#1 New York Times bestselling author Catherine Coulter’s FBI Thrillers The Target and The Edge , together in one explosive volume.   The Target —Coulter “keeps readers guessing” ( Booklist ) as a little girl is pursued by men who prove as relentless as their motives are baffling. And FBI agents Savich and Sherlock must unravel the clues.   The Edge —In this “fast-paced thriller” ( People ), an FBI agent’s sister disappears after an attempted suicide. When Savich and Sherlock join the search, they discover a startling connection to a puzzling murder—and put their lives on the line to uncover the truth. Praise for Catherine Coulter’s FBI Thrillers   “Fast-paced.”— People   “This terrific thriller will drag you into its chilling web of terror and not let go until the last paragraph…A ripping good read.”— The San Francisco Examiner   “A good storyteller...Coulter always keeps the pace brisk.”— Fort Worth Star-Telegram   “With possible blackmail, intra-judiciary rivalries and personal peccadilloes, there’s more than enough intrigue—and suspects—for full court standing in this snappy page-turner…A zesty read.”— Book Page   “Twisted villains...intriguing escapism...The latest in the series featuring likable married FBI agents Lacey Sherlock and Dillon Savich.”— Lansing (MI) State Journal   “Coulter takes readers on a chilling and suspenseful ride...taut, fast-paced, hard to put down.”— Cedar Rapids Gazette   “The perfect suspense thriller, loaded with plenty of action.”—The Best Reviews   “The newest installment in Coulter’s FBI series delivers...a fast-moving investigation, a mind-bending mystery.”— Publishers Weekly   “Fast-paced, romantic...Coulter gets better and more cinematic with each of her suspenseful FBI adventures.”— Booklist   Catherine Coulter is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of more than eighty novels, including the FBI Thriller series and A Brit in the FBI international thriller series, cowritten with J.T. Ellison. She lives in Sausalito, California, with her Übermensch husband and their two noble cats, Peyton and Eli. onE Rocky Mountains Spring He stood at the edge of the mountain that sheered down a good two hundred feet before smoothing out into tree-covered ledges and gentle wildflower-covered slopes and sharp gaping ridges. He breathed in the thin air that was so fresh it burned his lungs, but, truth be told, it burned less today than it had yesterday. Soon, the frigid clean air at nearly six thousand feet would become natural to him. It had been only yesterday that he'd realized he hadn't thought all day about a telephone, a TV, a radio, a fax machine, the sound of other voices coming at him from all sides, about people grabbing at him, shouting questions six inches from his face. And those blinding explosions of white from the ever-present flashbulbs. Now, he figured, at last he was beginning to let go, to forget for stretches of time what had happened. He looked across the valley at the massive, raw mountains that stretched mile upon mile like unevenly spaced jagged teeth. Mr. Goudge, the owner of the Union 76 gas station down in Dillinger, had told him that many of the locals, lots of them Trekkies, called the whole mess of knuckle-shaped mountains the Ferengi Range. The highest peak rose to twelve thousand feet, bent slightly to the south, and looked like a misshapen phallus. He wondered if he'd hurt himself if he climbed that mountain. The folks down in Dillinger joked about that peak, saying it was a sight with snow dropping off it in the summer. He was aware again as he was so often of being utterly alone. At this elevation there were thick forests of conifers, mainly birch, fir, and more ponderosa pine than anyone could begin to count. He'd seen lots of quaking aspen too. No logging companies had ever devoured this land. On the higher-elevation peaks across the valley, there were no trees, no flowers as there were here in his alpine meadow, just snow and ruggedness, so much savage beauty, untouched by humans. He looked toward the small town of Dillinger at the far end of the valley that stretched from east to west below. It claimed fifteen hundred and three souls. Silver mines had made it a boomtown in the 1880s, nearly bursting the valley open with more than thirty thousand people-miners, prostitutes, store owners, crooks, an occasional sheriff and preacher, and very few families. That was a long time ago. The descendants of those few locals who had stuck it out after the silver mines had closed down now catered to a trickle of summer tourists. There were cattle in the valley, but they were a scruffy lot. He'd seen bighorn sheep and mountain goats coming down the slopes really close to the cattle, pronghorn antelope grazing at the lower elevations, and prowling coyotes. He'd driven his four-wheel-drive Jeep down there just once since he'd been here to stock up on groceries at Clement's grocery. Had it been Tuesday? Two