LITMIR.BIZ

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      When he questioned her, he alternated kindness and cruelty to throw her off balance. The subject should never know whether to expect a compliment or a slap in the face.

      The next step was where they were right now. Sensory deprivation. The socks and gloves eliminated the sense of touch. The hood and earphones cut off sight and hearing. Without sensory stimulus, the subject became highly disoriented.

      During Trevor’s counterintelligence training, he’d undergone most of these procedures himself. Though it was intensely confusing to lose the use of your senses, the worst part for him was confinement. He hated to be enclosed.

      In the chair, Sierra whimpered. The sound of her fear sliced through his stoic resolve. Though he reminded himself that the ultimate goal—catching the Militia—was worth her temporary discomfort, his heart didn’t believe that rationalization. What he was doing to her felt wrong. He wanted to tear off the blindfold, unfasten her bonds and hold her in his arms.

      He checked his wristwatch. In twenty minutes, the truth drug he’d administered in her water would take effect. Her defenses would be down, and she’d be ready to talk. The truth drug, or TD, never failed to produce the desired results. It had been developed in extensive tests with Army Intelligence and was more potent than Pentothal. Because the TD was mostly organic, with a mescaline base, the aftereffects were minimal, with only a few hours of slight, occasional hallucinations.

      He appreciated the irony of using this derivative from the peyote button, sacred to many Native American tribes, for such a high-tech application.

      Her chest heaved as she sobbed.

      Damn it! He couldn’t stand seeing her suffer. This was almost more torturous for him than for her.

      Trevor stepped outside the room into the hallway, closed the door and inhaled a deep breath. For this interrogation to continue, he needed to get control of his emotions. His response to her was all wrong. He couldn’t be sympathetic.

      Glad that nobody was around to see his weakness, he glanced down the hallway in the underground level of Big Sky Bounty Hunters headquarters. A quiet hum came from the room nearest the staircase, where they kept the computers and state-of-the-art equipment used for surveillance and tracking. This was the no-frills part of the building, nothing like the cozy upper floors, with their rustic pine paneling reminiscent of a hunting lodge.

      Trevor had noticed that when he was doing interrogations, the other bounty hunters steered clear of this part of headquarters. Nobody liked to think about coercive techniques.

      He checked his watch again. Ten more minutes. He had time to run upstairs and grab a sandwich, but he didn’t much feel like eating.

      Instead, he returned to the interrogation room and paced. Seven minutes left. Sierra’s whimpers had stilled to an occasional moan. Five minutes.

      There was no need for him to pity her. She wasn’t an innocent little flower. This woman had lived with Lyle Nelson, a murderous bastard. She hung out with the Militia—heartless terrorists of the first order. Sierra couldn’t be entirely blameless. Two minutes left.

      Damn it, he couldn’t wait any longer.

      When he removed the earphones, she shuddered.

      He pulled off the blindfold. Her dark eyes were wide, the pupils dilated. Her mouth twitched as if she couldn’t decide whether to smile or to spit in his face. The drug had taken effect. She was ready.

      Gently, he removed the gloves and caressed her cold fingers, encouraging circulation. “How are you feeling, Sierra?”

      “Dizzy.”

      His first step was to get her talking, encourage her to open up. “But you’re okay, aren’t you?”

      “Yes.” She nodded slowly.

      “Tell me about yourself,” he said. “Tell me about going to school in Brooklyn.”

      “I was good at school,” she said. “All A’s and B’s, and I went to Brooklyn College for a year until I couldn’t afford it. Mom and Dad broke up for good, and I had to get my own apartment. New York is expensive.”

      Though her cooperative attitude was drug-induced, Trevor enjoyed this moment of civilized communication. With a damp cloth, he stroked her forehead and wiped the tearstains from her cheeks. “What did you do after you left college?”

      “Lied about my age and got a job. I worked for a law firm near the World Trade Center. That was before 9-11.”

      “What kind of job?” He quickly directed her thoughts away from the tragedy of September eleventh. For now, he wanted her memories to be pleasant.

      “Administrative assistant,” she said. “That’s a mouthful, huh?”

      “Yes, it is.”

      “First I was a receptionist, but I got promoted. I had a bank account and savings, and I was even thinking about going to law school myself.”

      “What changed your mind?”

      “Got bored,” she said with a mischievous smile. “On the day I turned twenty-five, I realized that the farthest I’d ever been from Brooklyn was a friend’s wedding in Philly. I wanted some adventure while I was still young. So I cashed in my savings, bought my Nissan and drove west.”

      “All the way to Montana,” he said. “Long drive.”

      “But not far enough. I meant to keep going until I hit the High Sierras, because of my name, but I kind of ran out of gas.” She tilted her head to one side and studied him. “You’re cute, Trevor. If I took you back to Brooklyn with me, all the other girls would be jealous.”

      He smiled, enjoying her flirtation. The TD had loosened her inhibitions as well as her tongue. “When you stopped in Montana, you met—”

      “Where are you from, Trevor?”

      “A potato farm in Idaho.”

      “No kidding! That’s so…rural. Where else have you lived?”

      “I spent a year on the Cherokee reservation in Oklahoma.”

      Her dark eyes widened. “You’re Cherokee?”

      “Part Cherokee.”

      “And I’ll bet that’s the part that doesn’t have amazing blue eyes.”

      He couldn’t allow this line of conversation to continue. She was a subject. This was an interrogation. “Now I live here in Montana. Like you. This is where you met Lyle Nelson.”

      Her sunny attitude faltered. “He was mean.”

      “There must have been good times,” Trevor said encouragingly. “Tell me about the good times.”

      “No.” Her lips pursed in an adorable pout. “Let’s talk about the Cherokee reservation.”

      “Sierra.” He snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Concentrate.”

      “I don’t want to talk about Lyle.”

      And Trevor didn’t want to push her. But this was his job. Extracting information could be as painful as yanking a molar, but they would both feel better when it was over. “Lyle’s friends in the Militia. Tell me their names.”

      “Everybody knows them,” she said, “from the newspapers.”

      It was time for Trevor to change gears. Niceness wasn’t going to cut it with her. He held the blindfold so she could see it. “If you were blindfolded, you might be able to think more clearly.”

      “No.” Her lower lip trembled. “Don’t put that thing on me again.”

      “Talk, Sierra.”

      “Lyle’s friends,” she said quickly. “The leader of the Militia is Boone Fowler. He’s a power-hungry creep. All of them are. Bad people. Lyle wasn’t

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