FBI Agent Ana Grey returns to infiltrate the volatile core of an eco-terrorist cell in the Pacific Northwest. Only months after a traumatic shooting incident, Ana is still emotionally unstable when she returns to work and learns that a fellow agent—and former lover—was killed by a group of terrorists operating under the name of FAN (Free Animals Now). To find the murderer and prevent any further killing, Ana goes undercover as an animal activist. In the course of her investigation, Ana encounters Julius Emerson Phelps, the charismatic leader of a "family" of anarchists in rural Oregon, whose secret past could blow the Bureau to pieces. To matters worse, Ana learns that Phelps is preparing a cataclysmic act of terrorism. With time ticking away and her undercover identity in jeopardy, Ana must find a way to solve her case and foil Phelp's bloody plot. "A feverishly pitched adventure . . . that thunders right off the page."— The New York Times Book Review “A pulse-pounding thriller.”— USA Today “Fast, harrowing, and breathtaking.”— The New York Sun "A genuinely scarifying thriller . . . has the momentum of a theme-park ride."— Los Angeles Times “Why does the FBI still seem so sexy? Part of the reason is murder mysteries like April Smith’s Judas Horse . . . It’s creepy, chest-thumping stuff, with snitches and loyalty tests and the good guys and villains constantly in flux.”— Los Angeles Magazine “Smith’s superb third thriller to feature Ana Grey . . . Ana’s nuanced and coolly observational narrative voice perfectly complements the well-paced action, which builds to a satisfying conclusion that leaves open the next chapter of Ana’s story.”— Publishers Weekly (starred)“Smith does a convincing job of conveying the trials of maintaining a dual identity . . . The narrative is fast-paced without becoming frantic, and the intertwining story lines are deftly handled. Highly recommended.”— Library Journal (starred)“A demonic ride through undercover terrain . . . Smith creates an undercover training regime for Ana that the FBI might do well to emulate. She’s so expert at implanting stress that you could become bipolar just from reading one chapter. Feisty, disturbing and exceptionally well done.” — Kirkus Reviews (starred) April Smith is the author of North of Montana , Be the One , and Good Morning, Killer . She is also a television screenwriter and producer. She lives in Santa Monica with her husband and children. Chapter One I am standing in the middle of nowhere, eating an oatmeal cookie, when the word comes down the hallway like an ill wind that SAC Robert Galloway wants to see everyone in his office. I glance at the TV monitors—no airplane crashes—and figure this would be Galloway announcing with his usual gloomy hysteria that some honcho is coming from FBI headquarters, or maybe, because of budget cuts, we all have to bring our own copy paper.The boss is waiting behind his desk, eyes downcast, fingertips tapping the blotter, and he does not speak or look up until the office is jammed with agents in shirtsleeves and wide-eyed administrative assistants. Cautious silence settles in.“Another blow,” he says, because there are all kinds of blows, all day long.The silence twists tighter.“Special Agent Steve Crawford is dead.”A collective gasp of shock. Some of us clutch, as if kicked in the gut.“We have a positive ID on his remains.”“How?” someone finally asks.Galloway clears his throat. Everybody knows Steve Crawford was his golden boy and heir apparent.“A hiker found a piece of jaw with a couple of teeth in a stream close to where Steve disappeared.” He takes a breath. “The forensic dentist matched the root furcation on the X-rays.”“Cause of death?”Galloway rubs his forehead. “He was an experienced hiker. A fall? Hypothermia? We don’t know. He was hiking alone. It’s a remote location. You have big animals, little animals; they’re dragging pieces hither and yon. The coroner says the manner of death is a very difficult call, based on the evidence and the length of time Steve was out there.”It is like losing Steve all over again. Like those stomach-churning hours thrashing through the soaking undergrowth up in Oregon just days after I’d come back from administrative leave. I get sick just thinking about the empty yelping of those dogs.When Steve had failed to call his wife, Tina, from a solo hiking vacation in the Cascades, his abandoned SUV was discovered at a trailhead. Four hundred volunteers scoured the national park, casting a net of inquiry from Eugene to Bend. Everyone from the Los Angeles field office went up on their own time to knock on doors. Worse, indescribably worse, were the visits to Steve and Tina’s house down here in Gardena—a dining table of foil-covered casseroles, two dazed grandmas from out of town, a couple of sisters, the scent of baby powder from the children’s room.Standing now in Galloway’s superheated office, I do not want to hear the aren’t-I-smart questions. What does it matter if