Page 86 of The Texas Murders

It’s a hot day, and the unforgiving West Texas sunlight beats down on us. My shirt is already wet with sweat.

Not wanting to be seen, we hurry toward the canal, where a corrugated pipe sticks out over the brown water. I hop down into the canal, getting wet from my waist down, and shine a light into the tunnel. It looks to be about ten feet long, the bottom coated with branches and mud. A frightened frog hops away to the other side.

“I’m going in,” I say, and try to wedge myself inside.

I make it about two feet, my body squeezed like a sardine in a can, before wiggling back out.

“I’m not going to make it with this on,” I say, and unstrap my Kevlar vest and toss it on the slope.

I climb back inside the tunnel. It’s still a tight fit, but I can move easier now. I make my way forward, feeling the grip of claustrophobia. The pipe doesn’t get any narrower, but the muck along the bottom grows thicker, making progress difficult. The air is stagnant and smells like river water.

“You okay, Rory?” Carlos calls from behind me, his voice a tinny echo in the narrow tunnel.

“Almost there,” I say, and wriggle onward.

I slide out of the other side, my clothes coated in mud. I’m in the bottom of a wash and don’t have much of a view of Zebo’s property—just trees and brush—but I do have a glimpse of the building where we think the women are imprisoned.

“It’s clear,” I call into the pipe, keeping my voice close to a whisper and letting the echo carry my words.

As I wait, I pour the water out of my boots while keeping an eye out. The slope is crowded with native trees—border piñon, subalpine fir, and Chihuahuan pine—which no doubt help keep people from seeing what happens on the property from higher up in the Franklin Mountains.

But the dense foliage will also give us cover as we sneak up the dry wash.

I hear a shuffling sound as Carlos makes his way through the pipe. Something metal clunks inside the cylinder, and I wince, worrying that someone will hear. A minute later, I find out what the sound was as the barrel of Carlos’s shotgun protrudes from the pipe. I take it and use my free hand to help Carlos out. More svelte than me, he managed to keep his Kevlar vest on.

A few minutes later, Ryan squeezes through. A few inches shorter than me, he was able to keep his vest on, too.

“Are we ready?” Ryan asks, breathing heavy, more from the adrenaline than the effort to get through the pipe.

“Wait a minute,” Carlos whispers, beginning to unstrap his vest. “Take this, Rory.”

“No,” I say, stopping him. “You keep it.”

There’s no way I’m going into this protected while Carlos isn’t. I’m not having another Ranger die before my eyes.

“Damn it,” Ryan says. “We should have folded up your vest and shoved it through.”

He’s right. Carlos managed to get his shotgun through. Any one of us could have wadded up the vest and shoved it ahead of us in the cylinder. I hadn’t thought of it at the time. I’d been too anxious about getting through.

“I’ll go back and get it,” Carlos says, extending the shotgun for me to take.

“No,” I say, showing Carlos my empty hands that won’t hold his gun. “The longer we dick around here, the more likely we’re going to be discovered. Let’s go.”

Without waiting for an answer, I start creeping up the wash. Carlos and Ryan have no choice but to follow.

CHAPTER 77

I MAKE MY way up the arroyo to the backside of the building. I try to keep quiet, but it’s not easy wearing cowboy boots and walking through a rocky, debris-strewn ditch. I stop and listen. Birds chirp. In the distance, I hear the rumble of cars on the main thoroughfare.

The cackle of radio static comes from the building, and I hear someone talking.

When Carlos and Ryan catch up to me, I whisper, “There’s at least one guard.”

Ryan suggests one of us circle around the building so we can get the jump on him from two sides, but I’m worried that we’ll make too much noise. The ground is littered with tree branches and rocks, and none of us has the shoes for stealth. And if we have to use our guns, we might be caught in each other’s cross fire.

“Let’s just rush him,” Carlos whispers. “Scare the ever-loving shit out of him.”

We creep forward as quietly as possible, slowly making it around the side of the building, which looks almost like a motel. The guard—dressed in black with a pistol at his hip—has his phone out, checking Twitter or looking at porn.

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