Page 87 of The Texas Murders

The three of us burst from cover.

“Put your hands up,” Carlos hisses, the shotgun leveled on his chest, “or I’ll blow a hole in you so big we’ll be able to see what you had for breakfast.”

The guard, in a state of disbelief, looks back and forth between them and me. His hand drops toward his pistol.

“Don’t you fucking do it!” Ryan growls.

The man’s hand hesitates, inches from his pistol’s grip. Then he realizes he’s outgunned and raises his arms into the air.

“Smart move,” Carlos says. “Now turn around and put your hands against the wall.”

The man does as he’s told, positioning himself between two of the cell doors. Carlos moves his shotgun to his left arm and reaches to disarm the guy. But the guy—moving fast enough that he could hold his own in a quick-draw competition—snatches his pistol out while spinning around.

My gun is in my hand, but Carlos is between him and me. I might be able to shoot around him, the way I did with Carpenter when he had Ava in a headlock, but in that case, they were both still—and I’d been readying myself for several seconds.

I don’t have that kind of time.

Things are moving too fast.

Carlos tries to swing the shotgun, but it’s big and bulky and his opponent is already bringing up the pistol, pointing it above Carlos’s Kevlar vest to his face.

I can see it all happening. The man is going to pull the trigger. The bullet will go through Carlos’s skull. I’m helpless to stop it.

I open my mouth to scream, but when I hear the gunshot, my breath freezes in my throat.

The guard’s head jerks to the side as a bullet passes through his brain. He collapses onto the ground, and both Carlos and I turn to see Ryan Logan holding his gun in both hands, looking as shocked as the rest of us.

“Thanks,” Carlos says to him. “I owe you one.”

“That,” I say to Ryan, nodding my respect, “is a shot you can be proud of for the rest of your life.”

He looks at me and swallows, then, giving me a sheepish smile, says, “So much for keeping things quiet.”

“Yeah,” Carlos says. “Let’s get moving.”

Carlos digs through the dead man’s pocket and finds a set of keys. We open the door of the first room, guns ready. A woman lies on a mattress on the floor, dressed in skimpy lingerie. She is asleep or dead, her long dark hair covering her face.

“Marta?” I say, speaking loud to try to rouse her even though, apparently, the gunshot outside her door didn’t.

She rolls over, brushing her hair back from her face.

It’s a young Latina woman.

Not Marta.

CHAPTER 78

MARTA STANDS IN the basement, trembling with fear.

The room is spacious, but holds almost nothing. There is a king-sized bed covered in black rubbery-looking sheets, a door to a small bathroom, and another door to a closet full of lingerie: brightly colored corsets, lace bustiers, see-through body stockings, crotchless teddies.

A big man in a black shirt with a gun escorted her here and told her to wait for Mr. Z.

Her legs feel weak. She wants to sit on the bed, but she feels like that would be giving up—a gesture of supplication she’s not ready to concede to.

The door to the outside opens and an overly tanned white man walks in wearing a robe. Marta takes a step back. The man approaches, grinning at her like the Cheshire Cat fromAlice in Wonderland.

Marta recognizes him. She’s seen him on TV—GarrisonZebo, the blowhard car lot owner always boasting about surpluses of inventory and how everything must go. She almost opens her mouth to tell him she recognizes him, but she bites back the words. If he knows she can identify him, that means he’ll never let her leave.

---