Page 178 of Lone Star

“Yes, ma’am.”

Only a bit of sawdust remained. Jenny gathered it in a few long sweeps, moving across the floor. She ended up at one of the front windows, where Agent Maddox stood with his hands on his hips, staring tensely out at the freshly-fallen dark. He’d ditched his jacket and tie, and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

He was handsome in a sharp, pretty way; very spit-and-polish, good-boy attractive. But with his collar rumpled, and his hair disheveled, and his face lined with disquiet, he looked real in a way he hadn’t before. Not like a stock photo agent, but like a living, breathing man who’d had his world shattered.

He acknowledged her with only the barest sideways glance, not turning his head. Took a breath and said, “I called Virginia. Told them what was going on.”

“Are they sending someone?” Her skin prickled with a fresh wave of unease. It would take time to assemble forces and put them on the way. Hopefully the boys would be done and ducked back out of the spotlight by then.

“Yeah. I think.” He shrugged; a tight, unhappy movement. “They didn’t really tell me shit.” Sharp edge of bitterness in his voice. He turned, then, and she saw in his eyes the same look she’d seen on countless prospects; lost young men unmoored from reality, looking for a place to land. “I didn’t say anything about the Dogs being involved.”

“Really?” She fought to keep the surprise off her face. “Why not?”

Another shrug, and he glanced back toward the window. “Lesser of two evils, I guess.”

It was more than that, but Jenny didn’t think now was the time to push him on it. She could plant a seed, though; or maybe pour a little water on the one already lodged in the back of his mind.

“This won’t mean much coming from someone raised by this club,” she said, “but something I learned early was that life isn’t divided along a clear line. There’s not good and bad. Nothing’s black and white.”

That earned her another sideways glance.

“You know. Just if you’re thinking of a career change.”

The window in front of him shattered.

Fifty-Five

“Now.” Candy pressed the flat of his hand against Cantrell’s windpipe – just rested it there, with the promise of weight behind it. He could feel the man’s pulse running jackrabbit fast against his palm, and the jerky rhythm sent pleasant chills skating up his arm. He held a life in his hand, one he could crush if he so chose. “I want a list of all the places Luis might have taken the girls.”

Cantrell fidgeted beneath him, licked his lips. “I don’t – there’s a garage. Sandoval’s–”

“Your crew raided that place,” Fox said from the other side of the table. “Or did you just pretend to?”

“We raided it. I had to – had to give my people something to do.”

“And Sandoval’s people weren’t Luis’s people. So, try again.”

His gaze rolled, searching beyond Candy, beyond the table where he was trapped, and that wasn’t acceptable.

Candy pressed down, just a little. Just enough to make him cough. “Where is he staying? A house? An apartment? A fucking motor home?”

“Shit,” Blue said, “maybe at Doc Gilliard’s place. Plenty of room, and no one would be looking there now.”

“No,” Fox said. “That’s too easy. He went somewhere quiet and private. Someone that no one would ever think to look.”

Candy said, “Merc, break his ankle.”

“No, no, no, please–”

Mercy grunted as he hefted the sledgehammer.

“There’s a house!” Cantrell shouted, eyes squeezed shut.

Mercy hesitated with a softdamn. He’d never liked being denied opportunities.

“My house, the house I’m staying in. A rental.” He cracked his eyes open, panting, at a point of terror that was acute and animal and past all physical pain.

Candy straightened, and lifted his hand, feeling strangely bereft. He was aware, in a way, that he’d lost sight of things. All that mattered now was finding the girls, and there was no time for vendettas, or torture for sport, or any of things he was considering at the moment. He’d suppressed all his fear and panic, but those emotions were too big, too unwieldly. They’d morphed to violence instead. Bloodlust.

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