Read Eye of the Storm for Free Online

that, the register will come up short."
    The girl's dark complexion flushed and she mumbled something that might have been "Thanks."
    "You're welcome," Zan said with a nod and headed for the door and home.
    She had nearly reached the RV when a vaguely familiar voice called out to her. "Miss McLaren?"
    Zan turned and watched the approach of a tall, slender woman whose regal bearing and graceful movements belied her years. A high-necked blouse in burnt orange complimented her golden brown skin and picked up the print in her earth toned broomstick skirt. The discs on a silver concho belt seemed to echo the silver hair that swept back from her forehead and disappeared into a thick braid draped over one shoulder.
    "I am Stormwalker's grandmother." She held out her right hand and Zan took it after shifting her groceries.
    "I'm Alexandra." Now, of course, she placed the voice. "I'm sorry. I didn't recognize you from last night."
    "Do you have a few minutes to talk?"
    "Yes, of course, Mrs. Redfeather ."  
    "Call me Grandmother. Like everyone else does."
    Zan felt awkward using such a familiar term, but custom demanded that instead of names, people use titles that reflected their relationship to each other or that were a sign of respect. While she might think of Stormwalker's grandmother as Mrs. Redfeather or even Emma, she would try to consider her wishes. Zan nodded.  
    "Have you had breakfast?"
    "I ate with my grandson, but I could use a cup of coffee if it's real."
    Zan smiled. "It's real."
    As they climbed inside the camper Zan glanced around to confirm everything was in its place. She put away the groceries and touched the coffee carafe. It was still hot.
    "This is nice," Emma said as her gaze traveled around the interior. "Cozy. And air conditioned. Feels good on a hot day."
    "It helps both the computer and the operator function more efficiently." Zan made toast, then set the table and put out butter and jam. After working silently for several moments she asked, "Did you have anything particular you wanted to discuss?"
    "I wanted to talk to you instead of just hearing about you from other folks."
    Zan brought the carafe and a plate of whole wheat toast that gave off a faintly nutlike aroma. She poured their coffee and sat opposite Emma, who examined a wall of photos.
    "Those men - who are they?"
    Zan grinned. "My rogue's gallery?" She swivelled around, watching as the old woman walked over to examine the faces up close.
    "The photos represent three generations of McLarens, all of them members of law enforcement."
    "That you in a police uniform?"
    "The day I graduated from the New York City Police Academy. Those are my brothers."
    On her right stood oldest brother Donald, whose suit and tie did little to hide the bearing of a military man and the easy confidence of a well-trained CIA field officer.
    "The one on your left is my grandson's boss?" Emma asked.
    "Yes." Mac, next oldest, looked more like a college professor in slacks and crew neck sweater than the newly appointed head of the FSA.
    They had barely been on speaking terms by then, but his pride in her accomplishment smiled undisguised from the photo. She regretted only that their father had been behind the camera and not standing beside them.
    Emma broke into her thoughts. "And your parents?"
    "Both dead."
    The woman pointed to a photo. "But this has to be your father. He and your brother look alike." Emma returned to the table. "No women up there except you."
    "I'm the first."
    "You follow a family tradition." She tilted her head to one side but her golden brown eyes bore into Zan. "Our family has a tradition, too. Older than yours."
    "And what's that?"
    "A warrior tradition, that goes back hundreds of years, to before your ancestors landed on these shores. It is a tradition of honor and loyalty that somehow managed to survive despite everything that has happened to our people.   You need to know that so you'll believe me when I say my grandson would not have betrayed