Tears of relief and terror rolled down her cheeks as she hurried forward, unable to slow herself before she collided with a wall of loose rock. She began scrambling up it, trying to reach the light. If she could just feel that sunlight on her skin, if she could just taste that fresh air

She had only climbed a few feet when an avalanche of dirt submerged her. She fought her way out, coughing and sputtering, but the light was gone.

And with it, her only hope of escape.

CHAPTER ONE

As Harley entered the headquarters of the FBIs Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico, Virginia, a wave of applause nearly bowled her over. She managed a queasy grimace as her fellow agents, clustered here and there along the halls surrounding the cubicles at the center of the room, clapped and smiled at her. They all knew that without her hard work, John Kavers would still be out there hunting young girls.

Whats that, your second serial? said Joe Tirico, the Units newest member.

Third, she answered, searching the room for an escape but finding no way out. She wanted to be hunting the next killer, not celebrating the capture of the last one.

He whistled. Leave some for the rest of us, will you?

No promises.

Spotting a cake with a frosting sketch of a man behind bars, Harley took the opportunity to escape the groups attention and cut herself a slice.

As Chics Good Times began to play, Harley willed herself to relax and enjoy the successful conclusion of a case. Kavers had terrorized the nation for three years, kidnapping young girls from public restrooms and unattended cars, seemingly unaffected by the increasing police and media scrutiny. Now he was facing a life sentencein no small part due to Harleys dogged pursuit, culminating in the discovery of microfibers that linked several of the victims to a minivan Kavers owned. Harley hadnt exactly had permission to obtain those microfibers, but that was a different matter.

Looking around the room at the other members of the BAU who worked around the clock to catch murderers, rapists, arsonists, and of course serial killers, Harley noticed an unsettling feeling in her gut. She always felt this way at the end of a case, because it was not the kill she loved but the hunt. Wander a crime scene long enough, and just about anyone might discover a crucial piece of evidence by sheer, dumb luck. But to get into a killers head, essentially signing a lease to stay there until the case was closed months or even years later? That took something beyond a nine-to-five commitment.

The Bureau called it dedication, but it was really obsessiveness, a total devotion of mind and will to one goal, like that of a samurai to swordcraft. Those recruits unwilling to make the sacrifice didnt make the cut. How could you expect to catch a killer if you couldnt match his intensity?