by Cassie Miles
Marisa reached toward him, her fingers closing around the steel tendons of his wrist. “It won’t happen again, Flynn. We won’t let him get away again.”
“Are you saying that you believe me? That the Judge isn’t dead?”
An unspoken moment passed between them. Two years ago, they had been on opposite sides of this question. She accused him of being obsessed and depressed. He accused her of being disloyal for not believing in him.
“This time,” he said, “we’re working together.”
“God help me, I guess so. Right now I need to file a report, and I’m not sure what I should say.”
“We’re looking for the Judge. Again.”
“Nobody is going to believe me. I’ll sound like a lunatic.”
“Welcome to my world.”
When he grinned, his lips were so appealing that she considered dumping the entire investigation, grabbing him by both shoulders and kissing him until they were both limp.
“Ideas,” she said instead. “I need ideas.”
CASSIE MILES
COMPROMISED SECURITY
To Robin D. Owens, who listens to me whine.
And, as always, to Rick.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
For Cassie Miles, the best part about writing a story set in Eagle County near the Vail ski area is the ready-made excuse to head into the mountains for research. Though the winter snows are great for skiing, her favorite season is fall, when the aspens turn gold.
The rest of the time, Cassie lives in Denver where she takes urban hikes around Cheesman Park, reads a ton and critiques often. Her current plans include a Vespa and a road trip, despite eye-rolling objections from her adult children.
Books by Cassie Miles
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
787—PROTECTING THE INNOCENT
819—ROCKY MOUNTAIN MYSTERY *
826—ROCKY MOUNTAIN MANHUNT *
832—ROCKY MOUNTAIN MANEUVERS *
874—WARRIOR SPIRIT
904—UNDERCOVER COLORADO **
910—MURDER ON THE MOUNTAIN **
948—FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW
978—PROTECTIVE CONFINEMENT †
984—COMPROMISED SECURITY †
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Flynn O’Conner—FBI special agent who transferred to the Mesa Verde safe house after a near breakdown while investigating serial killer murders in San Francisco.
Marisa Kelso—Also from the San Francisco FBI office, the former lover of Flynn O’Conner keeps her past secrets hidden, and prefers desk work to field investigation.
Hank MacKenzie—Senior FBI agent in charge of the manhunt.
Grace Lennox—A gray-haired judge who is a protected witness at the Mesa Verde safe house.
“Bud” Rosetti—A snitch who is also under FBI protection.
Jonas Treadwell—A psychiatrist specializing in criminal psychology working with the FBI to profile the killer.
William Graff—The wealthy, powerful father of Russell Graff, a prior suspect. William is determined to clear his son’s name.
Eric Crowe—An antiquities dealer in Taos who specializes in occult and Native American objects.
Becky Delaney—Eric Crowe’s assistant.
Alexander Sterling—Renowned forensic anthropologist who unlocks the secrets of the bones.
The Judge—Legendary serial killer from the San Francisco area who is now active in the Mesa Verde area.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Chapter One
From the porch of the safe house, Special Agent Flynn O’Conner spotted a helicopter approaching from the south. A distant speck in the clear, blue Colorado skies above this wide valley, the chopper came steadily closer, signaling the beginning of the end. Damn it, he didn’t want to leave this place.
After two years supervising the Mesa Verde safe house, Flynn had established a satisfying routine of daily chores and witness protection procedures. Being here had healed him.
Pushing his Stetson back on his forehead, he nodded a greeting to Grace Lennox, one of the witnesses under his protection. She stepped up to the porch rail beside him. A handsome woman with a long gray braid, Grace Lennox was a judge under threat from an organized crime ring back East. “Beautiful afternoon,” she said.
“June is a good time of year.”
“I want to thank you, Agent O’Conner, for everything you’ve done.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It’s been a rough week.”
“That’s one hell of an understatement, Grace.”
His well-run safe house had been thrown into turmoil when a serial killer had come after a witness. The resulting breach of security threatened to shut down this operation. The helicopter was coming to take Grace Lennox and the other remaining protected witness, a seedy little snitch by the name of Richard “Bud” Rosetti, to a more secure location.
Also on board the chopper was the agent who would assess the situation and make recommendations for the future of Flynn’s safe house. An evaluator.
“I sincerely hope,” Grace said, “that this facility won’t be closed down.”
“So do I.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.”
The rambling two-story farmhouse and nearby bunkhouse filled with surveillance equipment were no longer safe for protected witnesses, but Flynn hoped the site could be turned into a field headquarters, or a training facility. Somehow he had to convince the evaluator that the site was still useful.
“Nonetheless,” Grace continued in her crisp, no nonsense voice, “you must be pleased by the outcome. Your serial killer is no longer a threat to anyone. That ought to give you some satisfaction.”
He should have felt a whole lot better than he did. This killer—a man who called himself the Judge—had been Flynn’s nemesis since before he came to the safe house, back when he’d been assigned to the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program in San Francisco. “I’ve been after this guy since I was in ViCAP. Now it’s over. I’m glad.”
“And still no smile? Honestly, Flynn, you give new meaning to the word taciturn.”
As he looked down at the gray-haired woman, a grin spread across his face. She was something else—smart, feisty and brave enough to testify against a crime syndicate. “I like you, Grace. Good luck in your next location.”
“It’s only ten more days before the trial where I’ll give my testimony. Then I’ll be able to resume my normal life. Thank goodness.”
As the chopper touched down in a sandy area beyond the split-rail fence, Bud Rosetti charged out the door, suitcase in hand. “Ready to roll.” The wiry little snitch quivered with excitement. “No offense, Flynn. But I’m hoping the next safe house is in a city.”
“Too much clean living?” Flynn asked.
“I’m dying for some decent Chinese food. And pizza. Real Italian pizza.”
“It’s so unfair,” Grace said. “You eat and eat and never gain an ounce.”
“Like I told you, I burn it off. I’m hot stuff, Gracie.”
“And what am I?”
He bobbed his round bald head. “Since you never made a pass at me, I’d have to say you’re an ice cube.”
While they launched into unlik
ely bickering about who was sexier, Flynn left the porch and sauntered toward the chopper. If he was lucky, the agent sent to evaluate Mesa Verde would be somebody he got along with, somebody he could bring around to his way of thinking.
Luck wasn’t with him.
Marisa Kelso stepped out of the chopper. The cool breezes from the mountains swirled her dark auburn hair, and she impatiently pushed the curls off her forehead.
Flynn knew every smooth contour of that delicate heart-shaped face. The clear blue eyes. The sprinkle of freckles across her patrician nose. The natural curve of her lips that made it look like she was smiling even when she was furious…which was most of the time. She had the temperament of a true redhead.
Two years ago in San Francisco, he and Marisa had been lovers, working together in ViCAP on the trail of the Judge. When their investigation fell apart, so did their relationship. She’d accused him of being obsessed with the serial killer, and maybe she’d been right. But, damn it, she should have been willing to stick with him.
The sight of her now hit him like the hind kick of a mule, but he didn’t let on. Just kept walking toward her. She looked good in her trademark FBI outfit: white blouse, black slacks, black jacket. A Fed to the core.
He should have expected her to draw this assignment; she was a senior agent with expertise in statistics and evaluation. Plus, she’d want to be in on the final chapter when the Judge could finally be taken off the books.
Though she was wearing dark glasses, Flynn knew she was glaring at him. She held out her hand. “It’s been a while,” she said.
“Too long,” he replied.
He clasped her hand. The coolness of her palm and the subtle strength in her slender fingers reminded him of better times. Making love to Marisa had been unlike anything he’d experienced before or since.
She reclaimed her hand. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
He ran his thumb across the brim of his rust-colored Stetson. “I never wore anything like this when you knew me before.”
“When we were in San Francisco, you reminded me of Clint Eastwood being Dirty Harry. Out here, you’re Clint the cowboy. Same hard-ass squint. Same stubborn jaw.” She tilted her head to get a better view of his face. “Take off the hat.”
“In exchange, do I get to take off a piece of your outfit?”
“In your dreams, cowboy.”
He removed the hat.
She gave a critical nod. “Your hair is longer. A little shaggy around the edges. And what’s that? A bit more gray?”
His ashy-brown hair had been going gray since his late twenties. “I’ve changed in more ways than hair color.”
“Have you?”
Marisa doubted him. For a long time, she’d wished for a change of heart, wished that he’d call and apologize or show up on her doorstep with white roses. But Flynn refused to bend. He wouldn’t back off on the Judge investigation, not even when everyone else in ViCAP was willing to admit it had become an inactive case.
Lying beside her in bed in the middle of the night, he hadn’t whispered words of love, but had insisted on reviewing the evidence. His obsession had left no room for anything else, especially not her.
The chopper pilot set Marisa’s black suitcase on the ground at her feet and said, “I need to get going, Marisa. It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“Same here.”
She watched as Flynn loaded his two protected witnesses and their luggage into the chopper. They were an interesting pair—an obviously sophisticated older woman and a ferret-faced city guy who might as well have the word snitch tattooed on his little bald head. Criminal investigations made strange bedfellows, indeed.
As Flynn leaned into the chopper for a final handshake, she couldn’t help admiring his backside. The man had a great butt, no doubt about it. His legs in snug denim jeans looked even longer because of the extra inches added by his square-toed cowboy boots. She’d forgotten how tall he was. Tall and lean. The dark blue cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbow outlined his broad shoulders.
Though she’d been quick to say nothing had changed about him, which—roughly translated—meant nothing had changed in their nonexistent relationship, she saw differences. When Flynn had left San Francisco, he’d been skin and bone, his complexion the color of sour milk. He’d been given to nervous twitches or long moments of staring at nothing, haunted by the seven women who had been killed in six months by the Judge. Flynn had taken too much responsibility. He’d made the investigation personal, blaming himself.
After two years at the safe house—an assignment that was a total waste of his investigative talents—he looked healthier. His face was tanned, and his shoulders had lost their slouch. So maybe it hadn’t been a total waste after all.
He backed away from the chopper and turned toward her. With his trademark squint, his expression was difficult to read. Was he glad to see her? Angry? Did he care at all?
“I should have known,” he said, “that you’d be the one doing the evaluation. I’ll bet you asked for this assignment. You wanted to be the one to ‘evaluate’ this operation and close it down.”
“Why would I do that?”
“A backhanded slap at me,” he suggested.
“My presence here has nothing to do with you.” What a huge lie! She’d been itching to see him again. “The whole world doesn’t revolve around you, Flynn.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I wanted closure on the Judge.” That investigation had been her nightmare, too. “It’s finally over.”
“And I was right.”
He wasn’t gloating, merely stating a fact. Flynn had been the only person on the ViCAP team who hadn’t believed the Judge was dead two years ago when a body suspected of being the killer had been found at one of the crime scenes.
There had been no more killings in San Francisco. Though technically still open, that investigation had moved to inactive status. Everyone but Flynn moved on to other crimes.
And so, it came as a shock when, a couple of weeks ago, a body turned up in Santa Fe with many of the unique earmarks of the Judge. Special Agent Dash Adams had been assigned to investigate, and Marisa followed his reports with increasing horror and disbelief. Two other bodies were discovered—one on the Navajo reservation and another near the Mesa Verde safe house. Another woman was killed as a warning. The serial killer proudly identified himself as the Judge. And Agent Adams found an eyewitness who identified the man who abducted her: Russell Graff, age twenty-four.
In spite of her skepticism, Marisa couldn’t deny the evidence. Russell Graff fit the profile. The victimology matched. He’d been in San Francisco at the time of the other crimes. He was the Judge.
Fortunately, Agent Adams had been successful in his pursuit. Russell Graff was dead. This time, Flynn had to believe it. “It’s over,” she repeated. “The Judge is dead.”
Flynn didn’t respond. In his light brown eyes, she saw doubt and wariness. He still couldn’t accept that it was over. He was still obsessed.
Together, they stepped back as the rotors began to whirl, kicking up dust and loose weeds. Her white blouse wasn’t going to stay clean for long in the country.
The chopper lifted off. At the same time, a beat-up Jeep pulled up to the split-rail fence. Two men wearing jeans and boots hopped out and came toward them. These guys had to be the other two agents who worked at the safe house, but they looked like cowhands from the Old West.
Marisa was glad she’d packed a pair of denims in her suitcase. Her black slacks and suit jacket would be utterly impractical.
The helicopter swooped across the wide valley. So much sun and sky: this vista was spectacular. It seemed she could see forever.
“Something’s wrong,” Flynn said, also looking into the sky.
“With what?”
“The helicopter is hovering. Not moving forward.”
As she watched, the chopper made a vertical descent and disappeared behind a ridge lined with trees. Wh
at was he doing? “What’s out there?”
“A creek. Hills. Scrub oak and cottonwood. Nobody lives within eight miles of this place.”
“They can’t be eight miles away.”
“More like four,” he said.
They continued to stare, waiting for something to happen. She could think of no reason the pilot would make an unscheduled landing in the middle of nowhere. Not unless he’d received specific orders through his headset.
The distant blast of an explosion thundered toward them. Orange flames and black smoke made a horrible contrast against the pastel sky.
Flynn was already on the move, racing toward the Jeep. And Marisa followed. As he snapped out orders to his men, she climbed into the passenger side and strapped on a seat belt.
Behind the steering wheel, he gave her a questioning glance.
“Go,” she said. If he objected to her presence in the Jeep, she wouldn’t have trouble pulling rank. She was the senior officer here. “Let’s move.”
He turned the key in the ignition, and they were off.
KEEPING HIS EYE ON THE FLAMES, Flynn sped along the two-lane road that led away from the safe house. This asphalt stretch was his only chance for speed. From here, he’d have to cut across the open country to reach the explosion. Even at this distance, the stench of burning metal stung his nostrils. He glanced toward Marisa. “What do you know about this pilot?”
“Not much. His name is Johnson, Tim Johnson. I hooked up with him in Santa Fe. He’s one of ours. So is the chopper.”
“Why would he make a descent here?”
“Don’t know. I hope they all got out before it blew.”
Tension gnawed at his gut as he swung onto a narrow dirt road—not much more than a path—cutting through the uncultivated fields of buffalo grass, sagebrush and scrub oak. It was a bumpy ride, but he didn’t slow down. All he could think about was Grace Lennox—that brave gray-haired woman. If anything had happened to her…
“It didn’t look like a forced landing,” Marisa said. “You were right, he hovered first.”
