Page 90 of The Texas Murders

Zebo roars in pain and throws wild punches that glance off her forearms. He wraps his hands around her throat.

She tries to breathe, but her airway is cut off.

Outside the door, more gunfire erupts. Several loud blasts, one after another, followed by automatic fire. At the noise, Zebo flinches, loosening his grasp. Marta flails, reaching for his eyes. He recoils, and she manages to shove him off of her.

She scrambles away toward the door. Zebo lunges and grabs her ankle. She kicks at him, but he manages to get hold of both legs. He yanks her to him and throws himself on top of her again. She digs her nails into his arms, but he doesn’t stop. He grabs her by the neck with both hands and squeezes.

Blackness threatens to overtake her.

Her muscles weaken. Her fingers loosen their grip on his arms.

She wants to hang on—the heroin should take effect any second—but she has no fight left in her. Atop her, Zebo growls like an animal, a long string of saliva dangling from his mouth.

His face is the last thing she sees before the darkness takes her.

CHAPTER 81

THE SHOOTING STOPS, and I heft Carlos off of me onto the debris-covered floor. He grunts quietly as I look for the wound.

Blood trickles out of a hole in his side, just below one of the Kevlar panels. The bullet hole is low enough to miss his lung and heart, but in a spot to do plenty of damage to other organs. I can’t find an exit hole, which means the bullet is lodged somewhere inside him.

His stomach?

His liver?

“Hang in there,” I whisper.

I assume the two armed men are approaching the building, coming cautiously enough that I’ve got at least thirty seconds—maybe a minute—before they get here. I tear off my T-shirt, wad it up, and press it firmly against the wound.

“I’m going to get help,” I say.

Carlos gives a slight shake of his head. “Don’t worry aboutme,” he utters, having trouble speaking from the pain. He covers the balled shirt with his own hand, signaling to me that I can remove my own. Then he fixes me with an intense stare. “Go get Marta.”

As I gape at him, rage fills me. It wasn’t long ago that I watched Kyle Hendricks die in the act of saving my life. I saw the life leave his eyes, and I had to stand in the Medal of Valor ceremony accepting my award while his mother accepted his.

Now Carlos is going to die.

No!

Goddamn it. No!

With adrenaline flooding my veins, I rise to my feet. The smart thing to do would be to wait in the room, my gun at the ready, and as soon as either gunman popped around the corner, I could shoot him. But I’m not waiting, not while my partner is bleeding to death.

I run out the door.

One gunman appears off to my left. I shoot him in the face before he can pull the trigger. Instinct tells me that the other man is going around the building, flanking us, and I spin around in time to see him coming around the corner, swinging the TEC-9 at my running body.

I dive to the ground, sliding through dirt on my left shoulder while aiming my pistol with my right. He lets loose a burst of gunfire, all of the shots sailing above me, and I shoot him through his gritted teeth. The gunfire ceases, and he collapses to the ground.

I don’t waste a moment. I jump to my feet and sprint toward the mansion.

CHAPTER 82

RUNNING, I PASS a huge outbuilding with five vehicle bays. Two of the garage doors are open, revealing a sixties-era Shelby Cobra and a brand-new Tesla Roadster. From here, I can see the house, with the pool behind it and a peninsular deck extending from the second story like a massive diving board.

As I arrive at the swimming pool, I slow for an instant, considering my next move. Before I can decide, an armed man runs out onto the deck. Muscled like a professional wrestler, he wields a TEC-9 with two hands. I dive into the water just as he lets the gun rip. Bullets pierce the surface and dart through the water, followed by comet trails of bubbles. I swim along the bottom, doing an underwater breaststroke like a frog, careful to keep my SIG Sauer in my hand. Bullets continue to rain into the water, so many that his magazine must be almost empty.

When the firing stops, I press my boots against the bottom and push myself to the surface, almost directly underneath the shooter. I can’t be sure my gun will still fire after being submerged, but I don’t have time to think about it. The man pops a new magazine into his TEC-9 and leans over the balcony railing.

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