––––––––

She’d put it off for weeks, but when Henri opened the cupboard and all she found was a stale Pop Tart, it was time to go to town for supplies. Aside from being out of food and low on drinking water, she’d spent last night going over the items needed to repair the cave-in. The list would cost her big. Every time she turned around, something else failed. Last month she’d had to replace the generator, then the batteries, then the pump motor for the well. Would it never end?

After a shower, she slapped on a bit of makeup and brushed out her hair, leaving the thick mop down so it would wind-dry on the way.

Heading outside, debris crumbled beneath her boots as she climbed down to her truck, Old Red, another relic inherited from her grandfather. But it worked. At least she thought it did until the damned thing growled like a two-week old Labrador and died—five times.

Grinding her teeth with a frustrated grunt, she hopped out and looked under the engine. The thing had always leaked oil, but this time, it looked like a tanker had dropped its load. The dipstick confirmed it, too. But when a person owns a 1977 Ford, they always kept a few quarts of 10W-30 behind the seat.

She added all three quarts and, in addition to writing motor oil to the shopping list, she decided to make a pit stop at Martin’s repair shop on the rez. Martin could fix anything.

Still, even after adding oil, the truck was reluctant to start. Worse, as Henri drove along the rocky and rutted dirt road to Shivwits, Old Red pinged and knocked all the way to the highway. Afraid of a breakdown, she pulled into the Shivwits neighborhood and found Martin. At least she found his legs—the rest of him was under the hood of a Mustang.

“Hey,” she said. Having been in the same grade in school, Henri had known Martin most of her life.

“That you?” he asked before he straightened and wiped his hands on a rag.

“Got engine trouble.”

“I figured.” He looked at her with brown, puppy-dog eyes like he always did, the big flirt. The only problem was there was no spark in Henri’s heart aside from the friendly kind. Martin had asked her out a gazillion times. They’d even gone to the senior prom together. The problem was they were too much like brother and sister. Martin always had her back. In fact, he was the only guy on the rez who didn’t call her Whitey on account of her worthless dad. “The only time you come around is when you need that old heap of junk fixed.”

“Hey, this Ford was Grandfather’s. He’d turn in his grave if he heard you diss his wheels.”

Martin tossed the rag and headed for Old Red. “What’s wrong with it this time?”

“Aside from leaking oil like a sieve, it’s knocking and it’s got that ‘eau de burning oil’ thing going on.”

“Knocking isn’t good.”

“At least it’s not blowing smoke.”

“The new radiator I installed is warrantied for five years.”

Henri nodded. When she’d first returned from the slammer, she’d had to shell out two hundred fifty bucks because Old Red had a rusted-out radiator. She kicked the rear tire. “How long do you think the repairs will take?”

“That depends on what’s wrong.”

“Okay, how long until I can drive to town for supplies?”

“Give me an hour—then we’ll see.” He shook his head. “You really need to trade this thing in.”

Henri cringed. She’d looked at truck prices and even used ones were outrageous. “Yeah, but I like this one.”

Martin raised the hood and pulled out the dipstick. “How many quarts of oil did you put in before you left the mine?”

“Three. That’s all I had.”

Shaking his head, he blew out a sigh. “You need a new truck, Sister.”

“Just figure out the damages and get me on the road.” She threw her thumb over her shoulder. “I’m heading to Aunt Chenoa’s for a minute.”

“See ya. And, Sister?”

“Yeah?”

“You look nice with your hair down.”

“Thanks.”

Awkward.

Heading off, Henri hoped her aunt wasn’t home so she could just pick up her mail without having to be sociable, but Chenoa opened the door as Henri walked up the dirt path. “What brought you down from your gold mine?”

“I’m out of food.”

Chenoa held the door and ushered Henri inside. “Figures. Otherwise you’d never pay a social visit.”

“Do I have any mail?”

“In the kitchen where it always is.”

While Auntie rambled on about all the gossip on the rez, Henri leafed through the pile of junk. Some things never changed. The only thing she didn’t chuck was a bill from her credit card company.

“So, I saw the silver Jeep head toward the mine yesterday.” Auntie said, raising her eyebrows. “What did the Scottish man do at your place? It seems like he was up there an awfully long time.”

“Target practice.”

“He’s a sharp-shooter?” Chenoa hated the word sniper. She thought it was akin to assassin...which it was.

“Sort of.”

“What’s the job he’s offering? It sounds promising. Where would you be working?”

Henri shrugged, her head starting to pound from the interrogation. “Not around here, that’s for sure.”

Auntie leaned on the counter, squinting like she was about to give some unwanted advice. “Goodness, you’re not attached. Why don’t you take it? I worry about you holed up there in that mine all by yourself. What if something happened?” she asked in an accusing tone. “You could be trapped for weeks before anyone even realized you were in trouble!”

Well, that had almost happened yesterday. Regardless, Chenoa had a way of making Henri want to hit something. Without even knowing what Rose was offering, good ole auntie was encouraging Henri to take a job. It could be a one-way ticket to Syria and the woman would tell Henri to go. Heck, Rose could be asking her to assassinate the President of the United States.

Secret organization? Answering to no country? WTF?

But Henri knew better than to disclose anything to her aunt, lest it be broadcast to everyone in Southern Utah. “Yeah, well, I want to stay around here.”

“So, is it a civilian job?”

“Sort of.”

“That wouldn’t be all that bad...”

Thank God the doorbell rang.

Henri answered.

Martin stood on the porch with a frown. “You want the bad news or the really bad news?”

Cringing, she rubbed the back of her neck. “Shit.”

“Your engine’s shot. The camshaft is no longer working in time with the pistons and it can’t be fixed.”

“What’s that going to set me back?”

“Five grand, but I’m not finished. Your undercarriage is rusted through. You need a ton of body work—I tapped the rear fender and it fell off. The springs in the seat are shot. Your steering column is a wobbly mess.” He stopped and took a breath. “You want me to go on?”

Shaking her head, Henri jammed her fist into her hip. “Just tell me the damages.”

“That’s what I’m trying to say. You need a new goddamned truck. It’ll be a miracle if that heap makes it to town for you to get your supplies...and if it does, there’s no way it’ll make the return trip.”

No one needed to tell her that after buying a truck, the equipment she needed for the mine and to keep feeding herself, her back pay wasn’t going to last. Henri held out her upturned palm. “So, can I borrow your Tacoma to drive to town?”

Martin crossed his arms. “Did you listen to anything I said?”

“I can’t buy new wheels if I can’t get to town.”

He dug in his pocket and pulled out the keys. “I need it back by five.”

“Fine.”

***

After Henri had been to the big-box hardware store, to the mining equipment shop on the other side of town, and to five different car yards, she sat in Martin’s Tacoma and blankly stared out the windshield. She’d never been much for crying, but right now she wanted to bawl her eyes out and scream.

She pounded her fist on the steering wheel.

“Dammit...Arrrgh!”

She pummeled the thing repeatedly while strands of hair flicked into her eyes and across her mouth. Tenser than a wound spring, she shoved her fly-aways out of her face.

She’d been working her freaking ass off and had absolutely nothing to show for it aside from a gargantuan list of bills and a crap-ton of dirt that would take three months to move by hand.

Why did everything have to fall apart at once? Henri had jotted the figures onto a slip of paper. The truck she liked was sixty-four grand. There was a used model she could buy for fifteen, but it already had well over a hundred thousand miles on it. Then there was the mining equipment she’d need—if she ever expected to find anything other than sandstone and basalt. No one had to tell her she could swing her pick and shovel for the rest of her life and maybe come up with a couple hundred dollars in gold dust. Her grandfather had done it—though mostly as a hobby. He’d worked as a ranch hand and retired to the mine. The place couldn’t even support a damned mouse.

Shoveling for the rest of her life wouldn’t be a bad thing, except she needed to live. A person could only cut food costs so much. Her boots might last her another two years if she was lucky. She made her own bullets, but casings and lead weren’t free. Gas wasn’t free. Mining equipment wasn’t effing free. The constant need to repair everything wasn’t free.

After swiping away a stupid tear, Henri picked up the piece of paper with her scribblings. If she wanted to do things right, buy a decent truck that would last, and set up the mine so she wouldn’t break her back by the time she was thirty-five, she’d have to fork out a minimum of seventy grand and that didn’t include food. Worse? She only had fifty grand and some change in her bank account.

She’d be wiped out and then some.

Another option would be to buy the truck for fifteen, the hardware for a grand, and shovel out the dirt from the cave-in by hand. Once that was done, she could get by for a couple of years swinging a pick like she’d been doing. The downside of that was the risk of more cave-ins.

On one hand, she liked the solitude of the mine. No one bothered her. No one told her what to do...

No one cared, either.

Aunt Chenoa was right about one thing. If Henri had been trapped in the cave-in, no one would have even noticed anything amiss for weeks. Maybe months.

Maybe forever.

She could have been buried alive and no one would have known.

Would her life ever be normal? She’d learned to like being alone all the time. She’d been an outcast since the day she was born. The only place she’d ever belonged was in the army—because she was a damned good assassin. She was good enough to be accepted into Delta Force and pass their rigorous tests. Though, even in the service, people were afraid of her. Who wouldn’t be afraid of a sniper who could hit a bullseye at two miles? She was a freak, a loner.

Yeah, there’d been friends and boyfriends. Though the latter was always fleeting, and nice guys like Martin never ignited that spark. Henri only ever got that rush of passion from a bad boy—a guy who flew by the seat of his pants with his hair on fire—the daredevil type.

Not that she’d seen any action...in forever.

Maybe there was something wrong with Henri’s internal ignition switch. What would be so bad about shacking up with Martin? He was a Paiute. He’d been Henri’s friend since they were in kindergarten. Sure, he was about six inches shorter, but she was five-foot-ten. Most the guys on the rez were shorter, though most of them treated her like an outsider. Not Martin. If only she had the hots for him.

Eew.

The thought of kissing him was just plain gross.

I mean, who kisses her brother? Right?

Henri had to face the fact that she’d been an oddball all her life. Until Mike Rose broke into her pad and smashed through the barrier she’d built around herself, she’d been content enough to accept loner-dom. Heck, no normal guys ever thought girls who worked as snipers were hot. And most guys didn’t like half-white, Native American girls who could beat them at just about any sport on the planet, or pin their butts to a sparring mat. Not to mention, she couldn’t cook worth beans. If it counted, she did keep a tidy house. She was even pretty good at bead work. That was a girly hobby.

Henri shook her head.

Who am I fooling? There aren’t any guys out there for me.

She’d known it for years. In fact, everything would be just fine if Grandfather were still alive. She’d always enjoyed working with him in the mine, playing cards and watching DVDs. He didn’t care if she cooked a can of chili or barbequed a steak on the charcoal grill. The old man would have eaten burnt eggs if she’d put them in front of him.

The old man.

She looked toward the looming Red Cliffs of Saint George.

Grandfather would have asked the spirits for guidance.

In five minutes, Henri had driven up the steep hill, parked and was now ascending the Chuckwalla Trailhead at a fast march. Once she reached the summit, she gazed over the town that had always been her home. The white Mormon temple stood out as a testament to the first settlers, but what moved her was the sculpted red sandstone that gave Saint George its character—rock which endured through eons of time. Beyond the crisscrossing streets and houses lay the land of Arizona, the land of her ancestors, the Anasazi. And to the east, the jagged cliffs of Zion Canyon peeked above the hills.

Using her wide-angle vision, a sense of calm spread from Henri’s chest through her limbs. Taking in a deep breath, she sat cross-legged and let her palms rest on her knees. After two deep, reviving breaths, she became one with the heartbeat of Mother Nature. The spirits of her ancestors calmed the fire in her blood.

Above, a hawk called. Henri saw it in her minds’ eye but she didn’t move.

I hear you.

The hawk called again, the high pitch sending a shiver through her limbs.

Grandfather walked with pride and with honor. His granddaughter was Soaring-Eagle of the Paiutes. She was not afraid of anything. No one would make her fear the night, and no one could take away her soul. Soaring-Eagle would always walk with pride and honor as a tribute to the man who had raised her.

The hawk’s next call was but a whisper on the wind as the tension completely melted from Henri’s body. She didn’t move as she breathed in tandem with the gentle breeze, soaking in life-giving heat from the sun.

When she finally opened her eyes, she knew her purpose. Her gaze homed in on a hotel not far from the shore of the Virgin River. The Hilton Garden Inn. The place where Mike Rose said he was staying.

He’d offered her a chance to stop Omar Fadli from his reign of terror.

If she could accomplish one thing in this life, it would be to ensure that man never killed again. Fadli craved power. He made weaker people suffer to feed his psychotic need to feel important. How many people had he killed since the Iranian ambassador? How many people had he tortured? How many women had he raped?

Could she stop him?