The story broke with the force of bombs. All of a sudden, it was all anyone heard on the media. The massacre in Anasrah, the children murdered by foreigners, the mercenaries who had cut them down with automatic weapons while their parents pleaded for mercy. On television, the weeping relatives were interviewed. Their stories brought even hardened commentators to tears on-screen.

Michelle’s story, with its unique point of view and Eb Scott’s interview—which none of the national media had been able to get, because he refused to talk to them—put her in the limelight for the first time. Her story was reprinted partially in many national papers, and she was interviewed by the major news networks, as well. She respected Eb Scott, she added, and she thought he was sincere, but she wept for the dead children and she thought the mercenary responsible should be tried in the world court and imprisoned for the rest of his life.

Her impulsive comment was broadcast over and over. And just after that came the news that the mercenary had a sister, living in Wyoming. They had her name, as well. Sara.

It could have been a coincidence. Except that suddenly she remembered that the man, Angel, had both American and Canadian citizenship. Now she learned that he had a sister named Sara. Gabriel was gone for long periods of time overseas on jobs. Michelle still tried to persuade herself that it wasn’t, couldn’t, be Gabriel.

Until Sara called her on the phone.

“I couldn’t believe it when they said you broke the story,” she said in a cold tone. “How could you do this to us?”

“Sara, it wasn’t about anyone you know,” she said quickly. “It was about a mercenary who gunned down little children in a Middle Eastern village...!”

“He did nothing of the sort,” Sara said, her voice dripping ice. “It was the tribesman’s brother-in-law, one of the terrorists, who killed the man and his family and then blamed it on Angel and his men.”

“Do you know this man Angel?” Michelle asked, a sick feeling in her stomach because Sara sounded so harsh.

“Know him.” Her laugh was as cold as death. “We both know him, Michelle. He uses Angel as an alias when he goes on missions for Eb Scott’s clients. But his name is Gabriel.”

Michelle felt her blood run cold. Images flashed through her mind. Dead children. The one dissenting voice, insisting that it was the terrorists not the Americans who perpetrated the horror. Her refusal to listen, to print the other side of the story. Gabriel’s side. She’d convinced herself that it couldn’t be Gabriel. Now she had to face facts.

“I didn’t know,” she said, her voice breaking. “Sara, believe me, I didn’t know!”