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The Kachina Accord

New Mexico Territory, 1861: A secret document disappears during the infamous Butterfield Station Massacre – and with it any hope of quickly ending the west’s bloody Indian Wars.

Arizona-Mexico Border, 2016: During a deadly firefight against white supremacists, US Immigration Agent Jason Holt uncovers evidence of a 150-year-old treaty that traces back to Abraham Lincoln’s White House. Jason’s discovery triggers the implementation of a long-forgotten Presidential Directive – protect the treaty’s secret at all costs. The FBI orders outcast Agent Sara Navaro to eliminate the threat. But killing Jason Holt turns out to be harder than she imagined. She soon finds herself torn between obeying her sworn oath and doing what she believes is right – helping Jason prevent a group of blood thirsty terrorists from starting another Civil War. Thrown into a shadowy world of ancient Apache myths and modern racial terrorism, they quickly learn the past and present aren’t always easy to separate.

And both are just as deadly.

The Kachina Accord on Amazon

The Kachina Accord is now available on Amazon.com. You can choose either hard copy or Kindle version. The Kindle version is only $2.99!

The Kachina Accord on Amazon

Buy a Signed Copy of The Kachina Accord:

You can buy a signed copy of The Kachina Accord for $15, plus $3.50 shipping. Sorry, no international orders allowed yet.

The Kachina Accord

Prologue

April 2, 1861, Dragoon Springs Station, Dragoon Mountains
New Mexico Territory (currently part of Arizona)

J.P. Dumont wished he could stop the horrible screams.

Beginning as a low wail, they slowly rose in tempo, culminating in a crescendo of high-pitched shrieks. He shivered as though a thousand insects crawled under his skin. These were not the cries of the defeated, but of the victors.

And Dumont knew he was going to die.

“They’re coming again,” whispered a lifeless voice behind him.

He turned away from the station’s window. It was the girl, still standing over the bodies of her parents. At not more than eight years old, she would be the youngest victim of this tragedy.

She deserved the truth.

“Soon,” he said. “Very soon.”

She stared out the window. Her eyes fixed on the impenetrable darkness beyond.

He wondered what would happen to her.Although the Apache didn’t often kill children, he knew this was no ordinary raid. It was as if something inside them had broken, years of hate spilling forth. With a sharp pang of guilt, he thanked God his own wife and daughter were safe in Washington.

He looked away, unable to endure her frozen stare, then made his way to Chief Mahu’s corpse. Even in death, Mahu continued to clutch the slender brass tube, protecting the priceless document inside. Two wooden kachina figures flanked him. Standing almost two feet tall, they looked down on their fallen chief as in silent prayer. Two kachinas. One of peace, one of war, forever struggling.

Dumont reached down and touched the silver peace medallion circling Mahu’s neck. It had been a gift by the President himself. Etched with the words On Earth Peace, Good Will Toward Men, the perverted irony made Dumont nauseous.

The spine-chilling clatter outside reached its highest pitch, then stopped. He held his breath, knowing too well what it meant.

The girl sensed it too. She began sobbing, shaking her dead mother’s arm in a futile attempt to wake her. He took a moment to finalize his preparations at Mahu’s side, then, drawing what little strength he had left, crept toward the girl.

It took him an infuriating minute just to break through her stupor, but when her eyes locked onto his, he made her repeat the words. Over and over.

She had to remember.

She hadto survive.

And there wasn’t much chance of that. Not fighting from here.

If he could take the fight outside, lead the Apaches away from the station, she could escape out a back window and into the darkness beyond, make her way back to Apache Springs Station.

A warrior’s yell from just beyond the doorway let him know they were out of time. He fingered his Bollinger for luck. The sturdy English domed hat, a gift from a British friend, had been his lucky charm.

Until now.

Drawing his revolver, he spun the cylinder. Six rounds. His lips curled in an ironic smile. He expected to be dead long before he could pull the trigger six times. He took a deep breath, nodded at the girl, then raced out the door.

When his first round struck a surprised warrior, he hoped that his death would be quick and the girl would make it past the rampaging Apache.

He was wrong on both counts.