Lawman Protection. Cindi Myers

advantage of the opening to step forward. Digital recorder in one hand, notebook in the other, she was clearly a reporter, but not one Graham had seen before. He wouldn’t forget a figure like hers. She was tall, with a generous chest and curvy hips, a wild tumble of strawberry blond hair and full lips in a perfect pink bow of a mouth. Her eyes were hidden by fashionably large sunglasses, but he had no doubt she was looking right at him. And frankly, he couldn’t stop staring at her. Forget the fragile, stick-figure women so popular in magazines and on television—here was a real-live, flesh-and-blood goddess. Here was a woman he could embrace without crushing, one he could kiss without getting a crick in his back, one...

      “Captain Ellison, what are you doing about the disappearance of Lauren Starling?” the woman asked, her voice husky and deep, carrying easily even in the crowd.

      At her words, his fantasy vanished like a puff of smoke. She wasn’t the perfect woman—she was a reporter. And judging from the frown on her face, she didn’t think much of him. “So far it has not been determined that Ms. Starling is a missing person, or that she is, in fact, missing in our territory. We are working with the Denver police to try to determine her whereabouts.”

      “You don’t think finding her car abandoned in the National Park, not a half mile from where we’re standing right now, points to some connection between her failing to show up for work two weeks ago and ‘your territory?’”

      Lauren Starling was the popular nightly news anchor at Denver’s number two news station. Three weeks ago, she’d failed to return from a few days’ vacation and park rangers had discovered her car abandoned at an overlook in Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park. “Denver police are in charge of that investigation and they are keeping us apprised,” Graham said. What he wished he could say was that, for all he or anyone else knew, Lauren Starling was in Mexico with a secret boyfriend. “At this point we have no evidence of foul play.”

      Twin lines, like the number eleven, formed between the woman’s eyes and her mouth turned down in disapproval. Clearly, she didn’t think much of his answer. Too bad. He had bigger things to worry about than one woman who the Denver cops had hinted was more than a little flighty. His officers were keeping their eyes open for any sign of Ms. Starling, but he wasn’t losing sleep over her.

      “Captain, did the death of Raul Meredes put an end to drug trafficking on public lands?” A reedy man Graham recognized as being from the local county paper asked the question. Meredes had been in charge of a large marijuana-growing and human-trafficking operation based in the National Park. Identifying him as a key figure in the recent crime spree had been the task force’s biggest achievement thus far. Unfortunately, Meredes had been murdered before they could question him. The crime rate in the area had dipped following his demise, but Graham sensed the lull represented only a marshaling of resources, in preparation for another surge.

      “Mr. Meredes played a major role in the crimes going on in this area,” Graham said. “But we don’t believe he was the one supplying the money and man power for the operation. We’re still trying to track down that individual.”

      “Do you think Richard Prentice has any connection to criminal activity in the park?”

      Graham wasn’t sure who asked that question; it came from the back of the crowd. Had someone leaked the task force’s suspicions, or had Prentice himself sent someone to test how much the Rangers knew?

      “We have no reason to believe Mr. Prentice has anything to do with the crimes in the park,” he said. Prentice was a jerk and a thorn in the side of federal and state officials in general, but being nasty and unpleasant didn’t make a man a criminal. Which didn’t mean the task force wasn’t watching him very closely. But Prentice had a lot of money, and a lot of lawyers, so they had to tread carefully, which meant not airing their suspicions to the press.

      “What do you think of his plans to build a housing development at the entrance to the park?” asked the stringer for the Telluride paper.

      “I don’t think my opinion on the matter is relevant,” Graham said. “I have bigger things to focus on at the moment than Mr. Prentice’s battle for public opinion.” He glanced at his watch; he’d been standing up here only five minutes. How much longer before he could make his escape?

      “What do you have to say to Senator Mattheson’s charges that a multi-agency task force is an ineffective and expensive way to address problems better handled by local law enforcement?” The question came from the female reporter. She’d removed her sunglasses to reveal hazel eyes fringed with long, dark lashes. But there was no warmth in those eyes for him.

      “I would remind Senator Mattheson that local law enforcement requested help from the federal government in addressing the multiple crimes that seemed to be originating from federal lands,” Graham said. “Law enforcement on public land has always been the purview of federal park rangers and the various federal agencies who oversee various federal regulations, from ATF to Border Patrol. This task force brings members of those agencies together to pool resources and provide a more focused approach to addressing crime in a vast and largely unpoliced area.”

      “But in three months you’ve only made one arrest, and you’re no closer to identifying the person responsible for this crime wave,” she said.

      “Real life isn’t like television, where every case is wrapped up in an hour,” he said, barely reining in his annoyance.

      “And you don’t think Lauren Starling’s disappearance has any connection to the other crimes within the park?” she asked, recorder extended toward him.

      “I believe I’ve addressed the question already.” He turned away, aware of her gaze boring into him.

      “Captain?”

      He turned and found Lance, cell phone in hand. “I think you’d better take this call,” the deputy said. He handed the phone to Graham, then stepped forward to address the reporters. “We’re going to have to wrap this up now,” he said. “Thank you all for coming.”

      At first, Graham thought the sheriff’s deputy had manufactured the call, as a ruse to end the press conference early. Points for him, Graham thought as he turned his back to the reporters and spoke into the phone. “Ellison here.”

      “Captain, Randall here.” Randall Knightbridge was the Bureau of Land Management’s representative on the team. His voice was strained, putting Graham on alert; this was no fake call.

      “What is it, Randall?”

      “Marco and I were patrolling in the Curecanti Recreation Area and we came upon a plane wreck. It looks recent—within the last day or so.” Marco Cruz was with the DEA, probably the best tracker on the task force—well, the best, except for Randall’s dog, Lotte. “A Beechcraft Bonanza,” Randall continued. “One casualty—the pilot.”

      “Give me your coordinates and I’ll send a team right away.” Graham pulled a notepad and pen from the front pocket of his uniform shirt.

      Randall rattled off the GPS coordinates. “You probably want to come with the team,” he said.

      Graham tucked the notebook back into his pocket and glanced over his shoulder at the departing press. The curvy blonde was trailing the pack, headed toward a red SUV parked at the far end of the lot. For a moment he was transfixed on the tantalizing sway of her backside as she moved away from him. Too bad she was a reporter...

      “Captain?” Randall’s voice recalled him from his fantasies.

      “I’m here. What were you saying?”

      “I said, there’s some interesting cargo here you’re definitely going to want to see.”

      * * *

      EMMA WADE STARED at the captain’s back through the windshield of her Jeep Wrangler—broad shoulders, muscular arms and yes, a very nice rear end. In other circumstances, he was exactly the kind of guy she’d go for—big enough that she wouldn’t feel like an elephant next to him. Strong. Intelligent. Too bad he was a jerk.

      He