Marton, Dana

Colonel Cameron Murphy wasn’t afraid of dying. The thought of dying without
accomplishing his mission, however, really burned his ass.

“On my mark,” he whispered into his mouthpiece as he looked at his men, six
of the best Special Forces soldiers he’d ever known.

They nodded, one after the other, wound tight and ready for action.

He motioned to Martin and Bullseye to start spreading out to the right. The
small group was too close together, too easy a target if the enemy picked up on
their location. They were surrounded. The noose was tightening.

Two-hundred feet ahead.
Blackhaw signaled to his left and pointed.

Cameron stared into the lush African jungle. Nothing but the odd leaf
bobbing, likely disturbed by some giant insect. The birds and the rest of the
wildlife had left or hid as soon as the gun battle had begun. But if there was
anything to see, Blackhaw would be the one to pick it up. His Cherokee blood
made him a hunter to be reckoned with.

There.
The straight line of a rifle, a contrast to the curvy air roots
among which the enemy hid.

“Now!” Cameron tossed his grenade and charged forward, spraying the jungle
with bullets as he went.

“Tangos to the left!” Bullseye covered him from behind, keeping up.

More and more fire came at them from the terrorists who guarded the hidden
fields in the jungle — the source of drug money used to finance attacks around
the world. Stopping the money flow would cut off the legs of the terrorist
group — catching the leader would cut off its head. Cameron was determined to
accomplish his dual mission, even if his team was outnumbered twenty to one.

“Watch the back,” Blackhaw shouted over the incessant gunfire as he rushed
by.

Then they were through, broken out of the noose.

“Hold your fire,” Cameron spoke into his headset. The men melted into the
woods like shadows, running forward with the easy grace of panthers. Before they
could make plans for a final attack, they had to rendezvous with the rest of
their team. They’d gone off a few days ago in search of the jungle fortress the
terrorist leaders used for central command. “Anyone injured?”

Instead of an answer, his earpiece carried a more distant communication.
“Platoon Commander to Colonel Murphy. Return to base. Over.”

Had the man gone crazy? Cameron swore, but slowed. If whatever was going down
was more important than this, it had to be as serious as shrapnel in the eye.
“Team returning. Over.” He lifted his hand to signal to his men.

“Return requested for the Colonel only. Over.”

He stopped.

Something in the other man’s voice made a shiver run down his back in all
that jungle heat.

“Over two hundred people are confirmed dead, so far,” the Platoon Commander
was saying and went on with details.

Cameron stared at his feet. His brain had stopped back at the beginning of
the briefing:
Domestic terrorists blew up the city hall in Great Falls,
Montana.

Great Falls.

City Hall.

Vicky.

“I’m sorry, Colonel. We’ll keep you posted on all developments related to
your sister’s condition.”

“Who is investigating?” He looked up. It felt as if ice were spreading
through his chest, frosting the edges of the hole where his heart used to be.

“Local law enforcement is working with the FBI,” the Commander said with
sympathy.

“Can I be assigned to the investigation?” A couple of fragmented thoughts
formed into a semi-coherent plan in his head. “In any capacity?”

“Not at this stage. Our mission here is too important.”

“It will have to wait. I need a leave of absence effective immediately.” He
didn’t word it as a question. Even if he couldn’t work on bringing the bastards
who’d done this to justice, no way was he going to wait to hear his sister’s
fate from strangers. “Until she gets off the machines.”

“Impossible.”

“My sister is on a ventilator.” His anger bubbled over. Not the Commander,
not the whole bloody U.S. army could stand in his way. “I’m going to her.”

A moment of silence passed between them before the other man spoke. “I have
to advise you, Colonel. If you leave now, you will lose your command.”

Cameron nodded. He’d been ready to lose his life on mission after mission for
his country. He sure as hell wasn’t worried about losing his command now, when
his sister hung between life and death in a hospital bed thousands of miles from
him, alone.

“I’d like to recommend Campbell for my place, sir. He’s the most suited for
the job.”

The Commander watched his face, noting the unbendable will there. “I see.”

“I’d prefer not to have to go AWOL, sir.” But he would, if needed. He’d do
anything.

“That won’t be necessary, Colonel. I’ll take care of it. Immediate honorable
discharge.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“We are sorry to lose you, Colonel,” the man said and hesitated as if
considering trying to talk him out of it. In the end, he finished with, “Good
luck. Get those sons of bitches. I have a sister, too.”

Cameron thanked him and left, heading straight for the air field. First,
Vicky — he would make sure she had everything she needed, that she would
recover. Then once she was safe, he would see to the men responsible. And he
would send them straight back to where they’d come from — the darkest burrow of
hell.

“Hang on, honey. I’m here.” Cameron held his sister’s hand as pain spread
through him.

She couldn’t hear him. She was too broken, too far gone for recovery,
according to the doctors. He raged against their diagnosis, though he could see
the truth in her pale cheeks, in the eyes that had fluttered open only once
since he’d arrived.

He’d been at her bedside for three days, holding her hand for as long as the
nurses would let him stay. In the moments he wasn’t with her, he was hounding
the cops and the FBI investigators for answers.

The official number of victims had risen to nearly three hundred. The
perpetrators were identified as some backwoods militia group that had cleared
out of the state right after the bombing. While local law enforcement was
powerless, the FBI was overwhelmed with interviewing the hundreds of potential
witnesses and following the countless leads.

The door opened behind Cameron and he glanced back, expecting the nurse to
tell him visiting hours were over.

“Jack.” He was surprised to see his old FBI buddy, instead. “Found anything
out?”

“A million little things that might or might not go anywhere. We got a name,
though.”

“Who?” The man was dead; he just didn’t know it yet.

“Fowler. Boone Fowler from the MMFA — Montana Militia for a Free America.”

He let go of Vicky’s hand and stood, his head clearing as he processed the
news. He had a name. A purpose.

“Don’t even think about it.” Jack shook his head. “You’re no good to your
sister if you’re in jail. Fowler is a son-of-a-bitch, but killing him would be
still murder.”

He almost laughed at that. What the hell did he care? He was no good to
Vicky, anyway. She didn’t even know he was here with her. Nobody could help her.
“Don’t worry about me.”

“I do. Listen —” Jack blocked his path to the door. “There might be a way.”

He stopped. “Can you deputize me?” He’d already tried that with the cops, to
no result.

“That’s not how it works, but…a bounty has been put on Fowler’s head.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about money.”

“Bounty hunters can use almost any tool at their disposal to find and capture
their man. Regulations are pretty loose, especially in Montana.” Jack’s eyes
held a world of meaning.

“Do I need a permit to become one?” Possibilities opened up all of a sudden.

“Talk to somebody in the business.”

He would do a hell of a lot more than talk. He wanted Fowler dead.
Now.
It didn’t seem fair for him to outlive Vicky, and Vicky didn’t have long. “I
want the best,” he said.

“That would be Russel.” Jack took a piece of paper from his pocket and
scribbled an address on it.

Cameron thanked him, and while he half listened to Jack’s warnings about not
crossing the line, he planned his revenge.

Mia Russel read over the printout on her desk and considered the bounty
listed at half-a-million dollars. Acquisitions of this magnitude didn’t come by
every day. It’d take care of her for a good long time, if she could figure out —

She looked up as her office door banged open.

“Knocking would be good,” she said as dryly as she could — the man who strode
in scared her a little. Showing fear now could be a deadly mistake.

Danger rolled off him in waves. Anger, the deadly kind, nested deep in his
eyes, the darkest she’d ever seen.

“I want Russel,” he said, his deep voice booming, bouncing off the walls.

She put down her peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, positioned her right hand
so she could reach the Beretta in the top drawer in seconds, and put on her best
smile. “Can I help you, sir?”

She really had to get into the habit of locking the door when she stayed
after hours. They were probably the only two people in the whole office
building.

“I’m not here for a tea party.” He measured her up and dismissed her.
“Where’s Mr. Russel? I need to talk to the man.”

He wasn’t the first to make the wrong assumption based on her last name.

“Mia Russel.” She stood, keeping her hand where it was, near the gun.

Watching his jaw drop was entertaining. Now came the part where he would
underestimate her, an opportunity she would use if he was here to cause trouble.
“And you would be?”

A second passed before he recovered, still eyeing her with suspicion.
“Cameron Murphy.” He stepped closer. “You’re the bounty hunter?”

“That’s what the sign says on the door.”

He was overly self-assured, a man in his forties who was used to command. She
guessed military and took in his faded jeans and the well-washed black T-shirt
he wore. He was powerfully built, with jet black hair and a face that looked
like he had lived a hard life, a lot of it outdoors. His skin was tanned like
old cowboys she’d known in her childhood, men who slept and worked the open
range.

“Jack Crow sent me,” he said.

She relaxed and sat back down. No friend of Jack would come here to hurt her.
From the way he was looking at her, however, she pitied whoever he was after.

“You need someone found?”

“I need someone dead.” He shot her a level look. “But don’t worry, I’ll take
care of that myself. I’m just here for advice on how to do it legally.”

“No,” Mia said. “No self-respecting bounty hunter goes after an acquisition
with the intent to kill.”

“I’m not asking you to do that.”

“Just to help you do it? Produce someone for execution? Jack used to pick his
friends more carefully.”

“Make sure you tell him how disappointed you are in him the next time you two
meet,” he said with a blank face.

She watched him, measured him. He was no criminal, but there was definitely
murder in those eyes. And pain? No, she had to be mistaken about that. He looked
like the kind nothing could get to.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Murphy. You came to the wrong place.”

He kept those eyes on her until she thought their darkness would swallow her.
Then he turned and left without a word.

Official tally of city hall bombing: 296. Final victim, Victoria Murphy,
died at Mercy Hospital late last night.

Mia stared at the picture in the morning paper that showed the young woman
smiling into the camera at an office function. She bore a strong resemblance to
the man who had visited her the night before. Cameron Murphy. Mia put the paper
down. She didn’t believe in coincidences.

She tossed aside the paper and picked up the printout for the bounty on Boone
Fowler’s head. She’d been toying with the idea since it’d been posted. He was a
monster, no doubt about it. She wanted to be the one who took him down. Montana
was her state; Great Falls was her city, damn it. She took the bombing personal.
But Fowler was too much to tackle alone. She considered her options, her gaze
dropping to the paper again.

Victoria Murphy. The image of the young woman haunted her all morning, as the
TV images of the explosion had haunted her dreams. Those victims deserved
someone to stand for them. Someone to make sure this didn’t happen again.

She thought of Cameron Murphy — of the pain she saw in him. She reached for
the phone and dialed. “Jack? I met a friend of yours yesterday. What can you
tell me about him?” She listened for a while. “Do you know where he’s staying?”