CHAPTER THREE

1

"Here's the deal," Ray said in a low voice, his face inches from hers. Her eyes were wide, her shock evident. His powerful hand was still wrapped about the chain of the cuffs attached to her wrists. "You find out where those bastards came from. Get it done, I don't care how. But when you do, I'll let you go on your way."

Karma stared at him. Her arms shook with rage, hands balled into tight fists. The man had made a mistake. She felt it in her bones. Her heart pounded with the tense hate for what he had done to her. Every muscle in her body tensed, prepared to strike. She wanted to, for what he had done to her. The hate was strong enough. Pure desire to be free of these binds surged through her. All it would take was mere thought, and then a single, lightning-quick action. The sheriff didn't understand. No one could understand her abilities. No one living.

"Well, are we gonna do this or not?" he asked.

Somehow, Karma couldn't bring herself to do what she knew she could. Her anger, however strong the desire, was not directed at the man before her. She understood his actions, rash as they were. This was a man who was lost in his troubles, caught unaware. She could see it in his eyes. The people of this town were his own responsibility, and like it or not, she knew he would do whatever he could to see to their safety. She closed her eyes, drawing several deep breaths to soothe herself, easing the anger back, though she was ready to unleash it in an instant.

Ray was stuck between a rock and a hard place. The people were defenseless, and as far as she could tell, Foster didn't do a thing about it. It wouldn't be hard, she knew. All he had to do was supply the sheriff with the means. Little bastard didn't even have to get his hands dirty. But no, that would never work. It would require an effort, and Karma didn't think Joseph Foster had the will.

"One condition," she said finally, turning her eyes up to his.

He was already reaching for his key. "Done."

Karma blinked. She wondered just who this strange man was. She hadn't told him what she wanted in return, and already he was willing to do what he could to strike a bargain.

"Your father was Kyle Bolenski, wasn't he?"

He paused. "How the hell do you know that?"

She smiled grimly and held up her wrists. "Just take these damn things off and I'll go with you. After that, you and me are going to be in for a real long talk, don't you think, sheriff?"

2

Karma, deciding to forgo the mask and goggles, had put on her fedora and cape before she followed Ray down the hillside where Gerald Pierce had built his splendid manor. From here, to the north, she could see a fenced area just outside town where a couple dozen headstones marked the final resting place of some of San Alamos's fallen citizens. She said nothing of the eyes that dwelt on her from that grisly realm, and instead focused her attention on the deed he was asking of her. The man watching her from the graveyard would make himself known sooner or later.

If he didn't know Karma knew about him, that could be her advantage. The thought brought a small smirk to her lips, but she said nothing to Ray as she followed him toward the limestone building near the center of town.

It had occurred to her that this town had no fountain, whereas all the other towns between here and December had each had at least one in the center of town. A group of citizens were still gathered about the mass of motorcycles that the Matadors had driven into town. Karma took a moment during their walk to be certain her own had been untouched. It still sat along the side the general store, where she had left it. Nobody would dare to mess with her belongings, knowing what she had done to the men who had invaded their home.

"You really did a number on those bastards," Ray said after a time. "This town is deeply in your debt."

Karma smirked at the irony of it all. "And so you cuff me to make me do your bidding." For a moment, nothing was said. She decided the silence would get nothing done. She plucked a strand of long, blonde hair from her face. "Real slick, buddy."

Ray shrugged. "You gotta do what you gotta do."

"You're only one. Exactly how do you anticipate to defend these people against men like that? They may have followed me here, and whether that's true or not, there are bound to be more. I assure you there are."

"True enough."

"One thing's for sure, you've got guts. After all, you handcuffed the Phantom Mistress."

"And you're sure it wasn't an act of desperation?"

"Perhaps." Karma gave a little shrug. "I suppose that's possible. But you don't strike me as a desperate man. You seem more like a man who knows his limits."

"Limits? You really don't know the half of it."

"Maybe I understand more than you think."

They stepped out onto the main road, which divided the town in two. Men were carting off injured Matadors on stretchers, toward Town Hall. Karma watched for several moments before deciding the ones who would do her the most good were already inside. Not that any of them would do much good at all. She was pretty sure that the real threat was nowhere near San Alamos.

Or, at least, nowhere clearly visible.

But then why did she feel as if there were eyes upon her—dangerous, piercingly violent eyes—everywhere she went? Who was the man standing in the graveyard to the north, watching her? Or, Karma realized, maybe he was simply keeping his eyes on the Pierce estate. As comfortable as she felt walking down the street, she knew from experience that her journeys could turn treacherous at any possible moment. Usually she wasn't the one who suffered as a result. Desperation, the first town she'd visited following her departure from New Hope barely a year before, had taught her that much.

Karma peered up the rough, limestone walls to the red, slate roof overhead as they approached the building. It seemed to be quite a building, wide and tall, two main floors and probably a pretty decent attic for storage. There were few windows, and those were boarded. The front door was intact, but in bad need of a fresh coat of paint.

As the sheriff reached out to push the door open, Karma's head jerked to the right. Her eyes narrowed at the black figure standing just outside the general store, beneath the shade provided by the wooden overhand. A tall man, she realized, leaning on a double-barreled shotgun. His flaming-red hair was cropped into short spikes. He wore black shades, his face partially hidden behind the oversized collar of his black, leather coat.

He was puffing on a cigarette…watching her.

Karma glared back. Now this was what she expected of the Matadors. If that was what he was, of course. Karma was about seventy-five percent sure. This is what the Matadors were good at: reconnaissance.

"What is it?" Ray asked, pushing the door open a crack before seeing her hesitation.

"Nothing."

Nothing I can't handle, she added silently, and gestured for him to continue on. Ray simply shrugged and pushed the door open.

3

Hank rose to his full height and dumped the bloodied surgical gloves into the bucket beside the patient's bed. He gave a slow shake of his head as made a last-second inspection of the man's dressings, tightly wrapped around the injuries to his left upper arm and wrist.

Two separate blades, each cut made in practically the same instant. Or so he theorized. She's swiped his upper arm with the blade in her right hand, an upward slash that had cut nearly clean to the bone. His wrist had sustained relatively light damage, considering the woman's abilities. She'd faced him for only an instant, and dispatched him effortlessly.

Just enough damage to the wrist, Hank thought grimly as he washed his hands, to cause him to drop his weapon. The slash in his upper arm had been to make sure he wouldn't retrieve the gun and fire a bullet into the back of her head as she moved on to her next target. It had probably taken the Phantom Mistress great deal of skill to avoid severing the necessary tendons of the boy's hand, if that was truly her intention. He knew it couldn't have occurred unintentionally, considering how many times she had attacked in a similar manner against so many other men.

Hank marveled at her grim talents as he called for the next patient.

"Actually, that's the last one," a silky smooth voice, richly feminine, purred. He blinked at the curvaceous figure, clad in a skintight, white jumpsuit, waves of golden hair flowing about her shoulders. The Phantom Mistress glared at the young man lying immobilized on the bed as she glided effortlessly into the room.

"That's right," he said as he watched back. "Only eleven incapacitated would-be rapists and murderers."

She fixed him with a somber stare, and spoke while crossing her arms under her breasts. "Oh, they may well be rapists and murderers without having to touch the girl."

Silence consumed them as the two faced off. Ray stood behind the young woman, waiting patiently. Hank drew a slow breath and took a step forward, and without warning reached out to place a hand on each of her shoulders, fixing her with a meaningful stare. So this was the Phantom Mistress, young as she may be; he'd pictured her to be so much older. And where was the sinister sneer everyone was always talking about?

She didn't push away, as he thought she might. Instead, she stood frozen, as if surprised to be touched in such an intimate manner. Hank gave her his most sincere smile. "Ashley," he whispered, the name little more than a breath on his lips. "We all owe you a great deal. No matter who you are. We owe so much I doubt the debt will ever be paid. You have my deepest gratitude." And then, without warning, the doctor pulled her to his chest and gave her a big hug.

"Ah, uh…what are you doing?" she mumbled into his shoulder.

He smiled as he parted from her, hands again clutching her shoulders as he grinned. "Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I don't know about anyone else, but that never mattered to me. You're a hero in my book."

She pushed him away. "You're a doctor all right," she grumbled. Her cheeks were tinted red as she looked to the floor, allowing her flowing mane of blonde hair to mask her suddenly shy countenance. "Just keep your hands off for the time being."

Hank grinned. "Yes ma'am."

Ray finally stepped up beside the Phantom Mistress. He eyed the young man on the bed, the one Hank had only just finished patching up. "They're called Matadors," he said quietly, shifting his gaze back up to the doctor. "I think we have a pretty big problem on our hands."

"Yes, I think you're right. But I don't think these boys are the real problem."

The Phantom Mistress blinked, brushing the hair out of her face so that she could see him clearly. From the looks of her, Hank Finney knew she was something special. There was no malice in those sparkling green eyes, no hate etched into her young, flawless features. Momentarily, there was only uncertainty. Mostly, there was distrust, as though she had been plagued all her life by pain and deception. Something in her past haunted the poor girl.

This was not a woman he would think capable of the terrible atrocities associated with the Phantom Mistress. This was a woman lost, a woman searching to find her way in life.

He'd only known her briefly. The first time he'd seen her was immediately after he'd arrived on the scene at the general store. She'd left only a few minutes after, having refused to offer her real name, but somehow, he felt connected to her, as if he'd known her all his life, and seen the terror, and shared in her agonies and dreams. As her successes were few and far between, he somehow sensed that she soared above and beyond the heavens themselves when the Good Lord saw fit to bless her with kindness.

Perhaps that was how she felt now, face to face with a man she couldn't possibly know, and yet here he was, showing her rare kindness. Hank's heart swelled with pride realizing the possibility that he could help her to shed some of her troubles, or at least help her to feel welcome in San Alamos. Maybe, after all, that was all she really needed. Friendship, and kindness. A place to rest her head.

"And what brings you two back to the raging inferno?" Hank asked, a big grin on his face. The uncertainty in the girl's face remained, but the doctor didn't comment.

Ray drew a slow breath. "Our friend here is going to have a little discussion with a few of your patients," he said. "We just want to see if we can figure out a few more things about these guys. If there are more coming our way."

"Yes. But I don't think you'll get much from the boys here."

"Couldn't hurt to try." Ray turned his attention over to the young woman, but she wasn't paying attention anymore. Her eyes had moved down to the young man on the bed, who stared back at her in wide-eyed fear.

4

Karma inched closer to the frightened boy. He couldn't have been any older than the one she had interrogated after the general store fight. She knew she must look strikingly familiar to him, dressed in white with her purple cape and fedora, and that shiny, blonde hair that spilled over her slender shoulders. Her face had been revealed, but likely he still saw her for her hair and dress. Nearing the bed at his right side, and watching him tremble all the more as she drew closer, she felt her own breath growing steady and deep as her hatred began to percolate deep within her veins.

She brought her hands up, gripping the hilts of both knives and they slid out of her sleeves, wrenching them free in a rush as she planted one knee on his good arm, putting the full of her weight into it—a cry of pain echoed through the long room, causing unconscious men in beds down the way to shuffle in their places—and put the blade of one knife threateningly against his throat.

"Who is the Watchman?" she hissed as she brought her face close.

The boy's eyes were wide as he watched up at her, not daring to move. She had him at her mercy. One motion with her wrist, and she would spill his lifeblood. Not that she would do it, but if she had him believing she would, she could manipulate him.

Hank started forward. "Now just one damn minute…" He stopped when Ray grabbed his arm. Hank, who had never shown much anger in all his time as a doctor, a happy-go-lucky, gentle man with a strong abhorrence of unprovoked violence, shifted his eyes to the sheriff. "Just what are you doing? This sort of interrogation can't go on in Town Hall! I demand you put an end to it immediately."

"Just take a deep breath, Hank. Let her handle this." Ray kept hold of his arm, lowering his voice as he leaned forward. "Trust me. I want to see where this is going."

"Ray…"

"I said trust me." Ray held up his hand, ending the argument.

Karma was losing her patience with the silent Matador below her. Slowly, she brought her other knife up, letting the blade reflect the sunlight from the lone window into the Matador's eyes. He squinted. "See this? This knife is pretty damn sharp." She leaned her face closer. "Cuts quick and deep. And it's hungry for flesh." She leaned even closer. "Your flesh."

The man squirmed and squealed, "No!"

"Oh yes," the young woman whispered. She drew the knife quickly along his cheek, nicking his flesh. He let out a yelp as several small driblets of blood swelled from the small scratch.

"Hey!" Hank shouted. "You'll stop that this instant!"

Karma ignored him. "Now you'll answer me?"

"What! Leave me alone!" the young man cried. Tears welled up in the corner of his eyes.

"The Watchman," she hissed, and made an identical cut on his other cheek. The man yelled out again. "His name?" she demanded. Her eyes were wild with rage. At least, that was how she wanted him to see her.

"Eric! Eric the Watchman!" he howled. Tears were rolling down his cheeks, soaking his pillow. Ray stood in silence, watching. Hank, red-faced, glared at the girl torturing his patient. Karma simply didn't care. Hank Finney was no challenge for her. The sheriff was no challenge, not really. She focused her attention, glaring down at the man below her, flicking his wrist so that the dagger in her left hand was sheathed into the same sleeve. "Eric the Watchman…"

Sobbing silently to himself, he repeated the name one more time.

Karma, chest heaving with anger, closed her eyes and finally pushed herself away.

"Eric the Watchman," she said, shifting her eyes to the sheriff and his doctor friend. She moved slowly away from the man on the bed and returned the other knife to its sheath. The hilt slid down into her sleeve slowly. "You know the name?"

Raymond Bolenski drew a slow breath and fixed her with a meaningful stare. "Yes, I do."

"And?"

"You ever heard of the Gung-Ho Guns?"