The Stealth Commandos Trilogy (33 page)

In the morning Johnny would leave for the mountains on foot, wearing only what he wore now, with no provisions or weapons except what he could forage from nature. The shaman had told Honor that she was to be involved in some way with Johnny’s ordeal, but he’d refused to tell her how. That possibility had intrigued her at first. Now it was beginning to alarm her.

Honor woke up with a start, sensing the presence of someone in her darkened motel room. She lay very still, hardly daring to breathe as she became aware of a shadowy figure hovering near the foot of the bed. Somehow she found the button at the base of table lamp next to her bed and pressed it.

The sudden burst of light blinded her, revealing the intruder as a black-on-white form, like a foreground figure in a photographic negative. She shielded her eyes, trying to bring him into focus. Gradually the form materialized into a man.

“How did you get in here?” she asked, clutching the blankets around her as she sat up. It was Chy Starhawk who stood at the foot of her bed.

The shaman lifted a shoulder, conveying the naturalness of the situation. “The lock on your door doesn’t work.”

“But you can’t just walk into people’s room and frighten them half to death! Why didn’t you knock?”

“It would have been rude to knock when you were sleeping,” he explained. “I would have disturbed you.”

The man’s logic confounded her. But what confounded her even more was that in some impenetrable way it also made sense. “What do you want?” she asked.

He approached her with an envelope in hand. “Johnny’s gone to the mountains. He left you these instructions.”

Honor tore open the envelope and scanned the handwritten list on the yellow legal paper. The first items were instructions on how to proceed in the case with the Apache boy. The last items were more personal. “Wear your hair down,” he’d printed in bold strokes. But it was the postscript that made her blush. “Anything I ask,” it said, and there were three slashes under the words.

Honor glanced up at Chy Starhawk, wondering how much he knew. His darkly eloquent eyes told her he knew it all, what had happened between her and Johnny, what would happen. Not the details perhaps, but the inescapable web of emotion they’d found themselves entangled in, and the web of life that awaited them.

“When does Johnny return?” she asked.

“Only he can say,” the old man answered.

Honor worked incessantly for the next few days, trying to complete all of Johnny’s instructions before he came back. He’d asked her to arrange bail and secure the Apache boy’s release from jail. He’d also asked her to work with the attorney from the legal-services agency in researching the case, including searching the legal record for similar incidents. And his final request was that she contact Geoff Dias, one of his former partners in the recovery work he’d done for the Pentagon. Johnny wanted Geoff to run surveillance on the mining operation and see what evidence he could find to support the tribe’s claims of toxic runoff, then bring the information to Honor on the reservation.

Honor worked late into the night, poring over casebooks written in legalese she barely understood. She pushed herself until the young attorney she was working with became concerned and advised her to slow down. But the case had begun to feel like a second chance to Honor. If she could help to free the accused boy, perhaps that would in some way balance the mistakes she’d made. And it also gave her a kind of comfort to know that she and Johnny were in accord on something, that they were both working on the boy’s behalf.

And yet what occupied her mind the most as she tried to immerse herself in the case was Johnny himself. Nights in the mountains were still frigid this time of year, and Johnny had no clothing, no food, no weapons to protect himself against wolves, mountain lions, and other predators. As the days passed, she found herself worrying more and more about his safety. He had Apache blood and instincts, but did he have the ability to survive such a punishing physical test?

She was working late one evening in the office she shared with the legal-services attorney when again she felt a presence in the room. As she glanced up, Johnny’s grandfather moved toward her out of the shadows.

“It’s time,” he said. “You must join Johnny in the white mountains.”

“Join him?” Honor closed the casebook she’d been reading. “Is he all right? Does he know about this?”

“He does not need to know.”

“But why am I going?”

“Because you are part of the medicine through which he will find his power.”

Honor couldn’t hide her surprise, not only at what Chy Starhawk was suggesting, but at what he was asking her to do. It seemed as if he were casually pulling strings and manipulating people’s fates without any regard to the dangers involved. “I’m sure Johnny would consider me an enemy of his power,” she said softly but emphatically. “I told you before that in his heart he still hates me for what I did.”

“Johnny will come to see what is so,” the shaman said, seeming not to be swayed by her concerns.

“I don’t think you understand,” she persisted. “He wants revenge.”

The old man’s shrug was fatalistic. “I do understand. It was the ancient way of our people. To let a wrong go unpunished invited more wrongs. One act balanced another.”

Honor rose from her chair, frightened and appalled. “And you’re willing to let that happen? You’re willing to send me in as some kind of human sacrifice so that Johnny can find his power, as you call it?”

“It is not I who must be willing. It is you.”

“But you do believe that Johnny will try to exact his revenge?” Honor’s pulse rate went wild as the shaman’s silence seemed to indicate his agreement. “And that I will be hurt in all of this?” she asked.

The silence seemed to drag on forever before the shaman finally nodded, a measure of sympathy in his expression. “Yes, you surely will be hurt in all of this. But if you are brave and strong enough to endure it, you will win.”

“What do you mean? Win what?”

“The right to know . . . what you do not yet know.”

Honor heaved a tremulous sigh and turned away, wishing she could make the old man understand how terribly dangerous his suggestion was. To interrupt Johnny’s vigil, to inflict herself upon him now, would surely trigger all the dark impulses Johnny himself had warned her about, the very rage she was trying to avoid. She wasn’t brave or strong enough for that!

Johnny sat cross-legged before the glowing embers of the small campfire he’d built. The kindling crackled and popped noisily, filling the air with the rich scent of pine. Behind him a full moon was on the rise, spilling its dazzlingly bright light through a canopy of blue spruce and ponderosa pine.

The contents of his medicine bag lay scattered on the ground before him, each charm’s distinctive color representing one of the four directions—black jet for East, blue turquoise for South, red stone for West, and white shell for North. His grandfather had told him that the stones would reveal secrets, but tonight their starlike patterns had begun to blur and distort before his eyes, taking on sinister shapes.

A coyote howled in the distance. Johnny glanced up at the night sky and knew it was time. He had been told to fast and let the spirits speak, but the hunger and fatigue that resulted from going several days without food were fouling his senses. The full moon meant it was time to hunt.

The knife he slipped into the top of his high moccasins was a weapon he’d worked from chalcedony, a translucent quartz stone. It was sharp enough to kill quickly and virtually painlessly, but first he had to be clever enough to ensnare the animal.

A hawk swooped out of nowhere as Johnny rose to track the coyote. Dizziness washed over him as he watched the magnificent bird dip and soar, its wings flashing silver in the moonlight. Johnny began to follow the creature on instinct, knowing it was no ordinary bird.

He moved swiftly through the trees, tracking the hawk, but as the bird soared over an alpine meadow, Johnny stopped in confusion. Hundreds of rabbits danced and bobbed in the moon-drenched meadow, weaving stuporously. At first he thought he was hallucinating, but he’d heard of this phenomenon from Apache lore, animals made drunk by moonlight. Perhaps that was why the hawk had led him there. For an easy kill.

But the bird shrieked urgently, reclaiming Johnny’s attention and drawing it to a mountain stream that crashed through a stand of pines. A puma hovered on the opposite shore of the stream, its golden coat bleached white by the intense light. Johnny crouched to get his knife. When he looked up, the cat was gone, and a woman was standing in its place.

She was surreal in the moonlight, naked beneath a
gauzy,
luminescent gown. Her long blond hair flowed like the water at her feet, and though her face was veiled in shadows, he knew who she was.

“Johnny,” she whispered, holding out her hand to him. “Come for me.” The river picked up her whispers and repeated his name, chanting it magically, sensually. Johnny knew she must be some kind of vision, but he was struck by how hauntingly lovely she was, and the way her nakedness was revealed to him in such fantastic detail.

As though aware of his fascination, she drew a hand to her breast, running her little finger over its fullness, encircling the aureole. Johnny watched, both excited and disturbed as she let her hand glide down her body. She touched herself erotically, and he began to harden.

“Deliver me,” she murmured. She held out her hand again, beseechingly, almost sadly. “Johnny . . . take me, save me.”

Johnny started toward her, but the river roared and grew wild. Transfixed, he watched as she waded into the turbulent water.
Johnny, take me, save me.
Her plea reverberated in his head and echoed thunderously in the rapids. The water raged, plastering the gown to her body and beating against her violently, but she kept going as though unaware of the danger.

Suddenly she sank thigh-deep in the swirling water and faltered, struggling to catch her balance. The current was deadly, and she plunged deeper, sucked into a howling vortex where the rocks were jagged and slick with moss.

“Johnny!”
someone screamed. The cry echoed in the blackness above him. The hawk?

The woman reached out to him in desperation as the turbulence dragged her down. Her broken whisper was torn away by the thunderous currents. “Johnny . . . forgive me.”

Johnny plunged into the river, the water beating at him as he caught hold of her arms. Adrenaline spiked his heart rate. He fought to pull her out of the whirlpool, trying to drag her toward him. With a roar of rage he pulled her free. But as he lifted her into his arms, he saw her anguish. A brilliant glitter of tears flowed into the water droplets on her face.

It wasn’t until he reached the shore with her limp body that he realized he must have been hallucinating. The woman was Honor, but she wearing a traditional Apache camp dress, not a luminescent gown. And though she was wearing her hair down, it had been drawn loosely into a single braid.

The night air had a sharp bite to it as he headed back to camp with his sodden burden. He broke into a jog, knowing he had to get her out of the cold. She was semiconscious and shuddering violently. By the time he reached the sheltering copse of pine and spruce where he’d spent the last several days, the fire had nearly died out.

He settled her in the primitive lean-to he’d rigged together from tree branches and leaves, then set about building up the fire. Her wet clothing had to come off, he told himself, but he had nothing dry to cover her with and no inclination whatsoever to undress a woman who’d already given him a world of grief with her clothes on.

Moments later, bending over her huddled form, he realized he couldn’t even give her his own clothes. He had none. He couldn’t see any visible injuries on her body, but she could easily die of exposure alone.

His conscience worked at him as the night wore on and the temperature dropped. Between her convulsive tremors and his own experience with the freezing conditions at night, he finally talked himself into removing her voluminous skirt. The damp cotton fabric resisted him, clinging to her skin and tangling up in his hands as he tried to peel it away. With a soft curse he gave up trying not to touch her. His fingers pressed into her flesh, sending a shudder through him as he worked the material loose and stripped it away from her body.

As he tugged the fabric over her moccasined feet, she made a sound and drew her legs up, curling into a fetal position. Reluctantly aware of the transparent wet panties she wore, of the tantalizing curve of buttock he’d exposed, Johnny couldn’t stop himself from looking at her, or from wanting her.

Something rose wildly inside him—animal lust or longing. Whatever it was, the flash of desire hit him so hard, it took his breath away before he had it under control. The position she’d curled into conjured images of the most erotic kind of lovemaking possible. He imagined himself lifting her hair and kissing the nape of her neck, caressing her naked legs and cupping the rounds of her buttocks in his palms. He imagined how hard he would be as he fitted his body to the luscious curve of hers.

How hard he was now!

Desire slammed into him again, a blunt force. She was leaving in the morning, he told himself. However she’d managed to get here, she was going back the same way.

He held her skirt over the fire, shaking it until it was warm and dry enough to provide her with some protection. Less erotic questions took over his concerns as he covered her with the warmed material. He couldn’t imagine what she was doing up here, unless she’d been sent to bring him news about the case.

His hunger forgotten, he sat through the night, feeding the fire and waiting until her moans and shudders gave way. Finally she sank into a heavy sleep, and he closed his eyes in relief, thinking to catch a moment’s rest. Within seconds he’d drifted in a haze of exhaustion. . . .

The chatter of mockingbirds brought him to with a start. He couldn’t remember where he was or what had happened until he glanced around and saw Honor still sleeping in the lean-to. Dawn was breaking over the hills, painting the jagged crests with a rich silvery light. In a few more moments the mountains would be awake, alive.