CHAPTER 1

Tick. Tick. Tick.

He was losing time.

Losing daylight.

The sun, threatening to set early this time of year, wasdisappearing behind a mountain ridge, the last cold shafts oflight a brilliant blaze filtering through the gathering cloudsand skeletal branches of the surrounding trees.

He felt the seconds clicking past. Far too quickly.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

By rote, with the precision he'd learned years before inthe military, he set up in an open area that would allow aclean, neat shot.

Not that the bitch deserved the quick death he planned tomete. He would prefer she suffer. But there was no time forwaiting. His patience was stretched thin, his skin starting toitch in anticipation.

He knew her routine.

Sighting through his scope one last time, he waited,breath fogging in the air, muscles tense, a drip of sweat collectingunder his ski mask despite the frigid temperatures.

Come on, come on, he thought and felt a moment ofpanic. What if today she changed her mind? What if, forsome unknown reason—a phone call, or a visit, or a migraine—sheabandoned her yearly ritual? What if, God forbid,this was all for naught, that he'd planned and plotted fora year and by some freak decision she wasn't coming?

No! That's impossible. Stay steady. Be patient. Trust yourinstincts. Don't give into the doubts. You know what you haveto do.

Slowly, he counted to ten, then to twenty, decelerating hisheartbeat, calming his mind, clearing his focus. A birdflapped to his right, landing on a snow-covered branch,clumps of white powder falling to the ground. He barelyglanced over his shoulder, so intent was he on the area he'ddecided would be his killing ground, where the little-usedcross-country ski trail veered away from the lake, angling inwardthrough the wintery vegetation.

This would be the place she would die.

His finger tightened over the trigger, just a bit.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

And then he saw her. From the corner of his eye, a tall,slim figure glided easily on her skis.

Good.

Reddish hair poked out from beneath her ski cap as sheskied, ever faster. Recklessly. Dangerously. Tall, rangy, andathletic, she wound her way closer. She'd been called "bullheaded"and "tenacious," as well as "determined." Like adog with a bone, she never gave up, was always ready tofight.

Well, no more. He licked his lips, barely noticing how drythey were. A hum filled his mind, the familiar sound he alwaysheard before a kill.

Just a couple more seconds ...

Every nerve ending taut, he waited until she broke fromthe trees. His shot was clear. She glanced in his direction,those glacial bluish eyes searching the forest, that strongchin set.

As if she sensed him, she slowed, squinting.

He pulled the trigger.

Craaaack!

With an ear-splitting report, the rifle kicked hard and familiaragainst his shoulder.

Her head snapped backward. She spun, skis cutting theair like out-of-kilter chopper blades.

She dropped dead in her tracks.

"Bingo," he whispered, thrilled that he'd brought herdown, one of the most newsworthy women in all of GrizzlyCounty. "And then there were five."

Just as the first few flakes of snow began to fall, heshoved hard on his own ski poles, driving them deep into thesnow, pushing himself forward. In easy, long strides, he tookoff through the trees, a phantom slicing a private path intothe undergrowth deep within the Bitterroot Mountains. He'dlived here most of his life and knew this back hill country aswell as his own name. Down a steep hollow, along a creekand over a small footbridge, he skied. The air was crisp,snow falling more steadily, covering his tracks. He startled arabbit a good two miles from the kill site and it hopped awaythrough icy brambles, disappearing into the wintry woods.

Darkness was thick by the time he reached the wide spotin the road where he'd parked his van. All in all, he'd traveledfive miles and was slightly out of breath. But his blood wason fire, adrenaline rushing through his veins, the thought ofwhat he'd accomplished warming him from the inside out.

How long he'd waited to see her fall!

Stepping out of his skis, he carefully placed them insidethe back of his van with his rifle, then tore off his white outerclothing. Ski mask, ski jacket, and winter camouflage pants,insulated against the stinging cold, were replaced quicklywith thermal underwear, jeans, flannel shirt, padded jacket,and a Stetson—his usual wear.

After locking the back of the van, he slid into the vehicle'sfreezing interior and fired up the engine. The old Fordstarted smoothly, and soon he was driving toward the mainroad, where, he knew, because of the holidays and impendingstorm, traffic would be lighter than usual. Only a fewhearty souls would be spending Christmas in this remotepart of the wilderness where electricity and running waterwere luxuries. Most of the cabins in this neck of the woodswere bare-bones essentials for hunters, some without the basicsof electricity or running water, so few people spent theholidays here.

Which was perfect.

At the county road, he turned uphill, heading to his owncabin, snow churning under the van's tires, spying only oneset of headlights before he turned off again and into the lanewhere the snow was piling in the ruts he'd made earlier. Yes,he should be safe here. He'd ditch this van for his Jeep, butnot until he'd celebrated a little.

Half a mile in, he rounded an outcropping of bouldersand saw the cabin, a dilapidated A-frame most people in thefamily had long forgotten. It was dark, of course; he'd left ittwo hours earlier while there was still daylight. After pullinginto a rustic garage, he killed the engine, then let out hisbreath.

He'd made it.

No one had seen.

No one would know ... yet. Until the time was right.Carrying all of his equipment into the house, he then closedthe garage door, listening as the wind moaned through thetrees and echoed in this particular canyon.

In the light from his lantern, he hung his ski clothing onpegs near the door, cleaned his rifle, then again, as the cabinwarmed, undressed. Once he was naked, he started his workout,stretching his muscles, silently counting, breaking asweat to a routine he'd learned years ago in the army. Thisausterity was in counterbalance to the good life he led, theone far from this tiny cabin. His routine worked; it kept himin shape, and he never let a day go by without the satisfactionof exercising as well as he had the day before.

Only then did he clean himself with water cold enough tomake him suck his breath in through his teeth. This, too, waspart of the ritual, to remind him not to get too soft, to alwaysexcel, always push himself. He demanded perfection forhimself and expected it of others.

As his body air-dried, he poured himself a glass ofwhiskey and walked to the hand-hewn desk attached to thewall near his bunk. Pictures were strewn across the desktop,all head shots, faces looking directly at the camera ... hiscamera, he thought with more than a grain of pleasure.

He found the photograph of the woman he'd just sent toSt. Peter, and in the picture she was beautiful. Without atrace of her usual cynicism, or caustic wit, she had been agorgeous woman.

No more. Tossing his hunting knife in the air and catchingit deftly, he smiled as he plunged its sharp tip into thespace between his victim's eyes. So much...