Something precious and beautiful is being ruthlessly

destroyed. And those who champion the small, fragile, threatened lives are endangered themselves. An agent for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, Rachel Porter has been assigned to the northern California wilds, where a biologist recently vanished while searching for a rare blue butterfly believed extinct -- a hunt that may well have led him to his death. And now a young girl has gone missing also, and her disappearance might be connected, so Rachel cannot ignore it. But bodies and lies are piling up in her path, and beyond them catastrophe is waiting for Rachel Porter. Because in a world of heartless greed and cruel obsession, there may be nothing that separates a fanatic collector from a cold-blooded killer.

Damn 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...

Jessica Speart writes about environmental and wildlife issues. Her writing has appeared in the New York Times Sunday Magazine, OMNI, Travel & Leisure, Audubon, National Wildlife, Mother Jones, Delta's Sky Magazine, and many other publications. Unsafe Harbor is her tenth Rachel Porter mystery. Jessica lives in Connecticut with her husband and their two dogs, Max and Tallulah.