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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.
     

Chapter Three
    “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