D
amn Mister Softee. I couldn’t get the ice-cream truck’s canned kiddy music out of my head, its jingle playing over and over in endless fashion. I’m not really sure why—possibly because I was driving a van that looked exactly like it. The only difference was the company name printed on the side. It had been lent to me by an air delivery service, along with the courier uniform I now wore.

Cultivating my informant had finally paid off. I’d worked hard to establish a bond, exhibiting patience and concern by playing his “shrink for a day.” I’d gone so far as to take his calls in the middle of the night, listening as he babbled on, his stories fueled by a combo of drugs, booze, and paranoia. In return, I’d learned that a package invoiced as toys would be coming in from Singapore; only its actual contents were endangered Burmese star tortoises.

The case was cut and dry. The box had arrived at Customs and had been X-rayed. Toys lay on top, while tortoises packed in plastic containers were secreted beneath a false bottom. The creatures spent their days and nights in the dark, waiting to be sold on the black market for five thousand dollars a pair.

I’d rushed to an airport warehouse, slit open the box, and marked each tortoise’s shell with a UV pen. Then the reptiles were resealed inside their portable coffins. My plan was to deliver the package to the “toy store” and track where the
torts went, nailing as many perps as possible in the process.

I’d performed similar “controlled” deliveries before; but something was different this time. Getting back in the van, I found that my mouth was inexplicably dry, my hands trembled on the steering wheel, and a dull pain ate away at the pit of my stomach. My heart raced with each passing mile, thumping hard against my chest as I turned onto the exit ramp; harder as my target came into view.

Pulling up to the curb, I grabbed the box and walked toward the store, my limbs feeling heavier than ever before. By now, the Mister Softee tune had permanently wormed its way into my brain, its tinny music pure auditory torture.

I knocked and someone opened the door. I never saw a face; just the barrel of a gun like a gaping black hole. Its mouth filled the entranceway, consuming time and space. I broke into a cold sweat and screamed
NO!
only to realize that it was already too late.

A shot rang out, piercing the air. It ripped through my body, lifting me off the ground and throwing me onto my back. My mind shrieked and my head slammed against what felt like pavement, my teeth jostling about like loose plastic beads in a baby rattle. The commotion echoed in my ears and my body ached, as if it were being kicked.

“Fight back, damn it!”

The voice barely made a dent in my consciousness, floating toward me from somewhere in the background. It was the sharp jolt of a full-frontal kick that shattered my daze, jerking me out of my head and back into reality.

“For chrissakes, Rachel. Snap out of it!”

The nightmare was happening again. I wasn’t outside, garbed in a courier’s uniform. Rather, I was in a gym, dressed in sweatpants, tee-shirt, and sneakers, with my hair plastered against my back and a rivulet of sweat trickling down my chin.

“What are you trying to do? Get your ass kicked on purpose?”

There was no time to think, much less react, as a foot planted itself in my stomach like a conquering flag. I was flung against a wall, causing a shock of pain to radiate throughout my body. Morbid Angel’s music pounded in the air, replacing Mister Softee’s theme, and the room lights flickered on and off in a blatant attempt to distract me. The ploy worked, giving my attacker time enough to land another solid punch. Everything moved in slow motion as a fist flew toward me, only I couldn’t fend it off.

Then a stranger’s voice hissed in my ear as two hands locked themselves tightly around my throat. That was enough to bring me fully to attention.

“What good are you, Porter? You’d never have been able to protect the courier that was killed all because she was mistaken for you.”

“No!” I yelled.

I raised my right arm and swiftly pivoted to the side. Then ramming an elbow down hard, I broke my assailant’s grip and jerked his hands from my throat. All restraint was shelved as I then grabbed hold of his shoulder and drove my knee into his stomach in a series of short, explosive bursts. It was pure exhilaration to finally release the frustration that had been building inside me for months.

I showed no mercy, but slammed his jaw twice with my open palm. His mouth guard flew across the room as I continued to pummel the man. I moved hard and fast, until a pair of arms wrapped themselves around my body and pulled me off. Breaking free, I turned to deliver a roundhouse punch only to be stopped in midair as two strong hands grabbed hold of my wrists.

“Whoa, Rambo! Calm down. You’ve beaten up your sparring partner quite enough.”

My instructor’s face slowly came into focus.

“Krav Maga is a method of bare-bones street fighting to be used for defense; not as a license to commit murder. You should have reacted this way immediately, and not waited to have the crap kicked out of you.”

I pushed a strand of red hair from my eyes while struggling to catch my breath. “Yeah, I’ll try to remember that.”

“He’s right, chère. Keep in mind that someone in this family has to stay healthy.”

I glanced over to where the love of my life, Jake Santou, sat in a chair cheering me on. He smiled while shifting his weight, but I caught his grimace of pain. It only made me love him all the more.

I’d nearly lost the man nine months ago. Santou had been on a military flight that crashed in the Florida swamp, leaving five dead and two survivors. He’d barely made it out alive, yet managed to drag a badly injured fellow FBI agent with him. Then he’d gone back inside the wreck and hauled out the dead, refusing to let the swamp swallow them up. After that, the two men had held out nearly eighteen hours, waiting for rescuers to pinpoint their location and reach them. It had felt as if my own life hung in the balance while waiting for word. I’d never been more relieved than when it was finally confirmed that Jake had been found alive.

Santou was proclaimed a hero, but it came at a price. His injuries ranged from a leg broken in three places to a pinched nerve in his back and numerous scars. The result was that he still needed a cane to get around and had been confined to desk duty. All that could be dealt with, as far as I was concerned. The only thing that mattered to me was that Santou was alive.

He motioned and I quickly walked over to him.

“What was the problem out there, chère?”

Though I hated to tell him, there was no getting around it.
“The nightmare. It happened again. I guess my mind must have wandered, because I was sucked back into the same old thing. That’s why I didn’t respond at first.”

Santou nodded, as if he understood all too well. “Yeah, that’s not unusual. You’ve just got to learn to let it go, Rach.”

He squeezed my hand and all my aches, pains, and fears momentarily dissolved. Then I headed over to my sparring partner.

“I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

Tanner responded with a grin. “Hey, that’s what padding is for. I’ll just use a little extra next time.”

“Great. Then I can strike back even harder,” I teased, becoming aware of the sweat sliding down my back. “I’m going to take a shower,” I called to Jake.

He nodded and gingerly stretched his legs, as though they were fine pieces of china. By now we’d both been through enough to realize that neither of us was immortal. That was the bitch about getting older: having to acknowledge that anything can happen and you might not survive.

I jumped in the shower and soaped up, rubbing hard to wash away the dirt, sweat, and unwanted memories—only some recollections aren’t so easy to get rid of.

What good are you, Porter? You’d never have been able to protect the courier that was killed all because she was mistaken for you.

No matter how hard I tried, there was no keeping the ghastly events of the controlled delivery out of my mind. Jose Abruzo’s face loomed before me even now as a sheet of water rained down on my head. I should have known better than to trust an informant that not only looked like a rat, but actually turned out to be one. Jose double-crossed me by playing both sides, warning the smugglers that a female federal agent was laying a trap for them.

Timing in life is everything. As it happened, the perps
were expecting a drug shipment on the very same day their reptiles arrived. A female air service courier went about her job and unknowingly delivered the drug package to them, unaware that a bust was about to take place. Figuring her to be a federal agent, the smugglers blew her away. I would have been their target had the courier been a mere five minutes late.

I’d arrived at the scene to find cops milling around a woman with red hair, lying in a pool of blood.

“That should have been you, Porter,” one of the boys in blue coolly informed me. “You oughta count your blessings that you’re still alive.”

And I did. I counted them every day. Only nothing could wipe away the memory of the stunned expression I saw on that poor woman’s face.

I shivered as I left the shower, though the air wasn’t cold. Guilt clung to me tight as a second skin from which there was no escape. Once again, I’d become the Service’s scapegoat, with yet another black mark added to my growing roster.

Bad choice of informant. Troublemaker. Not a team player.

Not helping matters was that I’d been removed from my Georgia post after making political waves. My actions had prompted a congressional hearing to take place, during which the Service was warned to rein in their agents. I’d been transferred to San Francisco shortly afterwards. The controlled delivery was to have been the first case at my new post.

My cell phone rang, breaking the spell of doom and gloom closing in around me.

“This is Dr. Mark Davis of Stanford University. Am I speaking with a law enforcement agent?”

“Yes, this is Special Agent Rachel Porter.”

“Well then, I have something you should be interested to
hear. I’ve been hiking the area to check which butterflies are out this early in June.”

“That’s terrific. Thanks for letting me know,” I responded, ready to hang up on yet another West Coast wacko.

“Hold on a minute. I’m not yet finished,” he sharply retorted. “I ran into some idiot that’s digging up plants and netting every bug in sight, a few of which are highly endangered. I suggest you get up here immediately.”

“Back up a second. Where exactly is ‘here’?”

“San Bruno Mountain State Park. You
do
know where that is don’t you?” the professor responded in annoyance.

Academics. You had to love them. Why did they automatically assume the rest of us were a good notch below them in intelligence?

“Yes, I know where it is.”

How could anyone possibly miss it? Thousands of people drive by San Bruno Mountain every day, their attention drawn to the words
SOUTH SAN FRANCISCO
:
THE INDUSTRIAL CITY
branded in large white concrete letters on its southern slope.

“Good. Then you must also know that the mountain is sole home to the Mission blue butterfly and the San Bruno elfin.”

“And who is this again?” I questioned, deciding to throw some of my own weight around.

“Dr. Mark Davis. I specialize in endangered butterflies at Stanford University’s Center for Conservation Biology.”

Each word was delivered in concise bite-sized syllables; their effect, that of a sharpened axe chipping away at my self-esteem.

Up until now, I’d worked the mega-fauna glamour cases—gators, manatees, primates, and grizzlies. Had it finally come down to dealing with bugs? Perhaps Fish and Wildlife was doing a better job of reining me in than I’d re
alized. To top it off, I didn’t know all that much about butterflies—a fact I was loathe to admit.

“Fine. Where should I meet you?”

“I can’t wait around. However, I’ll provide you with an exact location and physical description of the subject. By the looks of it, he doesn’t plan to go anywhere soon. The offender has a cooler with him, as well as a backpack and a shovel.”

It sounded as if Dr. Davis had watched one too many episodes of
Law and Order
.

“Okay, I’ll head there now.”

“Don’t hang up. I’m still not through,” Davis instructed like a true professor. “Does the name John Harmon ring a bell with you?”

I didn’t appreciate the feeling that I was being tested. As the over-made-up rocker Alice Cooper used to sing,
School’s out forever
. In which case, I had no intention of jumping through hoops for this professor.

“Never heard of him. Why? Should I have?”

“I would think so,” Davis haughtily replied. “Not only is he a colleague of mine, but you people hired him to trek to Mendocino and do a final search for the Lotis blue before officially declaring it to be extinct.”

“The Lotis blue. I take it that’s some sort of butterfly?”

“It’s not
some sort
of butterfly,” Davis disdainfully repeated my words as though they were verbal dirty laundry. “It’s the
rarest
butterfly in all North America.”

Okay, so I’d failed that test. I hate it when I don’t know something.

“Sorry, but my job doesn’t entail dealing with consultants. If there’s a problem, I suggest you take it up with the division of Fish and Wildlife that hired your friend,” I responded, silently kicking myself for being ignorant of a creature so close to extinction.

“You damn well
should
be concerned.
Especially
since you’re law enforcement,” Davis sniped.

“And why is that?”

“Because no one’s heard from Harmon since he began his search in Mendocino over two weeks ago. Not his wife, his children, his parents, or any of us here at the university. It’s as if he virtually disappeared off the face of the earth.”

For a moment, all I could think was how odd that a man sent to search for a missing butterfly should now be missing himself. Then the chill that had previously nipped at my skin returned—only now it was stronger than ever.

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