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      About the Author

      JESSICA ANDERSEN has worked as a geneticist, scientific editor, animal trainer and landscapes … but she’s happiest when she’s combining all of her many interests into writing romantic adventures that always have a twist of the unusual to them. Born and raised in the Boston area (Go, sox!), Jessica can usually be found somewhere in New England, hard at work on her next happily-ever-after. For more on Jessica and her books, please check out www.JessicaAndersen.com and www.JessicaAndersenIntrigues.com.

      To the readers who have put Bear Claw State Park

      on the map. Thank you!

       Chapter One

      “You’re off the case, Jack—period, end of discussion.”

      The decision being handed down by Tucker McDermott—who was the head of the Bear Claw P.D.’s Homicide Division and, therefore, Jack’s immediate superior—wasn’t a shocker, but that didn’t stop the veteran detective from wanting to launch himself from the visitor’s chair in Tucker’s office and pace. Or maybe go over the desk to try and shake some sense into his boss. But that kind of behavior was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place, so Jack made himself take a breath and do a three-count before saying, “You know you can’t afford to bench me right—”

      “What part of ‘end of discussion’ are you not getting?”

      Tucker’s don’t-mess-with-me tone probably should have been a clue, but it wasn’t until Jack saw a muscle twitch at the corner of his friend’s jaw that he got it. “Oh.” He leaned back. “Damn. This is coming from Mendoza, isn’t it?”

      “Even if the chief hadn’t made the call, I probably would have pulled you off the case.”

      “I … Yeah.” Frustration welled up, and it wasn’t entirely aimed at Tucker. It’d been an accident, but the reality was that Jack had had his hands on the witness when he went down. And with Mayor Proudfoot slashing the city’s budgets like he was clear-cutting for a financial strip mine, the P.D. couldn’t afford the bad press.

      “And you did it in front of a rook,” Tucker said, reaching for the antacids that’d taken up residence in his top drawer over the past month, ever since the birth of his daughter had coincided with the explosion of two major cases that had, thanks to budget cuts, landed in his lap.

      “Doran won’t get the wrong message,” Jack said of his rookie partner. “He’s solid.”

      “Maybe, but you’re not. Ever since this case got hot, you’ve been on the warpath.”

      At six foot and one-ninety, with prematurely salted chestnut hair and light blue eyes, Jack didn’t make any claim to native blood. But, yeah, he had some warpath going on these days. What Bear Claw cop didn’t? Out in the Colorado wilderness they were playing hide-and-seek with members of a militia so slippery they were practically ghosts, while in the city they were losing the battle against a new fad drug that was ripping through the underground and leaving bodies behind.

      Leaning in, Jack grated, “You need me out there on the streets. We’re way too far behind the curve on this Death Stare thing.”

      That was what the media was calling the new drug, thanks to the fixed, almost terrified looks on the victims’ faces. Why the hell that plus the number of bodies piling up hadn’t been enough to scare people off, he would never understand. But to the hard-core users, the promise of an incredible high was apparently worth the risk.

      Tucker shook his head. “You screwed up, Jack. You know it, I know it, Mendoza knows it … and even if the higher-ups weren’t involved, I can’t ignore the fact that you’re way too invested in this case, and it’s making you unreliable.” His eyes softened a bit, showing the tired guy, new father and dedicated cop behind the thick “I’m the boss” layer. “Look, I’m sorry, but if I let you back on the case now Mendoza will have my butt in a sling faster than you can say ‘what the hell is this damn drug, and where is it coming from?’“

      Unfortunately, there was no arguing that one. Jack shifted in his chair, still not letting himself pace off the restless frustration even though he was tempted. “So put me on background stuff. Hell, I’ll even ride a desk if that’s what you want. But don’t boot me all the way off the investigation. I need to—” He broke off. “Look, I need to be in on this.”

      “You should’ve thought of that before you put your hands on your wit. Accident or not, I can’t let it go.”

      “I … Damn it.” Jack slouched back in his chair and scrubbed a hand over his face, knowing that Tucker was right, he had only himself—along with a grease spot and volatile city politics—to blame. “This sucks.”

      “No argument there.” Tucker slid a single-page printout across his desk. “Take this. It’s your new assignment.”

      Jack eyeballed it, found airline info for an incoming flight landing at the local hub mid-morning and heaved a sigh. “You want me to play taxi? Who for?”

      Actually, that wasn’t the worst gig he could’ve gotten handed. There had been numerous law enforcement comings and goings in the past few weeks, and Tucker had pressed senior cops into chauffeur duty a few times before to get some informal lines of communication open between the local and federal teams.

      “You’re meeting a Dr. Tori Bay … and you’re going to be doing more than playing taxi. You’ll be escorting her out to the Forgotten and watching her back while she’s there.”

      Jack’s tension eased some. If he couldn’t be on the drug investigation, this case was the next best thing. A few weeks earlier, the members of the Shadow Militia—also a name that came courtesy of the media—had attacked a ranger, torched large sections of the state forest, shot down a government helicopter, nearly killed two deputized cops … and then vanished from the camo-netted campsite that had been hidden within the Forgotten, a barren region at the farthest edge of the state park.

      It wasn’t just the three dozen or so people who had been living at the campsite who had vanished, either; there hadn’t been any sign of the equipment and heavy vehicles that had left tracks in the drought-parched dirt. With the feds unable to pick up anything on satellite imagery or closer-in scans, the investigation had fallen back on forensics and old-school tracking. And even those avenues had come up dry, as if the entire armed camp had simply disappeared into thin air.

      Given the city’s issues a couple of years ago with terrorist mastermind al-Jihad, the feds were taking the threat seriously, sending their best and coordinating things with the Bear Claw P.D. So Jack made a “bring it on” gesture. “The militia case? Hell, yeah, sign me up.”

      But