Page 53 of The Texas Murders

“You’re coming with me, darlin’,” I say, trying to play the part. “I got your next fix in the van.”

When she doesn’t move, the guy I’m with grabs her by the arm and yanks her to her feet.

“Easy there,” I say. “No need to hurt the merchandise.”

He ignores the comment and shoves her into my arms.

“You take her on outside,” he says. “I’ll get the next one.”

“Come on with me, darlin’,” I say, guiding her down the hallway.

“Where’s my fix?” she says.

Her body is flaccid, like a wilted flower, and I have to support most of her weight to keep her moving. She smells like she hasn’t had a bath in weeks.

“I’ll do anything you want,” she says to me, her voice pleading. “I’m a real good girl.”

“Everything’s going to be okay,” I say, keeping my voice low.

When we step out into the sunshine, I freeze in my tracks.

Llewellyn Carpenter is there, holding Marta Rivera—her face recognizable from her photograph, her hair down to her butt just like Ava said—firmly by the arm.

Carpenter takes one look at me and, as I feared, recognizes me. He yanks a gun out of his waistband while tugging Marta toward him to use her as a shield.

“Texas Ranger!” he shouts. “Kill the son of a bitch!”

CHAPTER 44

I DRAW MY gun, but—again—I don’t have a shot. Carpenter holds Marta in a chokehold, positioning his body behind hers. She tries to fight, but she’s clearly debilitated—either high on heroin or weakened by waiting for her next fix.

With his free arm, Carpenter swings his pistol over her shoulder and points it in my direction. I grab the woman I’ve been propping up and shove her back inside the building. Carpenter’s pistol thunders, and bullets crash into the drywall next to me, throwing white dust into the air. I hurl the woman down inside the closest open doorway and dive on top of her. She’s screaming—now fully awake from her addiction-focused haze—and thrashing around in a panic.

Carpenter stops shooting, and I hear a scuffle outside.

“Stay here!” I tell the woman and rise to my feet.

She scurries on all fours into the corner of the room and curls into a tight ball, like a schoolkid in a tornado drill.

Just as I step out of the room, Ozzy Osbourne—the red-bearded guy with the revolver—is rushing down the hall, and we practically collide. Only a few feet away, he swings his big gun at me. With my left arm, I reach out and grab his wrist, pushing his arm against the wall. He squeezes the trigger. Flames leap from the barrel, and a loudboomfills the narrow corridor. I try to jam my SIG Sauer against his chest, but he grabs my gun arm in the same position and shoves my arm up into the air. I angle my wrist, but I still don’t have a shot.

We push and pull against each other. He’s not a big guy, but he has a wiry strength, and it’s all I can do to hold on to his squirming wrist. It’s just a matter of seconds before he’ll be able to twist his long-barreled gun into a decent shooting position. I use my weight to pin him against the wall with my shoulder. With my head lowered, I notice again that he’s wearing flip-flops. I lift my foot and drive the sole of my cowboy boot down against his bare toes.

He grunts in pain, and this gives me the moment I need to yank my gun hand free from his grip. I aim my gun, intending to tell him to freeze, but my shifting position has caused me to lose my grip on his arm. He swings his gun on me.

We fire at the same time.

His bullet sails through the folds of my open dress shirt, coming within inches of slicing through my rib cage.

My bullet punches him in the cheekbone, and he slides down to the floor, leaving a trail of brains on the wall behind him.

A vehicle engine roars outside, and I rush toward the exit.As I step into daylight, I notice two things simultaneously. The first is that the van is speeding away, no doubt with Llewellyn Carpenter and Marta Rivera inside. The second is that the Suns fan stands behind the cover of the pickup truck, aiming the pump shotgun at the doorway.

I dive back inside as he lets loose a series of thunderous blasts. I pin myself against the floor, and chunks of wood and drywall rain down on me.

He stops firing, and I rise to a crouching position, my gun ready. I try to figure the odds of running out and getting a good shot before he lets loose with another blast.

Not good.

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