Page 54 of The Texas Murders

“You stay right where you are!” I hear the man yell. “I’m going to get into this truck and drive away. Don’t try to stop me, and you might live another day.”

I don’t hear him climbing into the truck. Nor do I hear the engine coming to life. Instead, I hear footsteps—careful, cautious—approaching the doorway.

He’s coming after me.

I raise my gun, ready for him to step into my path.

Then I hear the click of a gun being cocked. Not a shotgun.

A handgun.

“Stop right there,” I hear a familiar voice say.

Ava.

“Put the shotgun down—gently,” she says. Then a moment later: “It’s okay to come out, Rory.”

I step forward, ready to fire, but the Suns fan is standing with his hands up. Ava’s sidearm is leveled on the back of his head. The shotgun is lying on the ground.

“Thanks, Ava,” I say. “I’m glad as hell to see you.”

“Put your hands against the wall,” she says to the guy, and when he does it, she holsters her gun and handcuffs him. “I called for backup,” she tells me. “There’s an APB out for the van. Was it Carpenter?”

“Yes,” I say, realizing just how dry my mouth is. I swallow. “And he took Marta. Again.”

CHAPTER 45

TWO HOURS LATER, the sun has set and the scene is swarming with police vehicles, their red and blue lights strobing in the darkness. Press vans are parked on the street. Scottsdale police officers, Maricopa County sheriff’s deputies, and a whole team of crime scene technicians are working the scene. The four women have been taken to the hospital. The shotgun-wielding basketball fan has been taken to jail.

Ryan Logan and a small team of FBI agents arrived about fifteen minutes ago. When he saw me, he said, “Wait here,” and pointed to a spot on the sidewalk. Then he walked into the scene to be briefed.

Ava stands with me as I wait. I feel like a criminal awaiting his day in court.

I’ve since tucked my shirt back in and strapped on my gun belt. My Stetson is back on my head. My clothes are dirty and there’s even a bullet hole through my shirt, but at leastI look a little more like a Texas Ranger. I don’t know where Marcos’sTOMBSTONEhat is—I lost it somewhere in the chaos of the gunfight.

We wait for what seems like a long time until finally an agent I recognize from the raid comes to fetch me.

“Special Agent Logan would like to see you,” she says, and leads me to the back of the building. As we walk, she says conspiratorially, “Ryan’s not happy.”

“I figured,” I say.

“But for the record,” the agent says, “I think you did a good thing. Here and at the warehouse in El Paso. You’ve got nerves of steel, Ranger. You’ve got my respect.”

“Thanks,” I say.

Ryan is waiting for me in the lobby area of the building, which is decorated to look like a real massage parlor. He’s leaning against the counter, his head lowered in thought.

Before he says anything, I start my defense.

“They were going to move the girls,” I say. “I had to act.”

He raises his head and glares at me. “I told you to stay put,” he says.

“They were going to move the girls,” I say again.

“I told you to follow from a distance.”

“We were in a police vehicle,” I argue. “How discreet could we be?”

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