Page 115 of Lone Star

“Perhaps start arresting known Chupacabra allies?”

Cantrell gave him a dark look.

“Just a thought. Anyway, there’s a shit-ton of cocaine in the garage, and files and files of probably important information in the master bedroom. Gilliard is there. I trust you found him.”

“Tied to a chair! What happened there?”

Fox shrugged. “I went up in pursuit of the shooter and found him like that, with tape over his mouth. The gunman got away, if you care.”

“Of course I care!”

“Based on the description, his name’s Luis, and he’s the boss’s son.”

Cantrell stared at him a moment. “How do you know that?”

“You have your sources, and I have mine. Mine spill quicker, if through less legitimate channels.”

Cantrell shoved a hand back through his hair and glanced away a moment, jaw working. He let out a long, slow breath.

Reese buzzed just behind Fox’s shoulder.

Finally, the agent turned back to him, gaze narrowed. “I saw you earlier. Out at the original crime scene.”

“Ah. Did Candy forget to introduce us?”

“Yes.”

Fox smiled at him. “Good.”

“Are you–”

“Tick-tock, agent,” Fox said. He clapped him on the shoulder and started to walk off, Reese following along behind him.

“Hey!”

He’d expected that. He paused, and glanced back over his shoulder.

“You can’t – you can’t do this!” Cantrell said, throwing up his hands. He looked one tie-tug and coffee away from being at the end of his rope.

“Do what?” Fox asked, all innocence, wrestling with another grin.

“This is official FBI business, jackass!”

“Then do your job, and I won’t have to.”

They’d come in one of the club vans, parked a half-mile down the road, and off to the side, around a stand of trees, in a shadow and out of sight. By the time they’d reached it, the flashing lights and fluttering tape of the scene at Gilliard’s place were well out of sight.

When they were well alone, Fox glanced toward Reese and watched him for a moment. The boy walked, as always, with his head held up, eyes shifting as he scanned their surroundings. Always alert, this one. He didn’t slouch, or saunter, or stuff his hands in his pockets, or affect casual the way that Ten did – the way Tencould. He hadn’t been wrong about Reese lacking artifice. No one had ever taught Reese to blend in, and so he walked with a predatory grace that was all about effectiveness.

Fox could read the tension in him, though. It persisted; an unconscious fluttering of his fingers down at his thighs, bare and pale in the moonlight because he’d stripped off his bloodied gloves.

“You did well tonight,” Fox said.

Reese’s gaze slid over, and held, but betrayed nothing, of which Fox approved.

“That bit at the end with Tenny was great – you saved his life. But before that, too. Ten was an idiot, but you did all the right things.”

“I failed to secure the target.”

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