Page 160 of Lone Star

Luis.

But, no, that…

Albie scanned it again, carefully, squinting, heartbeat throbbing in his ears.

The wail of sirens reached him. Distant, but drawing closer, just as the bikes had.

The baby’s full name was Luis Miguel JuarezCantrell.

~*~

The problem with being an optimistic person was that it was too easy to hope sometimes, even when you knew better. On the way to the address Fox had provided, full of the heady sense of invincibility his bike always provided, Candy let himself hope. Let himself imagine that Michelle was going to be here, at this warehouse; that he could punch someone’s jaw apart, kick down a door, and find her, whole and unharmed; that he could pick her up like the prince from a fairytale and make it all right again.

Fox disabused him of that notion quickly, though, when they pulled into the warehouse lot and killed the engines. The Englishman was already shaking his head. “They’re not here, but they were. Albie found us another address, I suspect, and I found–”

The wail of sirens reached them. Loud and growing louder, swelling. More than one.

Candy pulled off his shades and looked down the street.

Fox turned and said, “Oh, what in Jesus’s name…”

Candy saw the cars slide around the farthest corner, cherry lights winking on their dashboards, three unmarked black sedans with cheap wheels.

The feds. “Nice of them to show up after we’ve done all the work,” Fox said, turning back to him, as the cars screeched up in a line along the sidewalk. “There was an office inside, and a safe–”

“Fox,” Candy said.

Car doors were flung open, and men and women in FBI-printed flak vests poured out, guns already drawn. Cantrell came out of the lead car, his badge on a chain around his neck, slapping the front of his vest as he jogged. He carried a police issue shotgun, and his face was red from adrenaline and exertion.

Candy heard other sirens coming from behind them, approaching from the opposite side of the street.

“Amarillo PD,” Jackal called. “What is this?”

“Fuck,” Candy muttered, and swung off his bike. Snapped off his helmet and dangled it off the handlebars.

A PA crackled from one of the cars, and a staticky voice said,“Derek Snow, do not move! Put your hands where we can see them!”

“Jesus,” Fox deadpanned. “Holy Jesus. This isn’t happening.”

Local PD came to a skidding, screeching halt; doors slammed, and voices barked orders, and boots slapped over asphalt. Someone had a shotgun back there, too, one they cocked with a loud sequence of clacks that echoed off the metal building front.

Cantrell came around the gate and onto the lot, muzzle of his shotgun leveling on them. “Hands up, all of you. Let me see palms.”

“Put your hands where we can see them!”the voice yelled over the PA again.

“What’s going on?” Candy asked, as calmly as he could manage. His heart pounded to two competing rhythms: the terror of wasted time while Michelle was in danger, and the mounting fury of realizing he’d let himself get caught red-handed. He was glad neither Blue nor Jinx were here to sayI told you so. “What is this? The guys you want are inside. My wife–”

The sharp, unmistakable barrel of a gun poked him in the ribs from behind. A voice barked, “Down on your knees! Get down, now!”

“Hey!” he heard Jackal say.

“Alright, alright,” came Victor’s thick Russian accent.

Slowly, trying not to get popped by a nervous trigger finger, Candy folded at the knees and went down to the pavement, hands moving to cup the back of his skull. In front of him, Fox did the same.

“Cantrell,” Candy said, trying to pin the man with his gaze – a gaze Cantrell wouldn’t meet, glancing from one to the other of them, not lingering. Furtive.Guilty. “What’s happening?”

Cantrell addressed all of them, and not Candy, as other agents joined him, weapons trained on them. “You’re under arrest for breaking and entering, burglary, assault–”

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