She would stay until the weekend and then disappear.

She’d been at Moon’s house almost a month and it was past time she moved out. Her ankle had mended, and Moon had removed the stitches last night.

She needed to get back to her own life. But it wouldn’t be easy to leave Moon’s cabin. She had become comfortable living with him. And she was more than attracted to him. She looked forward to seeing him each morning, sharing his day. She was forgetting who she was, and in a frightening way that felt good.

When she left Moon’s home she would miss his jeans hugging his hips, and the way his flannel shirts outlined his strong shoulders and sturdy back. But mostly she would miss his generosity and the way his deep voice always turned soft when he spoke to her. How he dragged out the word honey.

He said it like she was important to him. Like he really cared what happened to her. What would he do if he found out the truth?

Perfect Assassin
Wendy Rosnau

www.millsandboon.co.uk

WENDY ROSNAU

was named Writer of the Year by Midwest Fiction Writers in 2004. She also received the Rising Star Award in 2001. Her first book, The Long Hot Summer, was a Romantic Times nominee for Best First Series Romance of 2000. She lives in Minnesota.

To Pati and Dwight for your warm hospitality, your shared knowledge of Montana and especially the Glacier area. To backroads, mountain passes and finding the perfect lake—we did it all.

Also to my parents who took this journey with me. We relived old memories, made new ones and laughed along the way.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Prologue

It was a three-hundred-yard, kiss-your-ass-goodbye shot. The rifle, an Austrian Steyr AUG with a history for accuracy at twice as many yards.

The assassin took aim as the red handkerchief drifted on the cool morning breeze. It floated, lifted then settled on the ground in a graceful, almost poetic swan song. A synchronized second later, a slender finger with a neatly trimmed pink nail squeezed the trigger.

The bullet struck the British Intelligence agent in the right temple, and before Alton Bromly hit the pavement in the middle of Sloup svate Trojice, the assassin disappeared off the rooftop of the Moravske Muzeum in Brno, mentally crossing number one off the list.

Minutes later, the assassin walked through the market square to a parked brown sedan and climbed into the passenger seat. There, Prisca Reznik pulled off her black stocking cap and shook out her raven-black layers.

“This one was easy for you—good way to begin,” the driver said, tucking the red handkerchief into his pocket.

Otto was an analytical man. Maybe not the best shot in his own right, but he’d been in the business long enough to know perfection when he saw it, so he had told Prisca. During her months of practice he had stood behind her, analyzing each shot. Praising her talent, and squeezing her shoulder.

“Ja, perfection is a beautiful thing,” he muttered as he tossed the remains of an orange out the open window, then took the compact leather gun case off her lap and lifted it over the seat and into the back.

He was all about taking care of her. A task that he seemed to enjoy since Prisca’s father had hired him. For three months he had attended to everything, from where they would sleep each night to what they would eat each morning.

A multi-task expert, he had become her mother, father, friend, bodyguard and controller for each assassination.

Prisca tossed the stocking cap into the back seat. It landed on the black leather gun case. Her father’s signature gun disassembled inside—his pride and joy, and now hers.

“The shot,” Otto began, “was—”

“On target. Let’s leave it at that.” Prisca didn’t hide the edge in her voice. She wasn’t experienced in the art of killing, and it would take some time to feel good about her new profession.

She pulled the seat belt around her narrow waist and buckled up. Staring out the window, she heard him expel a heavy sigh.

“It’ll get easier,” he soothed, as if he had read her thoughts. “Bromly was a double agent. He was weak in character and in morals. A man who would sell his mother to a glue factory to increase his bank account.”

The comment was meant to make her feel better, and in an odd way it did. Her own mother was gone and she was sensitive about anything that had to do with family.

She asked, “How do you know that?”

“I’m paid to know these things. But you don’t need to concern yourself with unimportant details. Our mission has been authorized, and we do what we must. Government assassins make sacrifices. Remember the cause when you pull the trigger, then let it go.”

“All right. I’ve done my job, and I’m letting go. It was a good shot. No more need be said.”

“The shot was better than good. What it was, Miss Pris, was absolute perfection. It is a beautiful thing to watch, your father’s gun in your hands. You’re magnificent.”

Prisca ignored the silly nickname he had given her years ago and was glad when Otto put the car into Drive and sped away from the curb.

She had told herself she could do this, not to think about the act or the victim. Still, her sage-brown eyes searched the market square, a mix of emotions altering her breathing.

An elderly woman carrying a brown shopping bag had stopped near the body. At first she simply stood there staring, then suddenly she started to scream and point to Bromly sprawled between two merchant vendors.

He lay on his side, a paper cup of spilt coffee beside him. His left hand still clutched a market bag. The soles of his shoes were visible, as well as his bare ankles—Alton wasn’t wearing socks this morning.

“Yes, everything about you is perfect, Miss Pris,” Otto continued, completely ignoring the sound of a police siren and the growing pandemonium in the square. “Never think I take it, or your father’s faith in my ability to protect such perfection, for granted. It’s an honor. To know one’s purpose in life…it settles the soul, and focuses the mind. You are my purpose, Miss Pris, and I pledge unconditional devotion to you in all things. Whatever you require, you need only to ask. Anything and everything I have is yours.”

Still blind to the mayhem in the market square, Otto steered the sedan past the growing crowd. They would leave Czechoslovakia and head back to Austria. Stay in the flat Otto had secured in Vienna. She would rest and try not to think about her sobering new profession, while Otto began detailing the next hit.

“You were meticulously precise, Miss Pris. Not too anxious. That’s the key. Perfection can’t be rushed. An artist is what you are. The way you—”

“Otto…please.”

“That old Brit’s cerebrum was mush before his knees hit the—”

“Trust me, I know the power behind a SS109.”

“Trust you? Of course, Miss Pris. With my life. And you know you can trust me with yours. I would die for you.” He glanced at her, his eyes full of emotion.

She knew it was true. Otto would die for her because he loved her. Ja, it was in the eyes, and she had always been good at reading the eyes. Yes, love, she saw it there now, and each time she caught him staring. And she saw something else, too—hope that one day she would return that love.

But she wouldn’t ever feel that way about him. Otto was like the brother she’d never had. He was thirty, eleven years older than she was.

She closed her eyes, and rested her head on the seat. Rubbed her forehead.

“If your headache is still bothering you, there’s a bottle of pills in the glove compartment. And water there, between the seats.”

“Thank you. Can we talk about something else?”

“You’re right. Let’s forget about Bromly. He’s history. Number two awaits us in Italy, in three weeks. An American by the name of Walrich. And like Bromly, his self-serving activities have marked him for death. Then we’re off to Poland, followed by Germany and Vancouver after that. Once we’ve finished with the first ten on the list we will take a break to let the trail grow cold. Be thinking where you want to go.” He turned and smiled at her. “I vote for someplace warm. We’ll call it a vacation.”

Prisca didn’t say anything. She wasn’t going to Poland with him after Italy. But she would let him make the flight plans and all the arrangements. Otto wouldn’t understand or appreciate what she’d been contemplating for weeks. After all, he was loyal to her father’s wishes. He bore the title of controller now. A detail man who had one primary goal—to stay on schedule and to make sure she performed perfectly.

Let Otto think she was content with the schedule that had been laid out. But things had changed since the kill-file had been composed. Tragedy had struck her life, and at the moment Otto’s focus was not hers.

Bromly may have deserved to die, but she knew of two men who deserved it more. She wasn’t abandoning her father’s instructions, or his all-important mission, just altering the line-up. Those on the list would still die, she had made a promise, and she, too, was loyal. But what difference could it make if someone lived a few weeks longer and someone else died a few weeks sooner? What would it matter if she hit number twelve and twenty-one ahead of schedule? In the end justice would still be served.

Only Otto wouldn’t understand, or agree to altering the line-up. He would remind her of their promise to each other, and to her father.

True, they were bound together by tragedy and circumstance. Her mother had died on Glass Mountain, and Otto’s father Jakob had sacrificed his life as well.

Prisca hugged herself, feeling the chill of loneliness wrap its cold fingers around her. Her life had been ripped apart—her family destroyed. She had a right to alter the schedule. She had a right to seek justice for what had been taken from her.

The revenge she sought might not be sweet, but it was necessary. Not for peace of mind—there would never again be room for solace in her heart—but she needed the finality in order to move forward.

The only sure thing in her life was the legacy her father had left behind. She was her father’s daughter, the daughter of Holic Reznik, and she would not fail him.

Practice makes perfect, he had always told her. She had taken the words to heart that day at Groffen when she’d raised her rifle and drilled the paper target with supreme accuracy. It had proven to her father that she’d been listening, demonstrated what dedication and patience could accomplish.

And it had confirmed that she was her father’s daughter in every way that was important.

“To you, Mother, I promise eternal love, and to you, Father, undying loyalty.” Prisca felt her heart constrict, felt the pain bone-deep. “And to those who took both of you from me, I promise death.”

Chapter 1

A failed mission. There had been so few of those at Onyxx that it was hard to swallow. But what else could you call it when the kill-file that had been recovered was a fraud—a fake that had led to an agent’s death, and started the killing?

What they had tried to prevent had begun. And there would be more to come. There were close to a hundred names marked for death in the infamous kill-file.

Merrick entered his office in a sour mood. He’d just faced his superiors upstairs and conceded that mistakes had been made. He had been forced to explain that somehow Holic Reznik had switched the file, and what they had recovered was a rearranged version of the master copy. A useless list that was meant to mock and torture. To twist the knife a little deeper.

Holic was a master game player. Somehow he’d managed to hand off the original to a class-act assassin who was as loyal as he was talented. Someone Holic trusted—Merrick had seen the twinkle in the devil’s eyes when Holic had spoken of his replacement. He had seen the supreme elation that the killing had begun, and that he had outsmarted them.

They were left with a useless file with dates and names out of sequence, with a nameless assassin on the loose willing to do whatever Holic asked of him.

Holic was under lock and key, but the smell of death was still ripe in the air. He was laughing at them from his cell, and it made Merrick want to strangle the bastard.

“Damn you, Holic,” Merrick muttered as he stood at the window in his Washington office. He was tempted to open his bottom drawer and pour himself a drink. He needed one, but he’d been considering joining AA. The booze had become too important, a daily necessity. Hell, he’d been slamming shots a dozen times a day for fifteen years, and it was finally catching up with him.

The truth was he hadn’t dealt with Johanna’s death. The guilt was still eating him from the inside out, and he preferred living with his pain. He deserved no better. Certainly not solace, or to be freed from his guilt. Johanna was gone, and he was the reason her life had been cut short.

Merrick slipped behind his desk and opened the report he’d received on the dead British Intelligence agent. Alton Bromly had been thirty-six, single and a veteran with a number of successful missions to his credit.

He scanned the data on how and where he’d been killed. It had all the signs of Holic’s signature assassinations—one shot, right temple. Ammunition type, a Nato-standard SS109.

“Amazing,” Merrick muttered. If he didn’t know it was a physical impossibility for Holic to make the hit, he would say that their cell guest at Clume was a magician. But Holic was no magician.

He’d been locked up behind bars for three months.

So who had pulled the trigger on Bromly? Who the hell was Holic’s sharpshooter replacement?

A loud rap sounded at the door, and Merrick closed the file. “Come in.”

Pierce Fourtier entered. Like Sly and Bjorn and the other agents under Merrick’s command, Pierce had earned the Onyxx tag of rat fighter. On Merrick’s quest to find the toughest men alive for his special-ops team, he’d ventured to New Orleans to an underground club where knife-fighting had become a high-stakes game. Where only the best and the toughest survived. It was there that he’d first seen Pierce Fourtier. The man had given new meaning to the saying “splitting hairs.”

“You wanted to see me.”

“Come in and have a seat, Pierce. The killing has started. An agent was hit yesterday.”

“An agent on the list?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In the Czech Republic. The market square at Brno. Alton Bromly, nine years at British Intelligence. Know him?”

“No. How do we know it wasn’t random?”

“It was a signature shot. One shot, right temple. Holic’s caliber. The point of entry wasn’t off even by a millimeter.”

Pierce relaxed in the chair in front of Merrick’s desk. He was dressed in a brown T-shirt, jeans and a pair of alligator-leather Western boots. He had an unmistakable Southern accent, wore his black hair ultra-short, and his bayou-bred heritage on his sleeve.

The Acadian was six-one, went two-twenty, and had lazy brown eyes that rarely expressed a fraction of what he was thinking. Those eyes had given him the nickname the Sleeper due to the unruffled dead calm that surrounded him in the midst of a crisis.

It was rumored that the Sleeper was the son of a voodoo priest in Louisiana. But no one knew for sure. Pierce’s past was as mysterious as the little town of Le Mystère which he called home.

“So what you’re saying is Holic Reznik handed the kill-file to an associate before we captured him in Austria?”

“In Bjorn’s report he says Holic doesn’t believe in the buddy system. No partners. Holic doesn’t trust anyone. But it looks like he’s trusting someone.”

“He’d have to if he wants to get the job done. He’s at Clume, and unless he’s got an inside contact to get him out of there, he’s not going anywhere.”

“This confirms that the file we recovered is a rearranged version of the master. The bitch is, we have the names sanctioned for assassination, but we don’t have the correct dates, or the locations we need to stop it.”

“So Bromly was on the rearranged kill-file we have.”

“Yes. But not number one.”

“Holic must have anticipated capture,” Pierce concluded.

“I can’t believe he would allow that. Besides, in the report Bjorn filed, he states Holic had plenty of time to run.”

“That’s true. He did. So the question is, why didn’t he?”

“He had transportation out of the country, and yet he stayed on Glass Mountain until you and Bjorn got there.”

“He believed his wife betrayed him. He hates Bjorn,” Pierce pointed out. “Health-wise, he was a mess, but he’s not used to losing.”

“What are you saying? His pride kept him there? That doesn’t make sense. Why not just disappear to an island and plot revenge and enjoy his fat bank account while he recovered?”

Pierce shrugged. “He’s a complicated bastard. His wife’s betrayal could have colored his judgment. He’s human after all. We did trick him. He never expected two more agents riding to the rescue. Bjorn’s impersonation plan worked. Holic never suspected that it wasn’t Bjorn and Nadja on the helicopter. He was fooled completely, all the way to the end. He might be locked up at Clume, but I don’t doubt he’s been busy inventing a new game.”

“You don’t believe he allowed us to corner him on that mountain?”

“No. I think he was outsmarted. But that doesn’t mean he’s ready to surrender even from behind bars.”

“And the fake kill-file?”

“Holic leaves nothing to chance. His spotless record proves that. Maybe a simple precautionary measure just in case.”

Merrick felt a chill race up his spine. They were dealing with a madman. Holic was secured behind bars, but the kill-file was still out there in the hands of someone just as talented as the master.

He watched as his agent rubbed his shoulder, and it reminded him that Pierce was slow to recover from one of the bullets he’d taken on Glass Mountain three months ago.

“How’s the shoulder doing?”

“It still gives me a little trouble now and then. But I’m good. Have you talked to Bjorn about Holic? Does he know the file he and Nadja recovered was a fake?”

“Not yet. When he hears he’ll be back here on the next flight.”

“And you don’t want that?”

“Nadja’s pregnant. Right now she needs him more than I do.”

“You getting soft, Merrick? A year ago you would have hauled his ass back here no matter what.”

Merrick cleared his throat, not liking the way Pierce was eyeing him. “There’s more. I’ve spoken to Polax from EURO-Quest. He claims the Quest agent that Bjorn killed at Groffen was definitely working for the Chameleon. He believes that the body we’ve got on ice at the lab isn’t the Chameleon. He says the Chameleon didn’t die in Greece. That he’s still alive.”

“Impossible.”

“I agree. The Chameleon is dead. I need to believe that. But our experts haven’t been able to ID the body as the Chameleon. It keeps coming up as Pavvo Creon. But we know that’s not possible. He’s been dead for fifteen years. I have to tell you that I’ve been playing around with the idea that maybe Polax is right. Maybe we’re about to see the Chameleon rise from the dead.”

“If he’s alive he could very well be the force behind Holic’s new game. But I’m still convinced that the Chameleon is dead.”

“Yes, he’s dead. That has to be him lying on that slab. But there could be someone in his organization who is pulling Holic’s strings. We know that the Chameleon’s mobocracy is still running full-throttle across the country. We know that promises were made between him and Holic. Maybe Holic is now loyal to a new man. As you said, he takes his spotless record seriously. It’s true the kill-file originated with the Chameleon, but whoever has picked up the reins could still be influencing Holic’s actions.”

“Enter in Holic’s love for money, and his equal contempt for us, and there you are,” Pierce added. “A binding relationship that even death won’t sever—or a change of rank at the top.”

“The Chameleon’s dead,” Merrick said again.

“I’m with you on that. I was there that day in Greece. I watched that yacht blow sky-high. We have his body at the morgue.”

“A body with someone else’s face and matching blood type,” Merrick reminded.

“We knew the Chameleon had had plastic surgery and taken Pavvo Creon’s face.

“But his blood, too?” Merrick shook his head, then came out with the reason he’d asked Pierce to join him in his office. “Here’s the deal. I thought you might do the leg work on this one for me since Bjorn brought you in at the end, and you’re familiar with the mission’s details and its outcome. It’s not too physical or dangerous, both considerations since you’re still in recovery. Most of this work can be done from here, with minimal travel.”

“Why not put Jacy on it? He was the controller for Bjorn. He knows the details, and probably has all the data meticulously filed for instant access. He’s the better man when it comes to details.”

“I asked him, but he turned me down. He says he’s retiring from Onyxx.”

“I don’t believe it. Give him a little more time. It’s not easy to shed a skin that fits, and this business fits him and his talents. As much as we would like to deny it, we all fit the mold. I hear he’s finally out of the wheelchair.”

“It’s true. Vic Kandle tells me he’s got a heavy limp and it’s permanent, but other than that, he’s on a comeback.”

“That means he’ll be getting bored up there on that Montana mountain one of these days.”

“We can only hope.”

“This kill-file…Onyxx is still convinced it’s on a time schedule and targeting active agents?”

“We believe it’s the Chameleon’s hate list. And the targets aren’t all field agents. But all are government intelligence of some kind. Not all the targets are active. There are a few retired names on the list.”

“I take it our names are on the list, too?”

This was the amazing part Merrick didn’t understand. “My entire team is on the list. You and the other rat fighters. Men I’ve worked with in the past, but not me.”

“You’re not on it?”

“Damn strange, don’t you think? I should top the list. We’ve been enemies for fifteen years.”

“That’s more than a little strange.”

“Our problem is, we’re back to square one now that a replacement has started to make Holic’s hits for him. We’re hunting for an unknown face, with no data on where he comes from.”

“And that’s where I come in?”

“Like I said, the paperwork on this can be done from behind your desk. With minimal leg work. I’d like you to schedule an appointment with the authorities in Brno, and check out the market square where the hit took place. Get in touch with British Intelligence and find out everything you can on Alton Bromly and his activities over the past nine years. Your nose is one of the best we have. You’ve always been able to see things no one else sees. Maybe we’re missing something.”

“Is that a nice way of saying I have a criminal mind?”

“No offense, but your past, as you said, fits the mold.”

“I know why I was asked to join Onyxx. And it wasn’t my good looks,” Pierce joked.

Merrick handed Pierce the file on his desk. “It’s all in there. Everything we have on Bromly and his years of service to Interpol. Look it over on the flight. Prep your deviant mind. There’s also a copy of our bogus kill-file in there.”

Pierce took the file. “Has Holic talked?”

“I’ve interrogated him a number of times since we locked him up. He claimed from the moment we captured him that the file wasn’t authentic. I didn’t believe it. I had no reason to until yesterday.”

“Have you talked to him since Bromly was hit?”

“Last night I flew up to Clume to see him. And now, after talking to you, I think you’re right. Holic has a new agenda.” Merrick opened his drawer and pressed Play on the tape recorder. “I took a recorder with me last night and taped my conversation with him.”

Within seconds Holic Reznik’s Austrian accent filled the room.

“You’re back, Merrick. Does that mean the killing has begun? Your silence must mean it has. And now you’re here to ask me who has filled my shoes, ja?”

“Who is your replacement, Holic? Who has the kill-file?”

“If I tell you it would end all the fun. I told you that your kill-file was a fake, but you didn’t believe me. Do you believe me now? The look on your face tells me you do.”

“Who is your replacement, Holic? Give me the name of the man who has taken up your cause.”

“A ten-million-dollar question. Are you willing to match that?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Look at my hands. I can barely feed myself thanks to Bjorn Odell and that bitch, Nadja Stefn. I’m too young to live my life sucking my food through a straw. A heavy price to pay for killing a few insignificant people, don’t you think?”

“I’ll ask again. Who has the original kill-file? Who shot Alton Bromly?”

“Perfection has replaced perfection, that’s who. Like fine wine, it’s all in the fruit and how it’s taken care of while it matures on the vine.”

“You talk in riddles.”

“A riddle that, if you figure it out, will answer your question, Merrick. But you won’t be able to. I own the winning hand in this game, and you know I do or you wouldn’t have flown up here to pay me a late-night visit.”

“You’re telling me ten million dollars will call off your dog?”

“The money means nothing without a pair of working hands to spend it.”

“Meaning?”

“You have an expert team of surgeons at your disposal. They operated on my hands not long ago. But I think they can do better. They could give me back full use if they knew what was at stake, don’t you think?”

“What?”

“You heard me. My hands restored to full use by the best surgeon you employ.”

“Impossible.”

“Then I guarantee that the killing will continue, Merrick.”

“This is madness, Holic. End this insanity.”

“Only you can end it. Another agent will fall soon. Then another and another. Did you count the names on the list? The list I altered so you could check them off as they fall. It’s a very long list, isn’t it? Who do you think will be next? Take a guess. A wild guess is all you have, but maybe you’ll get lucky. The odds are against it. Your list was meant to torment you and your superiors, nothing more. To give you names without dates. Ingenious, don’t you think? Has it been keeping you up nights? You look tired, Merrick. It’s like a puzzle that doesn’t fit, ja? Let me assure you that it will never fit until the last man falls.”

“You’re crazy.”

“No, I’m a perfectionist, and without my hands I’ve been forced to find an alternate to remain in the game. After all, my reputation is at stake. How could I surrender without giving back to you as much as you’ve given me? The clock is ticking, and this time, time is on my side.”

Merrick turned off the recorder and looked at Pierce. “After talking to you, I have to agree that Holic doesn’t know how to lose. That he will continue to play his sick game until he’s dead. It’s true our medical staff has the technology to restore mobility to his hands, but—”

“Then Onyxx would be responsible for putting a gun back into the restored hands of the devil.”

“My superiors would never go for that.”

Pierce stood. “Of course you’re right. But then their names aren’t on that list. It’s damn easy to make decisions when your own ass isn’t the one being pinched.”

Merrick caught the censure in his agent’s voice. “The rules here are black and white, but necessary. If we make deals with every criminal we apprehend, where would that leave us? The bottom line is we have the assassin under lock and key. The entire mission wasn’t a failure. Holic is ours.”

“And from his iron cell he’s unleashed a competent replacement. One that appears to value perfection as much as he does.”

Merrick swore. “I’ll admit, at the moment, Holic has us by the balls.”

“Then we can only hope that his successor slips up. And if he doesn’t, you better start looking for another team to replace us, because we’re in for a slaughter.”

Chapter 2

Thomas Walrich’s body was discovered ten hours after he toppled face-first into the Amo River in Florence, Italy. A bullet traveling two hundred and eighty yards struck him in his right temple and he went swimming a second later clutching a briefcase, his mousy-brown toupee clinging to his forehead.

After his final exit, and sudden plunge into the Amo, both the briefcase and the toupee were swept away with the current. The briefcase was recovered two weeks later in Empoli. The toupee, caught in a yacht’s twin caterpillar engine, ended up in the Tyrrhenian Sea, lost forever.

The authorities notified the appropriate agencies after recovery of the body. A positive identification was made, and within twenty-four hours Adolf Merrick received a phone call telling him that another operative had fallen—the stats on his death cloning those of Alton Bromly’s. It seemed that Holic’s replacement was on target again, and Merrick would be forced to make a check mark on his useless copy of the kill-list.

This time, Thomas Walrich, an American agent on secret assignment in Italy.

That made two assassinations within three weeks. Pierce was right: at this rate they were in for a slaughter.

Suddenly Holic’s words came back to haunt Merrick. The clock is ticking, and time is on my side.

Adolf reached for the phone and called Pierce. He relayed the information, sending his agent now on to Italy to follow up and escort Walrich’s body home the minute it was released. Then, in the quiet of his office, he sat back and stroked his short gray beard.

He had to admit that the Chameleon was still controlling his life. Hell, all their lives, if the bastard was still alive. But how could that be?

“You’re dead, and yet you live.” Merrick muttered the words, then closed his eyes. He rubbed the back of his neck, the pain hammering his temples warning him that he hadn’t been sleeping well again, and as a result his tension headaches were back.

“Will you ever be gone from my mind, you evil bastard? You’ve taken everything from me. Everything important, and still you continue to torment me. Will this nightmare never end?”

The phone rang again, and this time Merrick hesitated before answering it. He glanced at the number as it came up and when he recognized it, he frowned in puzzlement. It was Sarah Finny, and for a moment he wondered why she would be calling him. Then he glanced at the calendar and saw that it was Thursday, and below the day’s date he’d written, Dinner with Sarah at 6:00.

He checked his watch. Saw that it was past seven. Wincing, feeling like an ass, he hesitated a few seconds longer before picking up the phone.

“Hello, Sarah.”

“Adolf, is everything all right with you? I thought we were—”

“Yes, everything is fine, Sarah. I’m afraid I’m a bit rusty at this sort of thing. Dinner completely slipped my mind. I rarely have appointments outside the office.”

“This was dinner, Adolf, not an appointment.”

“Of course. That’s what I meant to say. I haven’t been asked to dinner since Johanna and I… Ah, do you still want me to come, or is it too late? If you’d rather cancel, I understand.”

“I’ve spent two hours in the kitchen. The food is—”

“I could be there in twenty minutes. But I understand if… Okay, I’m on my way.”

The night Jacy Moon Madox got the first call it started to snow in the mountains. But snow in late September wasn’t unusual, not in the high country of Montana.

His brother had sounded drunk on the phone, but that wasn’t unusual either—Tate was a beer drinker and not just a two-bottle limit with dinner.

Out of bed and out of sorts, Jacy pulled on his jeans and took Highway 2 to 89. Once he reached Browning he headed south. The Sun Dance Saloon was on the outskirts of Heart Butte on the Blackfoot Indian Reservation. It was a dark, honky-tonk, old-West beer-and-chili joint with saddles for bar stools, booths lining the walls, a circular dance floor and a half dozen pool tables.

He had picked up the phone at ten-thirty, and it was almost midnight when he parked his black pickup in front of the Sun Dance, climbed out.

“Hey, Moon.”

“Tommy.”

Jacy nodded at the barrel-chested Indian as they passed on the front porch. To the locals Jacy was simply addressed as Moon. It didn’t matter that he’d left the rez at the age of fifteen to join the Hell’s Angels with his brother Tate, or that half the blood flowing through his veins was from a German immigrant, the now-deceased forest ranger, Corbel Madox. All who lived in these parts knew Jacy had been born under a full moon to Nola Youngblood. And if that wasn’t significant enough, he was Koko Blackkettle’s grandson, the visionary who could see things before they happened.

Jacy limped through the saloon’s front door with a scowl on his face. He searched the dark corners and saw Tate seated at a booth off the end of the bar, a number of empties lining the table in front of him.

He slid into the seat opposite his brother, and just as he was about to speak, his phone rang for the second time that night. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the caller’s ID. Grunting when he saw it was Merrick, he answered his phone with an edge to his voice.

“This better be important, it’s the middle of the damn night out here, and remember I don’t work for you anymore.”

“I needed to talk to you.”

“If it’s about what we chatted about weeks ago—”

“Another agent fell today. One of ours.”

“And he was on the list?”

“Yes. Tom Walrich.”

Jacy didn’t recognize the name, but that didn’t mean much. There were hundreds of agents floating in and out of Onyxx headquarters.

“I just called to update you. Thought you should know.”

Make me feel guilty for retiring and try to pull me back in, Jacy thought. But he wasn’t going to take the bait. He would never be a hundred percent again, and that’s what Onyxx agents were all about. He wasn’t one of them anymore, and Merrick needed to accept that and forget about him.

“If you’re not coming back in, watch your back out there. You’re on the list. Retired or not, if and when your number’s up, it’s up. And right now we can’t do a damn thing but watch and wait.”

“Who’s working on the case?”

“Pierce has agreed to step in, but if you come up with any ideas, I would appreciate it if you’d contact him or me. You still have a file on this one, right?”

“It’s in my computer.”

“And you’ve got both of our numbers?”

“You know I do.”

“Good. Well, that’s it, then.”

“That’s it.”

There was a moment of silence as if Merrick wanted to say more, then the line went dead. When Jacy shoved the phone back in his pocket, Tate had finished his eighth beer and was starting on number nine.

Jacy asked, “Is the old woman really missing, or was the call just a ploy to get me here so I can take you home again after you pass out?”

Tate set down his bottle after chugging half. “It’s true. Koko’s gone.”

“How can she be gone? Grandmother was up at my place raising hell all afternoon. She didn’t mention she was going anywhere.”

“When she got back from your place she made supper, then went and sat down in her rockin’ chair. I never thought much about where she sat until she started to make those noises. You know the ones I’m talkin’ about. She was seein’ somethin’ again.”

Jacy swore, knowing where this was leading. “You’re telling me she had another vision?”

“And this one put a burr under her real quick.”

When Tate reached for his beer, Jacy knocked his hand away. “So where did she take off to?”

“I don’t know. Don’t think she really knew. Those pictures she sees never make too much sense in the beginnin’. You know that.”

“So where is Koko now?”

“She said a bird was callin’ to her in the mountains.”

“Which mountain?”

“She never said. I don’t think she knew.”

“But you let her go anyway?”

“She took off before I had a chance to pull on my boots. When I got outside she was gone.”

“No tracks to follow?”

“I didn’t see any.”

“You’re an Indian. Tracks are supposed to be your specialty.” Jacy’s sarcasm was offered without a smile.

Tate leaned forward. “Not all of us are as gifted as you, little brother.”

“Apparently not.”

Tate swore. “I have a gift.”

“High tolerance. And I’m not talking in reference to pain.”

“I can straddle a Harley twin-V drunk on my ass going a hundred and keep it on the road.”

“A useful talent when you got the police taking chase.”

“You’re damn right. A huckleberry picker, I’m not. Or a trapline savage. You’ve turned into a rude sonofabitch, Moon. You never used to be such an asshole.”

“I’ve always been an asshole.” Jacy shoved the beer bottle in Tate’s direction. “Here, have a little more. You’re obviously not drunk enough.”

“Insultin’ bastard.”

“I call a turd a turd.”

“You name-callin’ me?”

“No.”

“You’re just still pissed off about that limp you got as a souvenir for services rendered. You should have done the time like me, and told that agency to go to hell. You’d have been out in a year.”

Jacy ignored the jibe and went back to the reason Tate had called him. “You should have stopped Koko before she left the cabin.”

“Stop the old woman? Like I could have done that. When she has her mind set, no one stops Koko. She would have cut me where I stood if I had gotten between her and the front door.”

Tate was six foot and weighed two-eighty. Koko was all of ninety pounds, and that was with her pockets loaded down with rocks.

“And you know me and the woods don’t like each other much.”

Jacy rubbed his clean-shaven face, more than a little frustrated with his brother. But it was true. Tate could get turned around in his own backyard. Put him on his Harley cruising a freeway, though, and his brother could tell you which direction he was going by the smell of the wind he was bucking.

Still, he should have stopped the old woman. Koko was seventy-six and had no business taking off in the middle of the night to answer a damn vision on a mountain.

“She packed her rucksack. Took some food.”

“Anything else?”

Tate scratched his chin. “Her medicine bag and a couple of blankets. That knife you gave her was on her hip.”

“Dammit, Tate, we’ve been getting snow in the high country for a long week. What the hell were you thinking, letting her go?”

His brother pointed to a two-inch cut on his muscular arm. “Koko did that three months ago, remember? Took after me with that knife when I told her I wasn’t goin’ to haul her to Brownin’on the back of my Harley. I ended up bleedin’ like a stuck pig all the way to town with her ridin’ behind. That was the day she had that vision of Delsin Yellow Wolf. And it was the real deal, you know. He’d damn near cut his arm off in that meat saw. Koko saved him, like she did Pekono and Lucky years back. And Maggie and Earl’s brother, Pinky.”

Jacy glanced at the flesh wound on Tate’s arm. “What I remember over that deal is you getting gut-sick over a damn scratch.”

“I never got gut-sick.”

“If you bled, you got gut sick. You never could stand the color red in liquid form unless alcohol was in the mix.”

“You’re an asshole, Moon, bringin’ up a man’s weakness in public.”

“And you’re an asshole for letting Koko take off in the dead of night.”

The brothers stared a hole through each other for a long minute. Then Jacy stood. “Which way did she go?”

“Like I said, I couldn’t tell.”

“Did you even look for tracks?”

Tate stood, tipping his chair over. He hoisted his jeans over his beer belly, then tossed his head, sending his long Native-American hair rippling over his shoulders and down his back. “Insultin’ me a second time is a mistake, little brother.”

“You plan on taking me on drunk?”

“Like you said, I ain’t that drunk yet.”

“Meaning you’re really going to get gut-sick when I pop you in the nose and blood starts flowing?”

“That’s it, you got a fight comin’ your way.”

“Earl just got this place put back together from the last time we went head to head,” Jacy reminded. “You got a problem with me, we’ll settle it outside.”

The all-night crowd headed outside the minute they saw the brothers on their feet. Tomorrow’s news would keep the Sun Dance busy, and if you had seen the scrap firsthand chances are you would get offered a free drink or cup of coffee to tell your side of the story.

Tate knocked his shoulder into Jacy as he staggered past him, then out onto the front porch.

Jacy limped after him, his thoughts on his grandmother instead of the fight. He recalled that the morning news had reported fresh snow on Sinopah Mountain. He was trying to recall how much when he stepped out into the predawn crisp air and straight into Tate’s fist.

Prisca liked to fly. The idea of traveling to places unknown had been exciting at first. But today she didn’t like flying at all. The aircraft was too small, and the pilot almost as young as she was—that meant his experience was in question. He had also insisted that they leave the airport after dark.

The idea of flying into the unknown—the Montana mountains in the black of night—had made her nervous before she boarded the toy airplane. Still, she had few choices open to her, and so she’d climbed aboard wishing she had fortified her courage with a stiff drink. Too bad she wasn’t a drinker.

She should be thankful that this particular independent pilot wasn’t asking questions.

She had flown into Missoula after two unsuccessful weeks of hunting for Bjorn Odell. It was as if the Onyxx agent had disappeared off the face of the earth. Upset, but not giving up, she had decided to bypass number twelve on the list and concentrate on number twenty-one—the controller who had aided Bjorn Odell’s mission from afar.

From what she knew of controllers, after having watched Otto in action, she understood that without one at the helm of a mission nothing was possible. Odell might be the person directly responsible for her mother’s death, but Jacy Madox had put Odell on target.

She hoped the information in his profile was accurate and that he was still living in northern Montana somewhere near East Glacier. That is, unless he’d moved, as it appeared Odell had done.

The pilot, Marty, seemed to know the area she’d inquired about. She had taken that as a good sign. His plane, though small, looked seasoned, and he’d taken off with the experience of a pro.

But what was that noise she kept hearing?

Otto had been calling her cell phone since she’d left their flat in Vienna in the middle of the night. Of course she hadn’t answered him—not even the dozens of text messages he’d left. He sounded more than a little upset, and that’s why she hadn’t told him her plan, and she didn’t intend to speak to him until she’d done what she’d come to do. Not until her personal business was finished.

He wouldn’t be able to follow. She had taken precautions—changed her name twice—careful not to leave a paper trail of any kind.

She nodded as the pilot pointed to the black shadowy peak ahead. She had told Marty that she was a wildlife photographer on an assignment. He seemed eager to buy into her story, had gladly accepted the cash she’d offered. She’d even brought a camera along. After all, a photographer without her equipment would look suspicious, and the equipment had made it easier to conceal her father’s gun.

The aircraft gained altitude as it passed over a mountain range. Marty called it the Flathead Range. She had noticed a constant change in temperature since leaving Missoula. She shivered in her seat and instinctively pulled the black stocking cap further over her ears.

The airplane caught an air current, and she felt it in her stomach. More noise. A constant rattling now.

She snuggled into the seat, determined not to worry. Nothing was going to go wrong. It couldn’t. She had a date with death, and she was the executioner.

Chapter 3

Koko followed the mountain trail from memory. It was narrow and overgrown, a steady climb upward. It was pitch-black out and cold enough to see her breath. The scent of snow was in the air, but she paid no attention to the time of day or the weather conditions.

The vision was strong and she felt the urgency of it. That’s why she hadn’t questioned it, not even with the knowledge that she was racing toward something that hadn’t happened yet. That was the case sometimes, and she knew there was a reason for it. Soon she would know what it was.

Her visions often came in bits and pieces, and she had to trust the process—believe. There was always a purpose to everything—what had passed and what was yet to be.

The higher she climbed the colder the air became. She stopped and buttoned up her faded blue coat, then pulled her pink wool scarf out of her pocket and covered her head. She tied the ragged ends under her wrinkly chin, then dug deeper in her pocket for a pair of finger-worn gloves.

She kept her aging eyes alert as she moved along the trail, concentrating on the vision and the heat that surrounded it. When she reached the southern slope of the mountain, she was halfway there. Breathing heavily, she kept the same dogged pace as she skirted rocks and the gangly lodgepole pines that were common to the Rockies. In some spots the animal trail went straight up, but Koko didn’t turn back.

After two more hours, she reached a snow-covered ridge and looked across the ravine. That’s when she saw it—the vision come to life. It was so clear this time that it knocked her to her knees.

She staggered back up, realizing it wasn’t the vision that had put her to the ground. The picture was no longer inside her head. It had finally materialized into a living thing. She was witnessing some kind of catastrophe.

The explosion shook the ground and rose into the heavens in an orange and red fireball.

Jacy was standing at the bar nursing his swollen jaw and cursing Tate when he got the third call of the night. It was around one-thirty, and this one was from the Bureau of Land Management chief in charge of search and rescue in and around Glacier Park.

He was out of breath and talking fast into the phone, two things that set Jacy immediately on edge. Billy Mason Crow Feather wasn’t easily upset.

“A small plane went down, Moon. Contact was lost around eleven-thirty.”

“Do you know who it is?”

“Marty Stollen. He reported engine trouble around eleven-twenty, and then nothing. His location is vague on account of you know Marty and his equipment. That plane should have been junked two years ago.”

“Passengers.”

“No confirmation on that.”

Jacy knew the plane in question and the owner. Marty’s single-engine Cessna had been grounded for repairs dozens of times. A hunting guide, Marty lived on a shoe-string budget and baler twine.

“We think he went down on Sinopah, but he could have gone past and lost it near Rising Wolf. Can you lend a hand, Moon? Hell, you know both areas better than my men. If that’s where he’s at, he’s damn near sitting in your backyard.”

“I’m at the Sun Dance,” Jacy said. “If I leave now I can meet you back at Two Medicine in an hour. Has anyone gone out yet?”

“No, and they won’t if you agree to pinpoint the site before I call in a crew. I’ve got a bunch of trainees here that can’t find their asses with both hands.”

“I’ll meet you at the cabin. Tell Vic to help you put together supplies for three days. Remember he’s a city boy so his brain works on a different level than yours and mine. In other words, he’s not going to saddle Pete. But he likes to eat, so he knows where things are in the kitchen.”

“I’m leaving now, Moon. Need anything else I can get you?”

“A weather report for the next few days.”

Jacy left immediately, after telling Tate what had happened. He drove hard over the curvy mountain roads, his thoughts on the evening’s events. His gut was in a knot and long ago he’d learned that was a warning sign not to be ignored.

Had Koko seen Marty’s lightweight airplane in her vision? Had she seen the crash in her mind?

Jacy didn’t believe in coincidences. Hadn’t when he was a Hell’s Angel, nor later when he’d been recruited as a rebel agent for Onyxx.

He liked to believe that’s why he was still alive. He had a suspicious mind, and tonight it was working overtime.

The voice was high-pitched. The incessant chanting—something between eerie and musical—entered Prisca’s subconscious as she came awake. Awake but not fully lucid.

She was lying on her back, and the air around her was bitter cold. Her entire body was in pain.

She didn’t want to open her eyes. She had closed them tight just before…before the airplane had crashed into the side of the mountain.

Oh, God, the plane had crashed, and she was…where?

Pris moaned, reliving the horror of knowing she was going to die.

Was she dead?

Was she in some limbo between heaven and hell?

“Open your eyes, sisttsi nan. You fell from the sky, but you’re alive. Open your eyes so you can see I speak the truth.”

Prisca heard the words and responded, opened her eyes to see an old woman bent over her. There was a fire crackling close by, and it lit up the woman’s wrinkled brown face framed in pink wool.

“There you are, sisttsi nan. Such beautiful eyes.”

“Where am I?”

“On Sinopah.”

That explained nothing. Pris took a deep breath and moaned regretfully as a fiery pain shot throughout her body.

“I’m hurt.”

“Yes. But I have stopped the bleeding. You will survive.”

“Who are you?”

“Koko Blackkettle. And you, sisttsi nan, what is your name?”

“I’m…” Prisca hesitated. She didn’t dare tell anyone who she was. “I…don’t know,” she lied. “I can’t remember.”

The old woman nodded, then reached out and touched Prisca’s forehead. “Maybe a concussion. Don’t worry, or think too hard. You will know what to remember when it is important enough to make a difference. The journey has begun.”

“What journey?”

“Yours, of course. The vision tells me you’re on a quest.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re alive, and you must trust that, and only that for a time. Your purpose must be strong to survive a disaster that could have so easily killed you.”

“My purpose?”

“It’s promised in the vision.”

“What vision?”

“The vision that brought me to you.”

Pris looked around, and that’s when she saw the airplane. Or what was left of it—twisted metal scattered in all directions.

“The pilot—”

“His journey has taken him further. Do not think of him now.” The old woman laid her hand on Prisca’s chest. “Rest now.”

Marty was dead. Pris closed her eyes and tried not to think about him. The old woman began to chant again, and in an odd way it was comforting. When she blinked her eyes open again, Koko was back at the fire, stirring something in a small kettle.

Pris tried to sit up and that’s when she realized that her injuries were far more serious than she thought. She moved her hands over her body, and realized that she was wearing only her panties and nothing more beneath a layer of blankets.

“Where are my clothes? My phone?”

“I found no phone. Your clothes… I cut them off you with my knife.” The old woman produced a knife from beneath her coat. “A gift from my grandson. There was much blood and I needed to know where it was coming from. Don’t move or the bleeding will start again. Many cuts.” Koko motioned to her legs. “Some of them are deep. You must stay quiet. Your ankle is swollen, too. No broken bones.”

“How did you find me?”

“I saw you in the sky.”

“How?”

“All that matters is that I came to you in time.”

“Where is my luggage?”

“Did you have luggage?”

“Ah…I must have.”

“The airplane still burns. If you brought bags with you, they are not here. You were lucky. You were thrown out of the plane.”

“I hurt all over.”

“I have brought something with me to ease the pain.” The old woman brought Pris a brown bottle. “Drink. Two swallows.”

Pris tipped back the bottle and drank the bitter liquid, and within ten minutes she started to see double. The woman had drugged her, she realized, as she slipped into a heavy sleep.

The next time Pris opened her eyes she didn’t know where she was until she saw the old woman seated beside her. It was daylight and she stared at the surrounding wilderness with both awe and fear. There was no way that they would be rescued, she thought. No one would ever find them. Maybe no one even knew they were there.

She tried to move, and moaned with the effort.

“Be still, sisttsi nan.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means pretty bird.”

“And what language is it.”

“My language. I am a Blackfeet Indian.”

“Blackfoot?”

“No, Blackfeet. I have two.” The old woman smiled, then stood. “I can see much pain in your eyes. I will bring you medicine.”

“No. I want to stay awake.”

“There will be time for that later.” She produced the brown bottle again. “Here. Another day of sleep will prepare you for the journey. Drink.”

“No, I don’t want to pass out again.”

“It is good to sleep. Our journey down the mountain will be long.”

Pris accepted the bottle and drank. “What is this stuff anyway?”

“A special tonic.”

“How will we get down the mountain without help?”

“Help is coming. Moon will be here soon.”

“Moon?”

“My grandson.”

“But how does he know where to look?”

“He is very smart. Like me, he also has a gift.”

“He has visions, too?”

“No. He is smart and an expert tracker, and I have left a trail for him to follow.”

“I don’t think I can walk.”

“You will ride.” The old woman pointed to a pair of sticks with a blanket tied between them.

Pris handed the bottle of tonic back to Koko. “You’re going to drag me?”

“Don’t worry, sisttsi nan. I am old, but I am strong. I climbed the mountain for you, remember?”

“Yes, you came for me.”

Prisca’s eyes grew heavy again. She drifted off to sleep to the sound of the old woman making more strange sounds as she tended the fire.

When she woke next Pris found Koko talking to herself. The traveling bed had been moved closer.

The old woman must have eyes in the back of her head, Pris thought, because she turned around very suddenly.

“You’re awake. Good. We must go, sisttsi nan. I wanted to wait here for my grandson, but a storm is coming and we need to leave. I was about to wake you. We need to get off the mountain before the snow comes.”

“I need clothes.”

“The blankets will be enough. Better for wounds, not to move too much.” Koko picked up a second blanket and brought it to Prisca. “Keeping you warm is most important.”

She spread one blanket on the travois, and then slowly helped Pris slide her body over and onto the portable bed. Once she was settled, Koko covered her with another blanket and tucked it around her, then tied a rope harness around her waist and hooked the long wooden sticks into two loops.

Then they were moving away from the crash site as gray clouds swelled overhead and the wind began to blow.

The horse’s name was Pete, a black gelding who was used to shifting rocks and narrow trails. Jacy gave Pete his head, and let the long-legged animal negotiate the path at his own pace.

He’d wasted two days searching Rising Wolf Mountain for the downed plane with no luck, and his mood was about as sour as the weather. Clouds were moving into the area, and Sinopah Mountain was a dangerous place to be in a snowstorm.

The threatening weather turned his thoughts to his grandmother. He’d kept in contact with Tate, and Koko hadn’t come home yet. Jacy was worried, but not angry with her. Koko’s visions were real. They didn’t always come at the most opportune time, but that wasn’t something she could control.

He couldn’t ignore the parallel between the crash and Koko’s sudden late-night vision.

Billy had been convinced that the plane had tracked northeast, but after searching Rising Wolf, Jacy knew he should have followed his gut and headed straight to Sinopah. From the moment he’d arrived at the base of the mountain his gut had been churning—his seventy-six-year-old grandmother was here, and so was Marty and his airplane.

Billy was still waiting to hear from him, hoping it would be soon. The Bureau of Land Management dealt in facts, and so he hadn’t mentioned Koko and her vision. The BLM was a lot like Merrick and the Onyxx Agency in that respect.

But he didn’t need to worry about Merrick and the agency. He had retired, and they didn’t own him any longer. And his association with the BLM was strictly on a volunteer basis, so he could do things any damn way he pleased.

Jacy shifted in the saddle and leaned into the mountain as Pete, as sure-footed as a goat, maneuvered the rocky trail.

The temperature was twenty degrees, with a three-inch base of snow on the ground. He pulled the collar up on his sheepskin jacket and tugged his brown Stetson lower. Another hour passed, then another.

It was late afternoon when he spied the familiar pink scarf—a dot of color against the mountain. The sight made him smile in relief, and he reined Pete to a stop.

Koko was moving slowly along the trail, negotiating the rugged terrain and a travois she was pulling behind her.

He had stopped questioning Koko’s visions a long time ago. He’d learned about them one night seated around a campfire on the rez as his uncle had relayed to him the story of his birth: His mother Nola had been trying to get down the mountain. She was eight months pregnant and in labor.

Once again Koko was in her rocker when a vision came to her and she realized her daughter was in trouble. All of her visions came to her in the rocker. Tate had aptly named the rocker the “happening place,” and it was true, it was the place where his grandmother’s visions revealed themselves.

That stormy night she had seen Nola in labor. And, on a desolate trail bathed in moonlight, she had arrived in time to deliver Jacy into the world, then transport Nola and her child, via travois, to a road where she had flagged down a car for help.

Jacy dismounted Pete, and when he dropped onto the ground, his bad leg buckled. He swore, held on to the saddle horn, and rescued his pride and his balance before he dropped to his knees.

“Hello up there,” he called out. “Koko, it’s me.”

She stopped and searched the rocks below. He waited until her eyes locked on him two hundred feet below her. When she saw him, she gave a hearty wave, and he knew behind the wave she was smiling.

He watched as she unhooked the wooden poles from a harness she had tied around her waist. Free of her burden, she called out to him.

“You’re two days late, but I am happy to see you, my issohko.”

“I’m happy to see you, too, Grandmother. What have you found?”

“A bird fell from the sky. A matsowa’p bird, and she is hurt.”

A beautiful bird. A woman, not Marty.

Jacy wondered about that. Had Marty been transporting a passenger? It was true he flew hunters up into the mountains.

He searched the trail behind Koko, but saw no one else. “Was it Marty’s plane in your vision?”

“Yes. But he has joined his father and mother.”

Marty’s parents were both dead. Jacy understood what Koko was saying. He tied Pete to a dogwood shrub and began to negotiate the rocky trail.

Pris strained her neck to see who owned the deep voice that had boomed up the mountain minutes ago, but in her prone position she saw only treetops and more mountains.

“Is it your grandson?” she asked.

“It is him, sisttsi nan. He has come as I said he would.”

Pris didn’t really care who it was, only that someone had found them. The old woman had been walking for hours without complaint, dragging her behind. The trail was rough and Koko had to be exhausted.

She asked, “Now what?”

“Now Moon will take you the rest of the way.” Koko looked over her shoulder to where Prisca lay wrapped in the blankets. “Did I tell you that my grandson almost died last year? He should have, but his spirit would not allow it. It wasn’t his time, just like it wasn’t your time. I believe he is on a quest, like you.”

Listening to Koko and the way she talked, Prisca felt as if she’d been transported back in time. Still, it didn’t matter who or what this woman was, or what sort of a quest her grandson was on. What mattered was that she had been rescued from certain death.

She smiled back at Koko, relief in her own eyes. She would believe Koko and what she had said. It wasn’t her time to die, and it was true. She had unfinished business to take care of. Yes, a quest for justice, and God wouldn’t cheat her out of her revenge. Not when he knew how important it was to her.

She heard the shifting of rocks, and she looked past Koko again. This time she was rewarded by the sight of a man coming slowly up the trail.

He wore a heavy tan coat and jeans covering long athletic legs. His hair was visible around his collar, black and straight. She couldn’t see his face. It was hidden in the shadow of a hat.

He was limping, and for a moment she questioned just how much help he would be. Then he stopped and tipped the brim of his hat back and what she saw set her heart pounding. Koko’s grandson had the face of experience, with eyes as sharp as an eagle’s. A man who had seen too much, been to hell and returned. She remembered the words from a poem she’d once read.

Prisca watched Koko hug her grandson. When he hugged her back, then kissed her forehead, her heart constricted. Her mother had always kissed her cheek. She touched her face, remembering. But there would be no more kisses. No more hugs.

The reminder brought her back to the reason she had climbed into that small airplane in Missoula. She collected her raw emotions, stuffed them away, then focused on what had brought her across the ocean. Bjorn Odell and Jacy Madox were the ones responsible for her lonely existence. But thanks to Koko and to her grandson, she would soon be back on her feet, able to resume the hunt.

When Koko stepped back to let her grandson kneel down beside her, Prisca said, “I owe my life to your grandmother. She is my miracle.”

“And mine,” he said. “How badly is she hurt, Koko?”

“The leg wound is deep. A few cuts and bruises. Maybe a sprained ankle.”

Prisca again got caught up in his voice—so very low, but far more educated than he looked. It’s what distracted her and cost her not only her pride, but her dignity when he reached out and stripped the double layer of blankets from her body.

Jacy’s first thought was, where the hell are her clothes? His second thought was he hadn’t seen anything this beautiful in a very long time. If ever.

He tried to keep his eyes off her breasts, but the air was cold and the two porcelain-perfect mounds were dressed with rosy nipples and he lost focus for a moment, then he went in search of her injuries. He mentally tallied up the damage, and at the same time couldn’t ignore her narrow waist and shapely curves.

She had a superficial laceration on her thigh. He carefully removed the cloth bandage Koko had wrapped around the leg. The woman’s most serious injuries—unless she had internal trauma—were a four-inch jagged cut below her left knee, and a badly swollen left ankle.

“What’s your name?”

“I don’t know.”

He looked at her. “You don’t know?”

“She can’t remember, Moon. But I told her not to worry. It’s probably temporary.”

He rewrapped the leg, then examined the ankle.

“It doesn’t appear to be broken.”

Koko’s words reminded Jacy that his grandmother was still standing close behind him. He tossed the blanket back over the young woman. “I don’t like the look of that muscle tear on the front of her leg. She needs sutures.”

“I could have done it,” Koko said, “but I was afraid I would leave her scarred. My hands aren’t as steady as they used to be.”

It was true. Without proper medical equipment and sanitation they could make things worse.

“Vic can do it. We’ll get her back to the cabin,” Jacy said.

“That’s where I was headed.”

Jacy looked at the sky. “There’s only an hour of daylight left.”

“I don’t think she should be out here another night, Moon. Take her and ride for the cabin as fast as you can.”

The thought of leaving Koko behind brought Jacy to his feet. “There’s no way I’m going to leave you out here with a storm moving in.”

“The wind has shifted. The storm will go north. I’ll be fine.” She laid her hand on Jacy’s arm and pulled him a short distance away from the young woman. “I have seen more than the little bird falling from the sky. My vision’s telling me there is danger close by. It’s not clear what kind of danger, but I trust the feelings. You must take her quickly away from here.”

Jacy noticed his grandmother’s tired eyes. “You’re exhausted. These visions are too hard on you.”

“My vision saved her life for a reason. We cannot question why. Go now.”

“Two days ago I gave Tate hell for letting you take off alone. Now you want me to walk away after I’ve found you?”

“Yes, I do. The airplane is on the west slope. Tell Billy it is above Bottom Out Creek. I will be there waiting, issohko.”

Jacy nodded. “I’ll take her to the cabin and then come back up with Billy. Vic was getting ready to leave and head back to Washington, but I’ll tell him he’s going to have to delay that for a few days. He can take care of her until we get back.”

Koko walked back to the young woman and knelt beside her. Tucking the blankets back around her, she said, “It is important that you get your leg tended to as soon as possible. I will see you in a few days, sisttsi nan.”

“What? You’re not coming?”

“Moon will take you down the mountain. He can go faster alone. You can trust my grandson. He knows these mountains as well as I do. He will take you to his cabin. There is help there.”

Jacy went back down the trail for Pete. He gave his grandmother his supplies and the food he had left. Then he lifted the young woman and put her on Pete’s back, carefully hooking her injured leg around the saddle horn.

A soft, but firm word to his horse to stand still, and Jacy mounted the long-legged gelding and pulled the young woman back and tucked her securely against him, then gathered up the reins.

“I’ll be back for you,” he told Koko, “with Billy and Tate.”

“I will leave a trail for you to follow up the mountain, and keep a fire vigil at the crash site.” She looked in Jacy’s supply bag he’d given her. “There is enough food here for two days.”

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Jacy promised. To the young woman seated in front of him, he said, “Put your arm around my waist and hang on tight. The ride will be rough.”

“I’ve never ridden a horse before,” she whispered against his chest.

“That you remember.”

“Ja, that I remember.”

Chapter 4

He felt betrayed, but mostly he felt an overwhelming amount of guilt. He should have seen this coming. Her skills were flawless, but her heart….

Though she was Holic’s daughter, and had his blood flowing through her veins, he had always felt she was more like her mother Mady, a gentle spirit. And it was that wholesome spirit that he had fallen in love with.

Da, he loved her. No one would ever know how much, or how much he needed to have her return that love.

Otto pulled up the collar on his leather coat, then brought the pale-gray scarf he’d given Prisca to his nose. Her sweet scent collected around him. It soothed him and made him anxious at the same time.

When he had found her gone, he had also found the cashmere scarf. He had vowed in that moment, as he’d slipped it around his neck, not to take it off until he found her and returned it to her.

Three months ago when Holic had given him the assignment as his daughter’s keeper it had felt as though he’d been given the keys to the king’s castle and all the golden eggs in the cellar. And with the gift, suddenly his life had purpose. Prisca was his purpose. To guide and protect, nurture and love.

That was the best part. His reward in return was to be close to the woman he loved. To enjoy a life where every minute of every day put him in her company.

He had loved Miss Pris forever, from the moment he had seen her at age ten. He’d been twenty and yet he had known that she was the one. He’d waited and kept his eye on her as she grew to become an adult, and in that time his love had grown, too.

Why had she left? Had she left the mission, or had she left him?

Their work was timely. It was critical that they stay on schedule. She knew that. Knew the importance of each kill. They had talked daily about their agenda. The kill-file was like a detailed map. If they followed the plan to the letter it would be as easy as shooting ducks out of the water at a summer carnival.

The only catch to the entire mission was to stay on schedule. One delay made the file useless.

He had called her phone when he’d realized she was gone. When she hadn’t answered, he had left several messages. But she hadn’t answered any of them.

Why? What had happened? Had she willingly left him?

The thought of her hurt made him crazy. He would never forgive himself if he had allowed harm to come to her.

Did she know how worried he was? How he hadn’t been able to sleep since she had left?

He had been careful not to push her too hard in the work. He’d also been careful not to show his feelings too much. She was young, and he hadn’t wanted to scare her. But he often wrestled with the idea of telling her.

Secrets were the seeds to unhappiness. That’s what his father used to say. It would be good to share his feelings with her. It could bring them closer. Maybe she felt the same and she was just waiting for him to make the first move.

He needed her to love him as he loved her.

Otto walked past the flight schedule in the airport and saw a dozen delays. Thankful that none of them affected him, he headed for gate seven. His destination, Poland.

He raised the gray cashmere scarf and brushed it slowly across his cheek. Then brought it to his nose and inhaled sharply. Like a stiff snort of cocaine, the scent of sweet ginger and spice energized him and refueled his cause, as well as his love for Miss Pris.

Prisca woke up in a warm bed, the smell of bacon heavy in the air. She woke up slowly, groggy, aware she was sharing her pillow with something furry.

She sat up, startling awake whatever was sleeping next to her. The fur pile jumped up with a growl, and Prisca screamed.

The door burst open and that startled her, too, and she clutched the blanket to her bare breasts as a stranger appeared with a metal spatula in hand.

“What the hell is wrong?”

“That’s what’s wrong,” she hollered back, because he’d shouted the question at her.

“Weeko, dammit, Moon told you to stay out of here.”

“Weeko? What’s a weeko?”

“That’s her name.”

“What is she?”

“A raccoon. You’ve never seen one before?”

“No. Does it bite?”

“If she’s cornered. I’ve been bitten a few times.”

“Then get it out of here.”

The stranger scooped the raccoon under his arm and started out the door.

“Wait.”

He turned. “Yeah?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Vic Krandle.”

“Moon’s friend?”

“That’s right. I worked on your leg last night. You don’t remember?”

“Vaguely.”

“That’s because I gave you a shot to put you out while I sutured your leg.”

Moon’s friend was average in weight and thin. He wore fashion jeans and a lemon-yellow sweater. He didn’t look like anyone Koko’s grandson would be friends with. He had a city flair about him, his hair short, and his hands looked as though they hadn’t ever been dirty once.

“Where’s Moon?”

“He left before dawn with the BLM to go back up to the crash site.”

“BLM?”

“Bureau of Land Management.”

Prisca stiffened. “They’re investigating the crash?”

“That, and bringing down the remains of Marty Stollen.”

Prisca looked away.

“Sorry. Billy mentioned he would be by to talk to you as soon as they got things settled on the mountain.”

“Today?”

“No, I don’t think so. Moon talked like he might not be back until tomorrow. But who knows. He said you don’t remember your name. Any change this morning?”

“No.”

Prisca turned and stared out the window, not wanting to remember anything about those terrifying minutes when she knew they were going to crash into the mountain.

“You all right?”

She looked back at Vic Krandle. “I’d like to get out of bed, but I need some clothes.”

“You didn’t come with clothes. I don’t know if you remember that or not, but don’t worry. We’ll get you some eventually. But for now, Moon left you a shirt of his.” He pointed to the red plaid flannel that hung on the log bedpost.

She eyed the shirt, then scowled at Vic. “That’s all there is?”

“Your left ankle is pretty swollen. You won’t be up and around for a while. Best to stay off it as much as possible.”

“I would prefer a doctor’s opinion on that.”

Pris was anxious to get out of there. If they were investigating the crash they might find her missing bag. Depending on how thorough they were, they might discover her secret.

“I’m a doctor, of sorts. A physical therapist, actually. But I spent a year’s internship in New York before I found my calling. There will be a scar on your leg, but I did my best.” He started for the door. “Moon will be back with Koko before long. Just sit tight, and don’t worry about anything. When the man gets back he’ll work on finding out who you are.”

“The man?”

He stopped and turned around. “Moon. I’ve learned over the months I’ve been here that there isn’t much he can’t do. Say, how old are you? You look pretty young.”

“I’m… I don’t remember.”

This game was getting too hard to play. She needed to escape, only how and when? If she had her cell phone she would break down and call Otto. Maybe it was a good thing she didn’t have it with her. What would she tell him?

“Where am I?”

“Montana.” The raccoon started to squirm under his arm, and he dropped the animal outside the door and she scurried away.

“Yes, but where exactly?”

“On a lake called Two Medicine.”

“That doesn’t help much.”

“I guess we’re about a hundred miles south of the Canadian border.”

Canada. She was close to Canada. The thought revived her. That’s where she would escape to. Soon, very soon.

“I’m from D.C. I was planning on going home today. Moon showing up last night with you changed my plans. But I guess I don’t mind. This place has started to grow on me. The man, too. He’s ornery, but smarter than most, and tougher than anyone I’ve ever worked with.”

“Worked with?”

“He wasn’t ever supposed to walk again after his accident. I moved in to rehabilitate him.”

“Is that why he limps?”

“He was in a wheelchair for months, but he beat the odds. No surprise. As I said, he’s one tough sonofabitch. You hungry?”

“I could eat something.”

“I’ll bring you in a tray. Then we’ll talk about your injuries and what you can expect in the next few days.”

Jacy was relieved to see his grandmother at the crash site when he, Billy and Tate arrived with the BLM crew. They had followed the trail she had promised to leave for them.

He had been thinking about her, had worried all night—in between worrying about the woman who hadn’t let go of him the entire trip down the mountain.

He understood her concern for the young woman—Koko was a caring soul. More generous than anyone he knew. She took on the problems of the world as if they were her own. But he was pretty sure she hadn’t told him everything about her vision. She was keeping something to herself and he wanted to know why and what she was holding back.

He looked over the site. The plane was pretty much gone, scrap metal and charred ash smoldering in the crisp morning air. It would be hard to say what had caused the accident, but there would be a thorough investigation. The plane wasn’t that old, but it had seen a lot of miles, with mostly thrift maintenance. Any number of things could have caused the aircraft to go down.

“His distress call was generic,” Billy said. “He was losing altitude. Nothing more.”

The crew started to go to work, and Jacy limped over to his grandmother who sat cross-legged in front of a small fire with her eyes closed. He crouched down next to her and touched her shoulder. She blinked open her eyes and when she looked up at him, she smiled.

“Good to see you, Grandson. Our little bird is safe?”

“She’s at the cabin with Vic.” He studied Koko’s face, said, “So what’s going on? What haven’t you told me?”

“Things aren’t clear yet. I’m still seeing pictures in my mind. But I’m sure it will all make sense soon enough.”

“Yesterday you seemed anxious to return to the crash site.”

“I did want to spend some time here, but sisttsi nan needed better care than I could give her, so I chose to start down the mountain. I didn’t want to leave Marty. His spirit was troubled.”

“Marty?”

“He was afraid at the end. I felt it. I have prayed for his spirit to take flight. For peace on his journey. He soars now with the eagles.”

Jacy fastened his eyes on a backpack. “And that?”

“It’s sisttsi nan’s bag. I found it over there.” Koko pointed a distance away from the airplane rubble. “It must have been thrown from the plane. Her personal things and clothes.”

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