Page 36 of The Texas Murders

In the darkness, no shot comes.

Relieved that we didn’t just get killed by a member of our own team, I shout to the man, “Secure this room! We’re going after the shooters on the second floor.”

Carlos and I race past the body of the man I shot and into the next room, expecting a staircase. Instead, we find an even larger room, this one with a mezzanine running the perimeter of the second floor. We don’t need my flashlight to see because the windows on the upper level have been shot out, and for some reason the sprinkler system isn’t spraying in here. Several men—four on the left mezzanine and three on the right—fire automatic rifles from the windows down onto the SWAT officers outside. There had been a fourth gunman on the right, but a body lies at the other men’s feet—the person Carlos shot from the parking lot, I assume.

Carlos’s LaRue thunders next to me, and one of the shooters stumbles backward, tumbling over the railing and dropping to the floor with a thud.

Shooters on both sides of us cease firing outside the windows and swing their guns toward us.

CHAPTER 29

WITHOUT SO MUCH as a word, Carlos and I both stand our ground, him shooting to the left side, me shooting to the right.

Before the first gunman gets his rifle into shooting position, I put a bullet low in his rib cage at an angle that will send it through his heart. While he starts to fall, I move my gun a few inches to the left and squeeze off another shot just as the next shooter is about to pull his trigger. He groans and falls back, pointing the gun toward the ceiling as fire explodes from the barrel. The first gunman has finally landed with a metallic clang against the mezzanine walkway.

I move my gun a few more inches to the last guy. He is a fraction of a second behind his buddies in swinging his gun from the window—he probably assumed the others would take care of me—but instead of waiting until he has me in his sights to fire, he lets the gun rip while he’s turning. A wave of bullets strafes the ground, coming my way.

I squeeze off another round, and the wave stops just feet from me.

The man slumps over the railing and hangs with his head upside down, his arms dangling.

I turn my attention to Carlos’s side of the gunfight. Only one shooter remains, but before either he or I can take him down, a volley of gunfire blasts through the window from outside, filling him with holes. Then the back door of the warehouse bursts open and SWAT members rush in, guns drawn.

All firing ceases for a moment. There are plenty of sounds—cops running into the building, voices shouting outdoors, sirens wailing, the sprinkler system in the other bay—but compared to the noise of the gunfire, the room feels eerily quiet. Gun smoke clouds the ceiling, drifting in the beams of light spilling in through the broken windows. Glass tinkles down from the shattered windows.

Then we hear a single blast—recognizably a shotgun—coming from the room with the women, and suddenly a commotion of terrified voices overtakes the sound of the sprinklers. Carlos and I rush back to the room, and I try to take in what’s happened.

One of the garage doors is rising, filling the room with bright sunlight. The SWAT officer who was the first one to make it in lies on the floor, unmoving. Another figure, covered completely in a heavy gray blanket, inches through the maze of beds like a ghost. I raise my gun but notice there are two sets of feet sticking out of the bottom of the blanket—a pair of men’s boots and a woman’s bare feet.

I understand what’s happening in an instant.

There’s a man under the blanket, holding one of the women hostage.

I move closer, keeping my gun on the shapes under the blanket. I think about shooting the man in the foot, but I assume he’s got the shotgun we heard a few seconds ago. If I do no more than injure him, he could unload a round of double-aught buck into the poor woman, opening her up like a soda can that’s been shaken up and thrown on the ground.

I need a kill shot.

But I don’t have one.

SWAT members pour in through the two corridors, aiming their guns at this and that, trying to assess the situation and secure the scene. But in the chaos, no one really seems to grasp what’s happening. There are women crying, bodies on the floor, water pouring from the ceiling.

As the garage door rises, Ryan Logan walks casually inside, as if thinking one of his men raised the door and all is under control.

“Hostage!” I shout, pointing to the shapes under the blanket, which have almost made it to the blue van.

Ryan sees what I’m pointing to and draws his gun.

“Don’t shoot!” I shout.

Ryan hesitates and seems to understand the situation better now. I run up next to him, as the blanketed shape arrives at the van’s side door. A glimpse of arm reaches out from under the blanket to slide the door open. I see it only for an instant, but it’s long enough for me to recognize the tattoo of a snake coiled around the forearm.

“Give up, Carpenter!” I yell. “There’s no way out.”

He ignores me as he wrestles the girl inside the van. I still have no good shot.

“Miss,” I shout, “tell us your name!”

“Marta,” shouts a scared voice from under the blanket. “Marta Rivera.”

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