Cassie Miles - Murder on the Mountain

“Then no one will see if I do this.”

He spun her around in his arms and pulled her against him. Her arms stretched to wrap around his huge torso. She loved the way she fit against him; the way he held her close felt so good. So right.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she murmured. “I’m in charge of the safe house. I should be setting an example.”

His lips silenced her. With his kiss, he exploded the apprehension that had been building inside her. Her defensive wall of propriety crumbled to dust. With a soft moan, she gave herself completely to this fierce, demanding passion.

When he separated from her, she gasped. Her heartbeat throbbed like a big bass drum. It took a big man to sweep her off her feet. Paul was that man.

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To Kayla and Landon.

And, as always, to Rick.

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.

Julia Last—The FBI Special Agent in charge of the safe house is torn between protecting her secrecy and solving a murder.

Paul Hemmings—The Eagle County deputy sheriff knows something is wrong at the safe house and fears for Julia.

Jennifer and Lily Hemmings—Paul’s daughters, aged seven and nine, want to be ice skating princesses though their father prefers hockey.

John Maser—Also known as Johnny Maserati, he dies in a car wreck.

Harrison Naylor—The four-star marine general dies in uniform in his locked bedroom, an apparent suicide.

Marcus Ashbrook—The senator from Wyoming hopes to use the Homeland Security exercise at the safe house to further his career.

Gil Bradley—The mysterious and muscular CIA agent might have a history as an assassin.

RJ Katz—The FBI Special Agent is an expert in accounting scams.

David Dillard—The FBI computer specialist arranges the simulation exercise for Homeland Security.

Garret Dillard—David’s brother is a hero in the marines.

Roger Flannery—The rookie FBI Special Agent working at th safe house has developed a talent for cooking.

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

Chapter Eighteen

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.”