Page 111 of Lone Star

He landed in a crouch, one hand flat to the ground to steady himself, the impact jarring through his knees, his shoulders, his tightly clenched teeth.

Tenny landed a half-second after. Wordlessly, they stood, and set off through the garden, low and fast, sticking to hedges. Ducking behind a gazebo and following its shadow round to the base of the house, and a curtained first-floor window.

Candy had said he thought this room – marked by a whole wall of windows, white drapes drawn across them all – was a study. He’d been out here, once, when Doctor Gilliard first built the place, when he’d asked for a security consultation. He hadn’t ended up hiring the Dogs – too expensive, he’d said – but the visit had given Candy invaluable intel. For instance, he knew that there were alarms set at each window, contact points that, when separated, would set off a high shriek, and dial 911 automatically. Reese could see it on this window, the little white rectangle at the cross-piece of the frame.

He reached into the half-zipped backpack Tenny wore and pulled out the drill, already fitted with a carbide bit. It was louder than Reese would have liked, as the drill fired, and the blade cut them out a perfect hole, but nothing stirred beyond the curtains; the room stayed dark. Ten reached through and disabled the alarm, and then flicked the window latch. It lifted easily, soundlessly, and they stepped down onto plush carpet, ducking around the curtain to find that Candy had been right: this room was a study. A desk occupied the center, facing the windows; during the day, with the curtains opened, the room would have been flooded with light, the view of the gardens spectacular. Now, the filmy drapes let in just enough moonlight to reveal walls lined with bookshelves, and a treadmill in one corner.

Ten took the lead, because he’d insisted as much earlier; Reese had conceded, not because, as Ten kept saying, he was in any way lesser, but because he thought Tenny might throw a fit otherwise.

A door led out into a dark hallway lined with paintings and photos. Light awaited them at the end of it, starkly bright. Reese heard voices talking rapidly in Spanish, and his pulse accelerated the tiniest fraction. He swore his vision sharpened, in moments like these. He could see the wood grain in the dark floorboards underneath; make out the freckles across the nose of the girl in the painting he passed.

He heard music, too. Several people laughed – male voices, all of them. They were watching TV, he realized, arguing in a friendly way, music and dialogue playing in the background.

When they reached the mouth of the hall, Tenny paused, and glanced back over his shoulder. Reese read the look as a warning, Ten telling him not to mess things up.

He really was hateable.

He faced forward again, plastered his back to the wall, and glided out into the open on the balls of his feet.

Reese followed.

Candy had described this room, too, but it was more impressive in person.

A living room with clay tile floors laid with rugs, a wall of glass that overlooked the pool – glowing turquoise with underwater lights. Another wall dominated by the largest TV Reese had ever seen, white couches and tan leather chairs situated in front of it. The high, timbered ceilings echoed sound strangely, and he saw the dark wood balustrades of a second-floor gallery above. The kitchen was off to the left, gleaming white and chrome. One man was there, his back to them, rooting around in the refrigerator. Three more lounged on the couches and chairs in front of the TV; two had women perched on their laps, girls who stroked the men on the shoulders and chests, but who held themselves stiffly: nothing like the languid, smiling posture of the girls in Knoxville, girls like Chanel, who played with Boomer’s ears until his face turned red.

These girls weren’twilling, he realized. They didn’t want to be here. And whether or not he understood all the intricacies and rituals of sex, he knew thatwantingto be on someone’s lap was a very important part of the whole proceeding.

At a glance, it didn’t appear that anything of import was being kept here in this room with its soaring ceilings and open vistas. Save the girls, Reese thought. They weren’t paralyzed, like the Holy Father’s victims, but they were prisoners, he had no doubt. But there was nothing here to photograph: no bricks of cocaine, no bound trafficking victims. They had to keep searching, and that meant getting to the staircase, which was in plain view of everything.

They’d have to subdue the men here. Quietly, Fox had stressed. He could do anything quietly. It was thesubduepart of it he didn’t like.

Ten caught his gaze and gestured toward the kitchen.

Reese nodded and slid that way; his boots were well-oiled, his steps precise and slow, and he made no sound as he glided into the kitchen, right up behind the man still looking through the fridge.

He was short, and heavyset, his bare arms covered with tattoos: Reese got a glimpse of one in detail, a topless woman with hands folded and face lifted in prayer, the hilt of a knife protruding from between her breasts. A gold chain winked at the back of his neck, and more gold glimmered on his fingers, heavy rings set with gemstones, dulled by the blue light inside the refrigerator.

It would have been so easy to kill him. To put an arm around his throat and slide a knife into the other side. Messy, but silent, with Reese’s gloved hand clamped over his mouth.

He had his orders, though. Instead of a knife, he pulled a syringe, and it was only after he felt the bite of the needle that the man reacted. He slapped at the side of his neck, but it was too late, he was already going limp. Reese caught him, and laid him back across the tiles. The fridge door slapped shut above him.

Someone called out. “Hector?”

Reese stayed low, wondering. If anyone walked over to check, it would be a hand-to-hand situation, and their cover would be blown.

“Hector?” the man called again, but there were no approaching footfalls.

Reese pulled a zip tie and secured the man’s hands; tied a bit of rag around his mouth to act as a gag. Tape would have been better, but tape would have made too much noise.

Noise that wouldn’t have mattered, because a moment later, he heard a shout, a curse, a scream, and the unmistakable sound of someone getting kicked in the face.

Reese stood and turned in time to see Tenny landing on the other side of the couch, body tight with coiled energy. The man he’d kicked lay slumped over on the sofa, unconscious, nose gushing blood onto the white leather of the couch. The two women had thrown themselves to the floor – the source of the screaming – and cowered with their hands clapped over their heads.

One of the other men had a gun drawn, aimed at Tenny. Tenny disarmed him with a lightning fast strike; the man shouted when the blow hit his wrist, his hand spasmed, and the gun dropped to the carpet. Tenny moved too fast for normal comprehension, gliding in close before the man could recover. Reese saw the light glint off the brass knuckles he wore before the punch connected with the gunman’s temple. He went down like a sack of hammers.

The third man had a gun, too, though, and he was a good five strides away from Tenny.

Reese took off at a run.

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