Page 38 of The Texas Murders

Then my foot is back on the gas, and I close the gap to the garage. Carlos tells the dispatcher that we need backup units to block all the exits to the garage. I pull in and start winding my way upward. It’s a big parking garage, with multiple options of where to go on each level, several ways up and down.

I don’t want Carpenter to slip down behind us, so I take my time, trying to explore every corner of each level before moving up. Other cars crowd the lanes, and I honk my horn so I can get around them.

“There,” Carlos says, pointing across the garage to the recognizable blue van just barely visible on the next level up.

I speed to where the van sits in a parking spot. I slam on the brakes and put the truck in park to block Carpenter’s escape. Carlos and I jump out and run around the vehicle. My gun is leveled on the driver’s side. Carlos, who’s ditched the LaRue for his Colt, circles to the passenger door. When I get to the window, I aim my gun inside.

The front seats are empty. Carlos runs back over to my side, where the sliding door is located. With my gun ready, I try the handle and pull the door open, revealing an interior that’s empty except for a gray blanket lying in a heap.

There’s no sign of Llewellyn Carpenter.

No sign of Marta Rivera.

Carlos runs to the radio. “The van is empty,” he reports. “He must have switched vehicles.”

I run to the concrete barrier at the edge of the garage and look down at the street. A half dozen cars pour out of the garage—vans, trucks, sedans, sports cars—and there’s no telling how many in the street might also have come from the garage.

I hear sirens in the distances, but they’re not close enough to block off the area in time.

“Shit,” I say, holstering my gun and catching my breath for the first time since all this started. The outside of my clothesis soaked with water, the inside is soaked with sweat, and my mouth is bone dry.

To the east, the sun hovers over the horizon, blasting the landscape in golden light. It’s only about thirty minutes after sunrise, yet I feel like I’ve had one of the longest days of my life. I’m emotionally and physically spent.

Carlos walks up to me and puts a comforting hand on my shoulder.

“We’ll get him,” he says. “And at least we know Marta Rivera is alive.”

But for how much longer?I wonder.

CHAPTER 31

THE SCENE AT the warehouse is abuzz with activity when we get back.

Two fire trucks arrived, although there isn’t actually a fire. Crime scene investigators are going through the building with a fine-tooth comb. It looks like a few of the kidnappers were taken alive—agents are leading them in handcuffs to the back of a paddy wagon.

Several ambulances are there, with paramedics treating some of the rescued women while FBI agents and El Paso police take names and information. From what I can tell, the women come from a variety of racial and ethnic backgrounds—white, Black, Latina, Asian—but there’s no doubt that a disproportionate number are Native American. The one similarity they share is that they’re all young.

Agents have set up crime scene tape around a wide perimeterto keep the news vans at a distance, but when we drive up, an agent opens a gap for us to pull in.

“You did good today, Rangers,” he says through the open window of my truck.

“Thank you.”

“Agent Logan wants to see you,” he adds.

When we get out of the truck, a handful of agents in SWAT gear approach us and thank us for charging onto the scene the way we did.

“There’s no telling how many more of us would have been cut to pieces without you guys coming in to help,” one says.

We say we appreciate the sentiment, but I’ve got a feeling that Ryan Logan isn’t going to be quite so grateful.

Ryan’s office on wheels has been moved to the parking lot of the warehouse. I knock on the door and peek my head inside. He’s on the phone but waves me in. Carlos and I sit and wait, still wearing our bulletproof vests. Still sopping wet.

When he hangs up, Ryan says, “Well, at least the other two raids went off without a hitch. Looks like we’ve rescued forty-nine women in total. Eight from Tucson. Nine from Colorado Springs. And the other thirty-two from right here.”

“That’s good news,” I say.

He narrows his eyes at me.

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