By Jessica Speart
Agressive and self sufficient, agent Rachel Porter has lengthy been a thorn within the facet of the U.S. Fish and natural world provider -- and for her sins, she's been assigned to distant Montana. during this chilly, windswept nation of non-public militias and survivalists, grizzlies are being killed at an alarming fee. And whereas following up on a rumor that somebody from the neighborhood Blackfeet tribe is liable, Rachel uncovers a fair extra negative fact: local americans are mysteriously disappearing in addition. during this land that the Unabomber known as domestic, it seems that endangered animals and people are both reasonable online game. And the subsequent casualty could be one gutsy flora and fauna agent who refuses to enable napping bears lie.
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Additional resources for A Killing Season
All right! ” Sally commanded, bringing the confrontation to a halt. ” I hated being put in this position. If it were up to me, no critter would ever be killed or left to die. I glanced again at the cubs with their dopey expressions. Okay, so the world wasn’t one big Disney ﬁlm. But there was A KILLING SEASON 35 also no way I was about to turn them loose to meet certain death. “We might as well bring these two along since we’re going there anyway,” I grufﬂy remarked. ” “Like hell I will! They may look cute now, but do you know what these two are going to turn into when they grow up?
More Birkenstocks than cowboy boots were worn by its residents, who could best be described as an interesting array of fruits and nuts. I walked to where my Ford was parked, and roundly proceeded to curse out the local cops. Damn, damn, damn! Tucked against my windshield was yet another lousy parking ticket. Snatching it off, I shoved it inside the glove box where it could schmooze with its other relatives. I understood that the street had to be swept, but why couldn’t they just clean around me?
No problem; I’d just A KILLING SEASON 45 apply a nifty little trick I’d learned from my old boss, Charlie Hickok. I picked up the mug I’d inherited from my predecessor. White on the outside, its interior was as brown as dry Sahara mud. My guess was that it hadn’t been cleaned since 1989. Add a little warm water, stir, and I instantly had myself a killer cup of reconstituted java. “Nice mug,” Turner dryly noted. Carolton’s taste deﬁnitely ran toward the risqué; the cup’s exterior was covered with line drawings of bunnies mating in a variety of sexual positions.