Really? Strolling through bloody mounds of bear guts doesn’t faze her, but a scene straight out of Snow White nearly gives her a heart attack?
His mind zeroed in on the unthinkable. Could the poacher who killed these bears be a woman?
One working for the Forest Service?
Jesus. In all his years with Fish and Wildlife, he'd never run into a female poacher who actually pulled the trigger or wielded the knife—or in this case, the ax. He had a hard time believing a woman was even capable of the wanton destruction in that meadow. Sexist? Maybe. His grandfather, Jimmy Blue Wolf, would say, to do that a woman would have to have a grizzly bear spirit. Or have gone windigo.
Coop agreed.
However, this woman didn’t seem that hard or cruel—her initial gasp told him as much—or out-of-control. If she was involved in this, it would make more sense that she was just on the periphery.
The grumble of a motor cut through the quiet forest. Probably Jack. Great timing, partner. The snarl of Jack's piece-of-crap ATV increased as it labored up the hillside, bringing the woman upright.
Coop snapped several photos of her as she took one last look around the clearing.
A small, white blemish on a nearby tree captured her attention. A long trail of sap spilled from it, running down the trunk. She hurried over to it.
Quickly swiping his camera to max magnification, Coop saw a small, dark hole piercing the exposed area.
“Yes!” she murmured.
“No!” he wanted to shout.
God damn it. A frigging bullet? The only ballistic evidence found in all the butchered bear cases he and Jack had investigated this summer, and she had to find it?
Along with whatever it was she’d picked up with the bandana. Another bullet, maybe?
He was just about to step out from his hiding place and arrest the damn woman, when, again, some instinct stopped him. He made a split-second decision.
She was the best lead he had right now on these poachers. Hell, the only lead. He'd have to sacrifice the pieces of evidence to gain the bigger picture. She should be easy enough to trace through the Forest Service—assuming she really worked for them—and he might even recover the evidence if he moved fast enough. Hopefully, she’d lead him to her accomplices...and hang herself in the process. If she was innocent, she'd turn in both objects to CDFW on her own. Either way, he’d know what side of the law she stood on.
He watched as she reached down to her boot, whipped out a small knife, and stuck it in the tree to one side of the bullet. He narrowed his eyes. The small blade wouldn’t make much of a dent in a bear, but interesting that she carried a weapon.
The noisy engine of Jack's ATV fighting its way up the primitive access road suddenly sputtered to a halt, close by.
Biting off a curse, the woman abandoned the bullet in the tree, then slipped back into the dark woods, disappearing as quickly as she'd arrived.
Barely Dangerous: Chapter Two
Coop slowly unfolded his tall frame from the bushes and looked around the kill site in disgust. How could people do this to innocent creatures? Violence of any kind was abhorrent to him. He had been brought up to believe cool logic and calm words could solve even the most explosive problems.
Not that he had always been able to follow that wisdom. Especially when he was younger. He was better now. Less volatile. More focused.
He loved his job working undercover with the spec ops unit. Most people didn’t have a clue that the Department of Fish and Wildlife was such a badass branch of law enforcement. But wardens carried guns, and had statewide jurisdiction and arrest authority. In fact, the CDFW had more law enforcement powers than any other state agency, including cops. Not only could Coop nab you for fishing without a license, he could also arrest you for speeding or for murder. Fish and Wildlife had their own CSI labs, high-tech toys, K-9 units, as well as tactical teams for land, sea, and air. In a day’s work he could jump out of helicopters, drive motorcycles, ride horses, fly, dive, shoot bad guys, and rescue kittens from trees.
Yeah, Fish and Wildlife wardens were certified American heroes.
Too bad they were also understaffed, underpaid, and undervalued by the suits in Sacramento.
But none of that mattered. For Coop, protecting this beautiful state and its natural resources was more of a calling than a job. He wouldn’t trade it for anything the world.
This case, however, was proving more than frustrating. He’d been sent in undercover as a sports writer to the little town of Marigold, deep in the Trinity National Forest, to ferret out and nail whoever had been poaching black bears here all summer, no doubt selling the bear parts to the Far East. These three kills made the ninth slaughter in the Trinity this summer—four bears in less than a month. He needed to catch these scumbags. And fast. Because it was happening on federal lands, already the FBI was rattling chains to take over.
Yeah, over his dead body. No way was he letting those smug, disrespectful bastards near his bears.
With any luck, this mysterious Forest Service woman would be his ticket to success.
He stared ruefully down the trail she had taken. What a damn waste. He hoped to hell she wasn’t involved. He respected women, and didn’t need any more useless illusions crushed.
He pulled out his equipment to start photographing and documenting the kill. As he did so, he spoke in a low voice to the mother bear and her two cubs, as his grandfather had taught him. “Grandmother, little pups, it is a bad thing these people have done to you. I honor you, and will see that you are treated well now.”
The sound of heavy bootfalls told him his partner, Jack Sawyer, had arrived.
Coop made a final vow to the bears. “These hunters will be caught and punished. This I promise. Go and tell Memekwesiw it will be done.”
He pressed his lips together in determination.
Step one was to find out just who the hell that woman was.
Step two, nail her pretty little ass to the wall.
Barely Dangerous: Chapter Three
Margarethe Eugenie Johansen rested her pointy-toed cowboy boot across the well-worn knee of her jeans, pursed her lips, and contemplated her new Sinfully Scarlet nail job.
“It's you,” declared Iris, the flame-haired manicurist responsible for the transformation. “I know you're in hiding, but I doubt the color of your nails will make it easier for Whitney to find you.”
“Not with gloves on anyway,” Maggie agreed. Wriggling her fingers, she looked up and grinned. “Iris, you're a true artist. In L.A. you could open your own nail salon and make a fortune, and still work for the FBI. You are so wasted up here in Nowheresville.”
Maggie was under federal protection, spending the summer living out in the sticks—supposedly as a volunteer fire spotter with the U.S. Forest Service—until she could testify against her former employer, Sam Whitney.
Whitney was a real wolf in sheep’s clothing, a white collar criminal committing grossly unethical stock market fraud while masquerading as a legitimate businessman. Under his designer suits, he was a ruthless son of a bitch who would stop at nothing to make a buck. Or to keep his sorry butt out of jail. He'd already had two other witnesses killed in his quest to beat the FBI’s case against him.
Iris was a whiz at nails, but she was also Maggie's federal babysitter, working off-book as a CI and occasional witness-minder for the FBI.
“So, anything new on my case?” Maggie asked.
“Unfortunately, no.” Iris gave her a concerned look. “The trial is only a week away, and they still haven't found anyone else who will corroborate your testimony against Whitney. Not after those two murders in Monrovia.”
Which meant Whitney would be concentrating all his efforts on finding her.
“Awesome.”
Thank goodness this nightmare would soon be over. But the expression on Iris’s face told her it could be a very long week.
For the first time, Maggie questioned the wisdom of hiding out in a remote forest lookout towe
r without an armed guard, a security alarm, or even cell phone reception on most days.
Hell, it had seemed like a good idea at the time. But that had been before Whitney started killing people.
Iris gave her a penetrating look. “Dinny says to be extra careful. Whitney knows someone has turned state's evidence. So far he doesn’t know who, but not for lack of trying.”
Special Agent in Charge Dinny Paxton was heading up the case against Sam Whitney down in Los Angeles, and responsible for Maggie's testimony.
“If Whitney finds out it’s me, federal protection or no, I'm dogmeat.”
Iris leaned back and shook her head. “Which makes you seriously nuts to stay in that old lookout tower with nothing but firefighters and bears for company.”
“I like it.” Maggie shrugged. “And I like the guys in the battalion. I almost feel guilty that I'm just pretending to volunteer for the Forest Service.”
“Hell, you’re doing the job, aren’t you?”
“I suppose.” Maggie rubbed her fingers over her temple. “But don't talk to me about bears. You won't believe what happened yesterday.”
She should be used to being jumpy after the past two months of hiding out, but she hadn't been able to shake a creepy feeling that someone had been watching her at that poaching site yesterday. Was still watching her.
She fought a shiver of goose bumps. “Three more bears were mutilated, this time pretty close to Tower Eight.”
Iris’s eyes widened. “Oh, my God, that's awful! And you found them?”
“Two hikers did. They saw my tower and reported them to me. I radioed it in to our dispatcher and she called Fish and Wildlife.” Maggie grimaced in disgust. “They said they'd send someone, but it could be a day or two.”
“Our tax dollars hard at work,” Iris drawled.
“The whole business is sickening. I really want to see those poachers behind bars where they belong.”
Iris smiled. “Maggie Johansen, one-woman crusade for justice.”
“What can I say. I love bears. The mamas are so affectionate and loyal.” She thought ruefully about her own mother's lack of affection while she was growing up.
“Heaven help anyone who tries to separate them from their cubs,” Iris said.
Maggie’s mom, on the other hand, wouldn't even have noticed she was gone. “Unless they have guns and axes. Seeing what they did to those bears was horrific.”
“It’s the poachers who are the real animals,” Iris agreed.
“Totally.” Maggie decided to confess everything. “I couldn't just do nothing, knowing evidence might be lost by the time Fish and Wildlife finally decided to show up.”
A frown swept away Iris’s smile. “Maggie...what did you do?”
She leaned forward conspiratorially. “I searched the crime scene. And I found something. A battery. Small and round, like a cough drop.”
Iris looked puzzled. “Okay, that's weird.”
“I think there's a fingerprint on it.” She suddenly got an idea. “Say, could Dinny would run a check on it?”
“Don't you think you should turn it over to Fish and Wildlife?”
Maggie leaned back in her chair. “That was the plan. But I’d really like to show those buffoons a thing or two. These poachers have killed nearly a dozen bears this summer, and CDFW doesn’t seem to give a damn.”
“I’m sure they’re doing the best they can with their limited resources.” Iris gave her a meaningful glance. “You, of all people, know how hard it is to get enough evidence for a solid conviction.”
“I suppose,” Maggie reluctantly conceded. “Too bad I couldn’t get the bullet, too.”
“Bullet?” Iris’s brows went up.
“Lodged in a tree. I tried to dig it out, but I heard a vehicle coming, so I got out of there. When I went back later, it was gone.”
“The CDFW coming to investigate?” Iris asked.
Maggie shook her head. “I seriously doubt it. Why would they tell me two days if they sent someone right away?”
“Do you think it was the poachers coming back for some reason?”
Alarm shot through Maggie. “Oh, God, you think? Holy crap. Maybe they realized they dropped that battery, and came back for it.”
“Or they wanted to retrieve that bullet. The rifling can be just as good evidence as a fingerprint.”
Double crap. “If it was them, they saw that someone else tried to dig it out.” Her pulse started to race. “And that same person probably has the missing battery.”
Meaning, her.
Oh, my God. What had she been thinking? Her life was in enough danger as it was, without attracting the attention of ruthless poachers.
Iris rose. “Did you bring the battery with you?”
Maggie got to her feet, too. “No, I didn’t think to. I’ll bring it by first thing tomorrow.”
“I’ll ask Dinny to run the print and send it over to DFW afterward for you. Anonymously.”
“Thanks.” That worked.
She reached for her long-sleeved, government-green coverall hanging on the coat rack, and slid it up over her jeans and tank top. It sagged and bagged in all the worst places.
Iris gave a moue of distaste. “Why you insist on putting that ugly thing over a bod like yours is beyond me.” She tilted her head consideringly. “Hmm. A leather jumpsuit would stop traffic. A nice red one.”
Maggie shook her head with a grin. “Stopping traffic is definitely not on the agenda these days.”
Iris followed her out to the curb. With a wrinkled nose, she plucked at one of Maggie’s baggy green sleeves. “After the trial, then. When they’ve locked up Whitney for good, and thrown away the key.”
“It’s a deal.” Maggie swung a leg over her vintage Yamaha 350 and tucked her long hair up under her full-face helmet. With a practiced jump, she kick-started the bike. “See you tomorrow.”
Iris batted at the swirling dust. “If you don't kill yourself on that thing first.”
Barely Dangerous: Chapter Four
The shiny chrome of the Yamaha flashed in the brilliant midday sunlight as Maggie ran flat out down a stretch of straight road leaving Redding. The steep, verdant mountains that would eventually swallow up the two-lane highway rose in front of her as she headed back to the tiny town of Marigold.
Her weekly hour-long ride to get her nails done was a source of endless mirth among the Forest Service firefighters in the battalion she was a lookout for. She told them it was a good excuse to get away from their lazy butts, and have a nice long ride, too. They could appreciate the ride part, and eventually accepted the nails thing as just another example of incomprehensible female behavior.
Most of the guys were good friends with her Uncle Dan, who usually worked as a USFS fire lookout during the summers. He was a teacher at an L.A. inner city junior high, and liked the extreme contrast and the solo time to decompress. This summer, though, he’d broken his leg and couldn’t manage the 175 stair climb to the top of his usual tower. But he’d suggested her “volunteer” gig at one of the unmanned Trinity lookouts, and had also lent her his motorcycle for the summer, since he couldn’t ride. Thankfully, he'd been telling her stories about the guys in the battalion for several years, so she’d had an edge on how to fit in with the macho crew. The whole situation had made going into hiding a lot easier.
She slowed the bike and adjusted her heavy leather gloves. It was a pain to wear all this baggy gear, but between the coverall, the helmet, and the gloves, it was impossible to tell she was a woman. Less chance of being spotted, if anyone was looking for her.
Warm wind whipped her clothes and tickled the back of her neck as she rode up the mountain. She’d really grown to love riding the bike—though this was about as foreign to her image at her take-no-prisoners stockbroker job back in L.A. as it would be if she suddenly announced to her co-workers she was dating a man with a ponytail.
She chuckled at the thought. Her friend Tommy Walker, who owned a pharmacy in Marigold, had to
ld her about a mysterious ponytailed man riding some kind of peculiar antique motorcycle around the village for the past couple of weeks. The guy was a sports writer and, if you believed Tommy, he was tall, dark, and very handsome.
Whenever there was a new man in town, Tommy always let her know. He thought she was interested in a summer romance. In reality, romance was the very last thing on her mind. She just wanted to keep track of everyone who came and went, and whether or not they asked about her.
But ever since Tommy had mentioned Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome, despite the fact she’d never really had a thing for men with ponytails, she'd developed an almost painful curiosity about the man. If he was a writer he must be smart. And handsome was never a bad thing. He sounded intriguing.
Okay, really, he didn't sound all that intriguing. Conspicuous, maybe—which thankfully meant that he most likely wasn't one of Whitney's thugs sent to find her.
With any luck, he wasn't a bear poacher, either.
Not that it mattered. She wasn't in the market for a summer romance. Remember?
Still...he did ride a motorcycle...
Barely Dangerous: Chapter Five
The ancient, bright red Indian sputtered along at a decent clip.
Over the past couple of years, Coop had been able to coax the 1951 Indian Warrior back to life and restore some of its former dignity and legendary status. The Indian had first belonged to his mother’s uncle—won in a poker game in Korea—then went to Coop's unmechanical cousin Bernard. When Bernie was given three to five for conspiracy to commit terrorism a while back, he'd talked Coop into taking possession of it before the feds did, knowing full well it would get a near-professional restoration while he was away. When he got out, he’d had other things on his mind, and never reclaimed it.
Out cruising the tranquil forest highway this late morning, Coop was trying to find some peace of mind about his current case. At the rev of a motor behind him, he eased his bike closer to the shoulder. Bright red paint or no, the Warrior would be a fair target for an unobservant car or truck speeding along the winding forest road. But when he checked the rearview mirror, it was another motorcycle he saw coming up fast behind him—a Yamaha.
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