Deputy Paul Hemmings stood at the edge of the cliff looking down. Far below, a midsized sedan was wedged upside down against a tall pine. Morning sunlight reflected dully on the muddy undercarriage and tires. A bad accident. Not uncommon on these mountain roads. Especially at this time of year, early December.

Yet there were no skid marks. The pavement was dry. Ice wasn't a hazard. Why, Paul wondered, had this vehicle gone off the road?

The woman who had flagged him down asked, "Can I leave now?"

"I've put through a call for assistance, ma'am. The rescue team should be here soon."

"But I'm supposed to meet my husband at Vail Village in fifteen minutes."

"Sorry. You have to stay so you can give a report to the investigating officers."

"There's really nothing to tell," she said. "I pulled onto the shoulder to take a picture of that frozen waterfall. I'm an amateur photographer, and it's a beautiful morning and —"

"Stop." Paul held up a hand. "I can't take your statement. I'm off duty."

He glanced at his Ford Explorer SUV. The faces of his two young daughters, Jennifer and Lily, pressed up against the windows. They'd been on their way to the ice-skating rink for their lesson when this witness signaled him to stop. His girls were going to be plenty ticked off about arriving late to Saturday practice.

And so was this witness who stabbed at the buttons on her cell phone. "I can't even call my husband. I've got no signal."

"Accidents are inconvenient," he said. "Especially for the person driving."

Had that person survived?

Highly unlikely. However, if the driver had survived, it was Paul's duty to offer assistance until the rescue team arrived. He stepped over the ridge of dirty snow that marked the shoulder of the two-lane mountain road.

The descent was rocky and steep, but this was the sunny side of the valley and much of the snow had melted. So far, this had been a mild winter. Too mild. The workers at the ski resorts were praying for a blizzard.

He sidestepped down the slope. Though he was a big man — over six feet four and weighing more than was good for his cholesterol — Paul moved with sure-footed balance. He'd been born and raised in these mountains; climbing was in his DNA.

As he approached the overturned car, he noted that the earth was torn up from the car's plummet, but there were no footprints. None leading away from the wreck. None leading toward it.

At the driver's side, he hunkered down. Though the car rested on the roof, the interior hadn't been crushed too badly. The driver's-side window was broken out. There was a man inside. And blood. A lot of blood.

"Sir?" Paul reached inside the car to touch the shoulder of this man. Half of his forehead was a bloody pulp. His complexion had the waxen sheen of a death mask. His lips were blue. He couldn't still be alive. If his injuries from the accident hadn't killed him, exposure to the night cold would have finished him off.

Yet, he moved. His eyelids twitched. He whispered one word. "Murder."

I'M GOING TO MURDER this guy. FBI SpecialAgent Julia Last glared daggers into the broad shoulders of the distinguished, silver-haired man who had started making demands the minute he walked through the door.

After eleven years with the FBI, she didn't appreciate being treated like a housemaid. Julia was the agent in charge here. The operation of this two-story, nine-bedroom FBI safehouse in Eagle County, Colorado was her responsibility, and she'd managed it well enough to receive several commendations. Dozens of protected witnesses had come under her care. She'd also provided a haven for agents and officers who had been injured in the line of duty and needed recuperation time. Never once, during her two-year tenure at the safehouse, had security been breached.

Her latest guest — the silver-haired jerk — regarded his second-floor bedroom with blatant disdain, then turned to face her. "I'll take my first cup of coffee at six in the morning. Low-fat milk and one teaspoon of sugar. Not a sugar substitute. Delivered to my room along with The Wall Street Journal."

"We don't provide room service," Julia said through gritted teeth. "All meals are family-style in the dining room."

"My coffee at six," he repeated. "And the Journal."

"You might have noticed that this is a rather remote location." The safehouse was four miles down a graded gravel road through a heavily forested wilderness area.

"Newspaper deliveries are much later than six."

He glanced around the clean but relatively plain bedroom. "Where's the television?"

"We have a TV downstairs."

"Unacceptable. How am I supposed to keep up on the news if I can't watch CNN?" He tapped his chest.

"I need to stay abreast of developments. Do you know who I am?"

"Yes, sir." Senator Marcus Ashbrook from Wyoming had been mentioned as a possible candidate for president. Needless to say, if Julia had resided in that state, he wouldn't get her vote. "I'll need a television in my room." He flashed his photogenic smile and held out a five-dollar bill. "That will be all."

He was offering her a tip? This was too much. Julia snatched the bill from his hand and slammed it down on the knotty pine dresser. "I'm not a concierge, sir. And this is not a hotel."

"You're supposed to make me comfortable."

"It's my job to keep you safe," she corrected him.

"This FBI safehouse might look like a rustic mountain lodge, but we're equipped with state-of-the-art security. While you're here, I will expect you to abide by our rules and to accept our restrictions."

"Will you now?" He looked surprised; the senator wasn't accustomed to having underlings tell him what to do.

"If it's necessary for you to leave the premises, I must be notified. No guests permitted. Three meals a day are served in the dining room. And, of course, tell no one that this is a safehouse."

"Why not?"

Could he really be that stupid? She didn't think so. Senator Marcus Ashbrook hadn't risen through the ranks of national politics by being a moron. "The whole purpose of a safehouse is to provide a covert location to keep the 'guests' safe. Security depends on keeping our mission secret from the bad guys."

"Good answer." Again, the photogenic smile. She eyed him suspiciously. "Were you testing me, Senator?"

"I was indeed. I've heard that you're good at your job, Agent Last."

She dredged up an insincere smile of her own. "Thank you, sir. I prefer to be called Julia."

"Of course you do."

She turned on her heel and left his bedroom. This was going to be a long, strenuous, annoying week. The only "guests" at the safehouse were five high-ranking individuals who were involved with a Home-land Security project. In addition to the senator, there was a four-star Marine general, a former Navy SEAL who was now CIA and two senior FBI agents.

Though Julia didn't know the precise agenda for this group, she was certain that she and her live-in staff of two agents were going to have their hands full. Managing all these egos wouldn't be easy.

"Excuse me, Julia."

Now what? She turned and saw Gil Bradley, the CIA agent, standing in the center of the hallway. She could have sworn that the door to his room was closed, and she hadn't heard it open. Nor did she register the sound of his footsteps on the creaky hardwood floor. He'd just appeared. Like the spook that he was.

Gil Bradley was obviously the muscle in this group. His massive shoulders and well-developed arms suggested that he was capable of bench-pressing a giant redwood. But he was still able to move silently. Spooky, indeed. "What can I do for you, Gil?"

"I'm allergic to shellfish." His rasping voice made it sound like he was imparting a state secret. "Thanks for telling me. I don't think we have shrimp on the menu for this week." Apparently, he was not allergic to dirt. His jeans were streaked with mud. "Have you been out hiking?"

"I run five miles every day. Rain, shine or snow."

"Admirable."

His gaze rested on her full hips. "You should come with me. Lean and mean, Julia. Lean and mean."

He zipped back into his room. The door closed with an audible click before she had a chance to tell him that she might not look like the Barbie version of GI Jane but would gladly match her physical conditioning and stamina against anyone. Even him.

At the foot of the staircase, she stalked through the great room, past the long oak dining table and into the kitchen. Roger Flannery, a young agent who had been at the safehouse for three months and discovered a talent for cooking, stood at the counter, chopping with the speed and aplomb of a sushi chef.

She should have been pleased with Roger's dedication to providing a semigourmet dinner every night, but Julia was still cranky after her encounters with Senator Ashbrook and Gil Bradley. When she was in this kind of mood, it was better not to stop and chitchat. She made a beeline through the kitchen toward the back door.

"Hey, Julia," Roger said.

She growled a response and kept walking. If Roger had any self-preservation instinct at all, he wouldn't say another word. "Wait a sec," he said. "I could use some help with dinner."

She muttered a negative, but that wasn't sufficient for peppy Roger-Dodger. "What's eating you?" he asked. "You look like a grizzly that swallowed a wasp nest."

Slowly, she turned. "A grizzly?"

Roger chuckled. "Yeah."

"Is that a reference to my hair?" Her long brown hair was notoriously curly and wild even when pulled back in a ponytail.

"N-n-no."

"Or maybe you were thinking of my size when you said I look like a grizzly." Nearly six feet tall in her hiking boots, she had a broad-shouldered, muscular frame that made comparisons to a bear somewhat plausible. "Gil thinks I should step up my exercise program."

"You look g-great," Roger said, frantically back-pedaling as his gaze darted, taking in the details of her jeans, white turtleneck and plaid wool shirt.

"Nice outfit."