SHARON MIGNEREY

      lives in Colorado with her husband and two dogs, Angel and Squirt. From the time she figured out that spelling words could be turned into stories, she knew being a writer was how she wanted to spend her life. She won RWA’s Golden Heart Award in 1995, validation that she was on the right path.

      When she’s not writing, she loves puttering around in her garden, walking her dogs along the South Platte River and spending time at the family cabin in Colorado’s Four Corners region.

      She loves hearing from readers, and you can write to her in care of Silhouette Books, 300 East 42nd Street, 6th Floor, New York, NY 10017.

      To firefighters, law enforcement officers

       and EMT personnel everywhere, thank you.

      Acknowledgments:

      Thanks, Robin, for thinking of Jack— I hope you like him. Thanks always, to Lynda Cooper for her invaluable advice with the “cop” details—as always, the good stuff is hers and the mistakes are mine. Thank you, Patti and Daniele, for proofreading and making those last hectic days before deadline easy for me.

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Epilogue

      Prologue

      “The money has been deposited in your account,” said the voice on the other end of the line.

      Max Jamison didn’t reply, but then, he wasn’t expected to. His clientele was small and trusted him to be discreet and efficient. The less they all knew about one another, the safer it was for all of them.

      He took every precaution to ensure no one knew precisely where to find him. His caller had reached him through a series of forwarded lines scattered all over the country. He could have been sitting in Boston or San Diego. Instead he sat in the den of his home in rural Pennsylvania.

      “I trust everything is to your satisfaction,” the voice added.

      “As soon as I’ve verified the deposit, I’ll make my plans,” Max said. He already knew who his target was. Dr. Dahlia Jensen, an assistant professor at Colorado Mountain University.

      “And you received the fax.”

      “I did.” Max frowned. Obvious points didn’t need to be covered. All the information he needed to do the job was contained in the fax—the woman’s photograph, address and dossier. He had retrieved the fax from his message box and had followed that up with his own background check on her. Thanks to the Internet, that was now easier than ever. The woman had no unusual habits, if you didn’t classify being a storm chaser as unusual. She was single and lived well within her means. Her only claim to fame was a slew of scholarly papers, all having to do with obscure theories of lightning, published in various scientific journals. He couldn’t lay his finger on a single thing about her that would make her a target for murder.

      Carefully, he dismissed that thought, reminding himself that the morality of whether someone deserved to die wasn’t his to determine. He was hired to do a job. No more.

      “There is a bonus for you.”

      Max didn’t like the sound of that. Bonus by any other name was an additional fee for additional service. He observed a strict protocol, which this conversation violated.

      “Contact me via the usual means, and we’ll discuss the matter.” Max severed the connection, deciding this was a job he was no longer interested in doing. Not when the caller knew the rules, knew that details were never discussed over the phone.

      He stared unseeingly into the room, then stood and walked across the plush carpet to the window. A lake shimmered in the morning sunlight. A hundred feet from the water’s edge, his sister was in a canoe with her two young children. Recently the twenty-two-year age difference between them had gnawed at him, a reminder he was no longer a young man, no longer had a promising future in front of him. He intended to retire soon.

      For himself, he had enough to be comfortable the rest of his life. For his sister and her children…he needed a bit more. Two more jobs, and they would never want for anything.

      An instant later, the phone rang. Max turned back to his desk. On the second ring, he crossed the room and sat down in the leather chair. On the third, he drummed his fingers against the felt blotter that protected the teak surface, un-characteristic indecision claiming him. He let the phone ring twice more before picking up the receiver.

      “Hanging up again would be most unwise,” the caller said. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes. We need to have her held for the next couple of weeks as well as proof that she’s alive.”

      “I’m no longer interested in this job,” Max said. “Your money will be returned.”

      “We don’t want our money back, Max. You will do this job,” the voice on the other end of the line said. “And the three reasons why are on the lake.”

      Max’s blood chilled, and he swiveled his chair around to face the huge window where sunlight streamed from a pristine clear sky. A series of thoughts crowded to the surface, but two prevailed. How had his caller known where to find him? How fast could he get his sister and her children to safety?

      “They’d be quite upset, don’t you think, to know what you are. Not a quiet, mild-mannered man who invested well, but a cold-blooded killer.”

      Again, Max didn’t reply, certain his caller wanted only a reaction from him—something, anything that could be used as leverage…for blackmail or in a court of law.

      “I have in my possession certain…evidence that links you to the Aaron Sheffield murder in Lexington last year.”

      Another chill chased down Max’s spine. His caller hadn’t arranged for the Sheffield job.

      “Very cool, Max,” the voice continued. “Very controlled. Since you’re not going to ask me what evidence, I may have to make you wait…and wonder. Let me simply say it has to do with a 9mm Glock that was left in a lunch sack at the bottom of a very full trash barrel outside a Seven Eleven store.”

      The