was too afraid of his boss to listen to common sense and take a chance of failing him a second time.

There was a call button on the gate that was meant to be used, allowing whoever was at the other end to furnish access. But Dieter didn’t intend to announce his arrival.

He popped the trunk lid, then got out. Moments later, he headed toward the gate with his duffel bag in hand. He worked his way into the wiring, bypassed the electronic switch and disarmed it. When he heard it click, he grunted with satisfaction.

Within minutes, he was most of the way up the drive, running a mental checklist of his weapons and what he might need to get Alicia Ponte into his car.

When he turned a curve and saw Nightwalker’s black Jeep coming at him at full speed from the house in the background, his mind went into a tailspin. How the hell had the man known? No time for that. He switched into operations mode. He could ram the Jeep, but if the impact disabled his own vehicle, then he couldn’t get away. He was grabbing for his handgun as he stomped the brake and jammed the gearshift into Park.

He jumped out, keeping the open door between him and the vehicle coming at him, then hunkered down and fired.

The first shot hit a tire; the second went into the radiator, sending a spew of steam into the air. He expected the man to get out, but he thought the man would run for cover, not come at him with his bare fists. He hadn’t planned on leaving a body behind, but Ponte’s orders had been plain: Bring Alicia back at all costs. And now that order was about to cost this big Indian his life.

He stood up from behind the car door and took aim.

“Stop right there or I’ll shoot,” he yelled.

But John didn’t stop.

Seeing the gun was proof enough to him that Alicia had been right about her father. He wanted her back bad, and he was willing to do anything to shut her up. When Dieter yelled, John knew what was coming. He dreaded the first burst of pain, even while knowing it wouldn’t last.

“You’re trespassing on private property,” he called as he continued to approach.

Dieter’s finger tightened on the trigger. “I came to get Alicia. Turn her over to me now and I’ll let you live.”

“No,” John said coldly. “Get off my property now and I’ll let you live.”

Dieter’s heart skipped a beat. Why would an unarmed man make such a futile threat? Was there something here he was missing? He glanced nervously from side to side, searching the perimeter of the roadside for the possibility of guards he hadn’t taken into account, but no one showed. Convinced he was still in control of the situation, he pointed the gun straight at John’s chest.

“I’m warning you,” Dieter said. “Get back. All I want is the girl.”

“Not in this lifetime,” John said, and made a lunge toward the door.

Dieter fired and ducked just as the door slammed into his belly, face and shins. He was so blinded by the blood and pain he didn’t see his shot hit John in the shoulder, didn’t see the ensuing stain of red that began to spread across the front of John’s shirt.

The shot spun John around, landing him flat on his back in the dirt.

From her chair in the library, Alicia saw it all. The shock of realizing Dieter was willing to kill to get to her was confirmation of how desperate her situation was. When she saw Dieter fire and John fall back into the dirt, she ran out of the house and down the driveway, screaming Dieter’s name, begging him to stop and praying the shot wasn’t a mortal one.

Dieter staggered out from behind the door with the gun in his hand and his face streaming blood. His nose was broken. His lips had been crushed against his teeth so sharply that the insides felt like raw meat. There was a cut on his cheek and another on his chin, and he was cursing at the top of his voice, nearly blind with pain.

“You sorry bastard! You broke my face! All you had to do was back off, but you didn’t!”

He pulled the trigger again, sending a shot into John’s leg. The wound in John’s shoulder was already closing, and he was halfway to his feet when the next shot dropped him again. In the distance, he thought he could hear Alicia screaming. That meant she hadn’t stayed put. It also meant he needed to gain control of the situation before Dieter grabbed her and took off.

He rolled over onto his belly, grabbed a handful of dirt and then gritted his teeth as he pushed himself upright. Before Dieter could register the fact that the man he’d put two bullets in was up, John threw the dirt in his face.

Dieter ducked, but not soon enough. Dirt hit him square in the face, filling both eyes with painful grit and sand. He clawed at his face as John grabbed him, knocked the gun out of his hand with a hard chop to his wrist, then hit him in the chin with his fist. Dieter went down like a felled oak.

Once John had the man down and out, he gave in to the pain, leaning across the hood of the assailant’s car, bent double with the suffering.

That was how Alicia found him. The horror in her voice was evident as she arrived, out of breath and screaming.

“Oh my God, oh my God…You’re shot. He shot you. You need to sit down.” She started rifling through Dieter’s car, looking for his cell phone. She found it on the console and ran back to John’s side. “I’ll call for an ambulance. Oh…wait…I don’t know this address. What do I say?”

The pain in John’s leg had subsided to a dull throb. He pushed himself up from the car, took the phone from her hand and laid it on the hood, then grabbed her by the shoulders. “Stop. Look at me. I’m okay, see?”

“You’re not okay. You’re bleeding.” She yanked at his shirt, pulling it back so she could see the wound more clearly.

John gritted his teeth. Now it would come. He pulled away from her grasp, but she was still staring, her mouth agape.

Alicia could see where the bullet had gone in. Although the flesh looked red and swollen, the tear was almost shut. It didn’t make sense. She kept looking from the wound to John’s face and back to the wound again. Then he moved, and as he did, he put himself directly between her and the sun. Within seconds, Alicia’s view of him changed. All she could see was a dark silhouette, backlit by a halo of light. The skin on the back of her neck began to crawl as the thought went through her mind that John Nightwalker wasn’t human.

It was the only thing that made sense of what she had seen. He’d been shot. She’d seen him fall. The coppery scent of his blood was still strong in her nose, but the hole in his shoulder was almost closed. She looked down at his leg. The bloodstain on his jeans had quit spreading, too.

“How…?”

“It’s complicated.”

She wrapped her arms around herself and then took an unsteady step backward, staring at him in disbelief.

John had been there before, watching the looks on people’s faces, seeing the doubt, then the fear. Sometimes it bothered him. Sometimes it didn’t. Today was one of those didn’t-bother-him days, and besides, there were things yet to be done. He glanced down at Dieter’s unconscious body, then pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.

“Who are you calling?” Alicia asked, then got her answer when he began to talk.

“Hi, Carl, this is John Nightwalker again.”

“Hey, John. How you doin’?”

“Oh…okay, I guess—although I’ve had better days. Someone just broke into my property and took a couple of shots at me. Shot out a tire and my radiator, too.”

“For the love of Pete! You don’t say. Hang on. I’ll dispatch some help right out to you.”

John winced, then shifted the weight from his right leg to his left. “Thanks. I’ve got it under control, but I want to press charges. Could you send someone out to pick him up? Oh…you’ll also need a wrecker for his vehicle. I’ll be needing a wrecker, too, but I’ll call Shelby’s Garage down in Justice.”

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