The gun weighed heavy in his hand. The last time Detective
Mac Granger unholstered his piece was three months ago at
the shooting range when he drilled the heart of the paper
target nine out of ten shots.
It was a Thursday night in September. Mac and his partner,
Detective Sheila Hartman, had been on their way to a
homicide investigation in north Denver when a squawk came
over the radio in their unmarked car: "Officer in need of
assistance."
Headed north on Park Street, they had just passed the
homeless mission with the red neon Jesus Saves sign. They
were close to the location given and arrived first on the
scene — a dark, deserted city street lined with two-and
three-story buildings. The crumbling bricks were stained
by years of greasy soot from the nearby railyards.
Three other cars were carelessly parked near a run-down
warehouse. The door to the loading dock gaped open. Inside
the warehouse, it was pitch-dark.
As Mac emerged from the car, gun in hand, the night breeze
whipped around him. A crumpled sheet of newspaper rolled
down the street like a tumble-weed. From ten blocks away,
he heard a resounding cheer from the baseball fans at
Coors Field where the Rockies were playing a night game.
Home run.
From inside the warehouse, gunfire exploded. Several shots
in rapid succession. A semiautomatic weapon. This sounded
like something bigger than he and his partner could
handle. "Stay back," he ordered Sheila. "Other patrol cars
will be here in a minute."
She shot him a glare. Sheila was inexperienced and
willful. She could be a real pain in the ass.
"Police," she yelled. "Throw down your weapons and come
out with your hands up."
"Come and get us," was the response.
"Us," Mac said pointedly. "There's more than one."
Ignoring him, Sheila yelled again. "You're surrounded.
Give up now."
He cursed under his breath. If the bad guys came onto the
street, they could see at a glance that the only cops on
the scene were the two of them. Frankly, he and Sheila
weren't real impressive when it came to firepower.
"Stay here," he said to her.
"Maybe I could circle around and —"
"Stay."
The woman was impossible. They wouldn't even have been in
this area if they'd gone directly to their crime scene in
north Denver instead of stopping once because Sheila had
to pee, then again because she wanted a latte.
Mac ran toward the loading dock and flattened himself
against the brick wall. If anybody came out, they'd be
caught between him and his partner.
A bulky figure charged through the open maw of the loading
dock and leaped down from the ledge. He landed on the
pavement only a few yards away from Mac.
"Drop your weapon," Mac ordered. "Raise your arms."
Immediately, the man obeyed. Mac grabbed his arm and flung
him face-first against the brick wall. It was Vince
Elliot, an undercover vice cop.
Vince gave no sign of recognition. Even in the heat of
confrontation, he didn't break cover.
As Mac cuffed him, he whispered, "This is a drug sting
gone bad. Be careful. I want to take these guys alive."
Sheila abandoned her position and came toward them. Dumb
move. The worst thing they could do in this situation was
to stand together and get mowed down by one blast.
Angrily, Mac motioned for her to go back. He could hear
the sirens of approaching patrol cars. Backup was on the
way.
Sheila made a confused gesture. Then she stamped her foot
and checked her wristwatch as if she were late for a
manicure appointment.
Four armed men emerged from the dark warehouse. The one in
front aimed directly at Sheila.
Mac had to protect his partner. He fired once, point-
blank. The man with the gun went down.
Time froze. Everything went into slow motion. Mac shoved
Vince Elliot to the pavement and stepped in front of him.
He looked into the faces of the armed men who turned
toward him. He saw panic in their eyes. When they returned
fire, he imagined the bullets poised in midair. The
thunder of gunshots resounded against brick walls.
It occurred to Mac that he might die right here on this
cold city street. A fitting place. Though he had been born
and raised in the mountains, this was where he belonged.
He got off another shot, aiming low. He didn't want to
kill these guys. Another man fell with a scream.
The others ran toward their car. "Freeze," Sheila
yelled. "Police. Freeze." The two remaining men dropped
their weapons as several patrol cars arrived
simultaneously. It was over.
Mac felt a sharp pain in his shoulder and looked down.
Blood seeped through his tan sports jacket. He'd been hit.
ABBY NELSON leaned her back against the slender white
trunk of an aspen tree and looked up through a canopy of
sunlit golden leaves. A fresh wind rustled the boughs, and
she glimpsed the clear, blue Colorado sky. Fantastic! This
was a truly cherry assignment.
Her last undercover job as an FBI special agent had been
in an inner city back east where she was supposed to be a
pregnant runaway with a drug habit. Needless to say, her
companions were the dregs of society — slimeballs, creeps
and heinous criminals, many of whom were going to be
locked up for a very long time thanks to Abby's efforts.
But this time? Way better! When she was told that she was
going undercover to an FBI safe house in the Colorado
Rockies, Abby couldn't believe her luck. She inhaled the
crisp clean air and reveled in the spectacular scenery.
This was practically a vacation.
Her undercover identity was Vanessa Nye, a protected
witness who was waiting to testify at a high-profile case
in Los Angeles involving the Santoro crime family. The
real Vanessa was an unabashed gold digger who traded on
her outrageous sexuality, andAbby had disguised herself
accordingly. She dyed her hair platinum blond, heaped on
tons of makeup and slithered into skintight clothes. The
worst part of her Vanessa outfit had to be these wretched
spike heels that were digging holes in the soil beside the
aspen trees. She wasn't looking forward to the mile-and-a-
half hike back to her bedroom at the safe house.
Her solitude was interrupted when a sturdy-looking woman
on horseback rode toward her. Julia Last was the special
agent in charge of the FBI safe house known as Last's
Resort. She was the only person on site who had been
informed that "Vanessa" was a cover for Special Agent Abby
Nelson.
Julia gave a friendly wave. "Want a ride?"
"You bet I do."
Julia stared pointedly at the purple high-heeled
shoes. "When you get into an undercover role, you don't
kid around. How do you stand in those things?"
"Not very well," Abby admitted. "It's not something they
teach at Quantico."
Julia flicked the reins and directed her dappled gray mare
close to a granite ledge. "Climb on the rocks, then throw
your leg over the rear behind the saddle."
Abby moved carefully. Her snug designer slacks were partly
spandex, but she didn't want to take a chance on
stretching them out and ruining her look. "If I were the
real Vanessa, I'd never do this."
"If you were the real Vanessa, I wouldn't have let you
wander off by yourself." As soon as Abby was settled,
Julia nudged her horse into a steady, rolling walk. "We
take security for our protected witnesses very seriously."
"Have you had problems?"
"Not from outside," Julia said. "Our location is remote
enough to provide natural protection. As far as anybody
knows, this safe house is just another mountain resort.
The problems come when witnesses get bored."
"Cabin fever. They want to take side trips to Vail, right?
Or invite a friend to visit."
"That's right." When Julia nodded, her curly brown
ponytail bounced. "Sometimes we indulge them with
supervised outings."
"And you've only got the other two agents working with
you?"
"On a rotating basis. This safe house is considered a
prime assignment until they get here and find out that
their responsibilities include chopping wood, mucking out
the stalls for the horses and making beds." She tossed a
grin over her shoulder. "I take a certain amount of
satisfaction seeing these macho agents doing housework."
"I'll try not to gloat when I see them with feather
dusters. What's the name of the young one?"
"Roger Flannery. Nice kid."
Abby tucked a wisp of platinum hair behind her ear. "How
many other people are staying here?"
"Two," Julia said. "We refer to them as guests. Both older
guys. They've been here for nearly a month."
"I thought the protected witnesses got shuffled more
frequently so nobody can get a bead on their location."
"I didn't say they were both witnesses."
Abby already knew that the safe house was used for more
than protected witnesses. Sometimes, the feds held high-
level meetings here. Sometimes, this idyllic mountain
setting provided a place for rest and recuperation for
injured agents and cops. "The guy I'm interested in will
show up this afternoon."
"The homicide detective from Denver."
Mac Granger was Abby's assignment. He was a Denver cop who
had been wounded in a drug sting and was suspected of
being on the take which — in Abby's opinion — made him the
lowest of the low.
According to her information, he'd wounded an undercover
FBI agent at the sting — an agent Abby knew very well. Leo
Fisher was her former fiancé.
Though their breakup had been exceedingly nasty, she
didn't wish Leo dead. At least, not most of the time.
She'd been glad to hear that he was expected to recover
from the bullet wound in his leg.
As she rocked on the rump of the horse and watched the
landscape unfolding around her, a familiar twinge of
regret brushed through her. Too bad things hadn't worked
out with Leo. For a while, she'd thought she loved him.
But she wasn't sure. Because they were both undercover
agents, it was possible they were both playing at being in
love — acting the way they thought people in love ought to
behave. With all her under-cover identities, she sometimes
forgot what it meant to be real.