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with terrorists?”

    “No one knows. His record was impeccable up until the day he disappeared.”

    “Hmm,” she murmured, but she did not want to believe any of it. She did not want her previously comfortable life stripped from her. She peered directly into Damien’s implacable eyes. “I want proof, Damien, not just words and speculation.”

    He nodded sharply. “Understandable. I probably would not believe it either if our situations were reversed. I have a file that might help.”

    He dug into his duffel bag, withdrew a file folder, and opened it. He removed several pages and handed her the file. “These are classified,” he explained, putting the pages in his duffel. “But you can look at the rest.”

    Laurie took the file in suddenly trembling hands and sat at the table. She hesitated, filled with trepidation, and lifted the cover. An eight-by-ten glossy color photograph lay on top. It showed several men coming out of an old building. One face was circled in black marker. He had gray hair and a full mustache. The other men appeared distinctly Latin American. All were hard, rough-looking men. The next item was a blow-up of the white man. It was a grainy, black and white picture.

    She squinted, studied the man’s features. The face was not familiar. She shrugged. He might be anybody. As she continued to peruse the contents of the file, her eyes narrowed in ALWAYS A WARRIOR Patricia Bruening
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    fierce concentration. A duplicate driver’s license and a government employee identification card established the man’s identity: Nathaniel Crawford, born in Tucson, Arizona.

    “That doesn’t mean anything,” she muttered to herself, but her heart skipped a beat as she flipped pages. Her fingers trembled.

    His relationships were also clearly documented—a marriage license and birth certificates.
    He had married Marjorie Crawford in the late sixties. Four birth certificates—Crawford, Marjorie, Laurie’s, and Stacy’s—confirmed definite family connections. Stunned, Laurie slammed the file closed and shoved it across the table.

    “He’s not dead!” she exclaimed in disbelief. “She lied—for years!”

    On a surge of rage, she pounded her fist on the table and ignored the pain. Standing, she knocked the chair back. It crashed to the floor. She righted it with a quick jerk.

    “How could she?” Laurie demanded of no one in particular as she paced the wooden floor in long, angry strides. “She lied to me! He didn’t die. He left. Or did she leave?”

    She clenched her hands into fists and forced herself to calm down. She had to shove emotional reactions aside until she sorted through and dealt with the implications of her discoveries. She drew in a deep shuddering breath and faced Damien, who eyed her impersonally.

    “My mother has a lot of explaining to do,” she declared forcefully. “So does my father when I find him. He’s supposed to be dead!”

    “Wait a minute,” Damien interrupted harshly and stopped her cold. “You won’t get near him. He’s a criminal—a traitor. He’ll be tried, convicted, and punished. It has nothing to do with you.”

    “Nothing to do with me?” she echoed, staring at him as though he’d suddenly grown a purple head. “It has everything to do with me! We’re in this mess because of him!”

    Her heart pounded fiercely. Her pulse raced. She held onto the rage so she would not wail in anguish.

    “It doesn’t matter,” Damien insisted coldly. “All that matters is that we catch him.”

    “It matters to me!” Laurie shot back. She clenched her fists even tighter and glared at him. “He betrayed us. I’m entitled to know why. Damn it!”

    Damien leveled his frigid stare on her, but she was too enraged to squirm.

    “Don’t make it personal,” he ordered icily.

    Frustrated, fighting tears, Laurie shouted. “Of course it’s personal! He dragged us into this, turned our lives upside down, put Stacy in danger. You’re a psycho if you think