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  Blaine knelt down with a groan beside the ME for a closer look. “Tire iron, Doc?”

  “Uh huh. My first guess, and it’ll have to do for now. Got a lineup in the morgue. Couple of days before we get to this guy.”

  “ID on him?” asked Farrell.

  “Yep. Lloyd Turner. I bagged his wallet for the lab.”

  “Not robbed?”

  “Wouldn’t go that far—no cash or credit cards in the wallet.”

  “Okay,” said Blaine, “another opportunity too good to pass up.”

  “BOLO out on the vehicle?” asked Farrell. “What was it?”

  “Black Escalade, nearly new.”

  “Sure,” said Farrell, “go for the good stuff. Why the hell not?” He turned and greeted Travis with a fist bump when he joined the group. “Hey, partner, enjoy your minute of vacay?”

  “Sure did. Happy to be back at work. Keeps me out of trouble.”

  Blaine cast him the stink-eye.

  Cherokee Junction

  MASON CRANKED the volume on the CD player and let the Camaro out on the road into town. He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face and there was no fuckin way he would let Becca drag him down. He’d waited his whole life—thirty-five fuckin years—for a Camaro and he was damn well gonna enjoy every fuckin minute he drove it.

  Becca pissed him off every time she got into one of her moody funks and went into silent mode, and he let her know it. Before he left the trailer, he gave her a couple of good ones to tune her up. Not on her face. She had to work tonight, and she’d call in sick if her face didn’t look good. She’d done it before and they were short of cash the whole fuckin week. He could make her scream real good when he landed a couple of kidney punches.

  Mason cruised through Cherokee Junction and it didn’t take more than a couple of minutes. Main Street wasn’t more than a couple blocks long, one grocery store, a gas station with a convenience store attached, hardware that never had the tool you needed—always had to drive into Austin—a diner with six tables specializing in grease, and Big Jim’s—a sleazy bar competing with the Silver Spur where Becca worked. At the end of the short string of stores was the post office and next to that, his welding shop.

  Not nearly enough business in this shit town to keep food on the table—not that Becca ever cooked anything decent—so he had to boost up business another way. He chuckled to himself thinking about it. Boosting cars boosted up his business. In fact, things were going so well lately he’d hired on both his brothers and so far, that was working out okay. Nate was an asset in the paint shop and Harlan might be okay on manual labor—body work and sanding—if he stayed sober long enough.

  I got to set down some ground rules and let them know who’s boss in this outfit.

  Mason parked around back of the cinder block building. Longer than it looked from the street, and he could work on four cars at a time inside—two behind two. When the work was done and the paint dry, he got rid of them right away. Hired a flatbed to pick them up and take them to the dealer in the city who would take all he could supply.

  The garage was hard work, but good cover for the growing meth business he had on the side. Becca handled most of that business herself and she had a solid customer base at the roadhouse.

  Inside the garage, Luke Bryan blared out of Harlan’s old boom box he’d had since he was a teenager. Stole it from a kid in middle school and got expelled. That was the end of Harlan’s formal education. The rest of his learnin was more informal—what he learned working on bikes, hunting out of season and robbing the odd gas station. Harlan was twenty-six, long sandy brown hair and muscled up. Not the brightest star in the sky, but he was a good mechanic and a hard worker when there was something in it for him, and when he wasn’t tied up with the opposite sex. Harlan was a fuckin chic magnet.

  Nate on the other hand was thirty-two, dark-haired with a slim wiry build and a ‘hate the world’ attitude. He rarely smiled. Nate didn’t discriminate—race, color, men, women, dogs—he hated everybody equally.

  Mason greeted his brothers with a big smile. “Hey, guys, didn’t get around to asking you this morning, but how did last night go? Love the Escalade. That baby will bring us top dollar.”

  “Went damn good,” said Nate. “No problems.”

  Mason eyed his brother to see if he was lying. “Don’t want no problems—problems with the cops will put us out of business.”

  Nate jerked his head around and stared Mason down. “I said no problems. Back the hell off.”

  Mason held up a hand. “Okay, okay. I’m off.”

  Harlan stared at the CD in his hand and said nothing.

  Mason knew both the assholes were lying.

  Jesus, wonder who they fuckin killed?

  Cherokee Junction Trailer Park.

  BECCA SHOWERED and got ready for work. The hot water tank in the trailer was small and she had to be quick. If Mason showered first, she didn’t have a prayer of hot water and if she bitched about it, he’d laugh in her face and rough her up.

  Waitresses at the Silver Spur wore short black skirts and red tanks. The more cleavage you showed, and the more you smiled and joked around with the customers, the bigger the tips. Becca had a good rack up top and knew exactly what to say to turn the assholes on when she leaned over the tables with the pitchers of beer. She made top dollar every night.

  Between her tips and the bigger bucks she cashed selling meth out the back door, she kept the bills paid when Mason couldn’t. He didn’t appreciate her, or how hard she worked, but Becca didn’t care. The trailer was a roof over their heads. Life on the street wasn’t something she could go back to—no way in hell. She was also able to stash some cash that Mason didn’t know about—her getaway money. One day she’d leave that brutal son of a bitch and his fake smile far behind.

  Almost ready to leave for her seven o’clock shift, she reached under the bed and pulled out the shoebox where she kept her product. Mostly meth. Not much crack left. She stared and counted the bags.

  Is that all I had?

  Every time she handled the meth she felt the urge, but knew she couldn’t give in. She’d been clean too long to blow it. Mason had dragged her off the street, cleaned her up and saved her useless life. Trouble was, now he thought he owned her—his personal property to treat any way he wanted. If he wasn’t using her for sex, he was using her for a punching bag. She couldn’t take it much longer.

  Only enough in her stash for tonight. She’d have to make a trip to Austin before the weekend. She transferred all she had into her big black purse and zipped it closed.

  Silver Spur. Cherokee Junction.

  BECCA LOCKED her pink Chevy pickup and hurried across the almost empty gravel parking lot to the back door of the roadhouse. The new manager, Tommy-Joe Burk was a creep and she hated him right off. He’d been working there three fuckin weeks and had already hired on two of his low-life brothers as bouncers. Not that they didn’t need muscle—fights broke out every night—but the brothers were suck-hole wimps who couldn’t lick their own fingers. She hated them too.

  Tommy-Joe liked to make her feel like she was his slave. He was bossy—more than he needed to be—all the girls knew how to do their jobs before he came along—and he was way too free with his hands. If Becca gave him a smack and told him to back off, he’d probably fire her ass.

  At ten, she had her first break and had to run to the can, on the double, she had to pee so bad. After that emergency passed, she grabbed her purse from her locker, headed out the back door and lit up a smoke. All the regulars knew the routine and waited for her break. They were addicts, but they weren’t totally brain-dead. At least not yet.

  Didn’t take many transactions in the shadows at the back fence before she was cleaned out. She told each one they’d have to last until the weekend or do the next best thing. She couldn’t go to Austin until Friday morning.

  Butting out her final smoke before going back inside, someone touched her arm. “Hey, Harlan, you just get here?” />
  “Yeah, my night off. Mason and Nate are up tonight.” He reached out and gently stroked her hair. “Umm… if I hang around can I come out to the trailer for a drink when you go home?”

  Becca reached for the door handle. “You want to have a drink with me after drinking here for the next four hours?”

  “Yep, I do.”

  “You must want more than a drink, Harlan, and it’s a terrible idea to come on to me. Be best if you picked up somebody inside. Maybe you lost sight of Mason’s temper.”

  Harlan shook his head. “I ain’t lost sight of it, Bec.” He pointed at her legs. “Even though you put some shit on to cover up the black and blue, you ain’t hiding it. Everybody in this town knows my brother beats the shit out of you.”

  Becca felt tears burning behind her eyes and she fought them back as Harlan leaned over and kissed her neck. “No way in hell I would ever treat my woman like that.”

  They walked down the narrow back hall side by side. “You need a woman a lot younger than me. I’m hitting forty hard.”

  “Don’t matter,” Harlan grabbed her elbow and spun her around, “the way you look, I could do you if you were fifty.” He pressed her up against the wall and planted his mouth on hers. His tongue was in her mouth and before her brain could tell her not to, she stroked the front of his tight jeans.

  “Jesus, Har, get a grip.” Becca pulled away and hustled to her locker to get rid of her purse. “I’ve gotta work.”

  Downtown Austin.

  A LITTLE AFTER two a.m. Mason and Nate hit the parking ramp across from the Hilton. Mason rode in the bitch seat behind his brother scanning the rows of parked vehicles, looking for one easy to grab that would be a money-maker.

  “That one.” Mason pointed at a dark green Jaguar a half dozen spots away from the elevator.

  “Too close to the elevator,” said Nate. “Where’s your brain?”

  Mason snarled out the words under his breath. “It ain’t too close if we’re quick.”

  Nate cursed his brother but parked the bike in the next row in a space too small for even a Smart car. They grabbed their tools from the saddlebag on the bike and ran towards the Jag. With only a few steps more to go the elevator door opened and a group of people dressed up fancy, talking and laughing stepped out together.

  Nate and Mason turned away, dropped the tools down by their sides and sauntered back towards the parked Harley. From the next row, Mason watched and was mesmerized by the Latino woman. His eyes drank in every detail. Shiny ebony hair brushing her shoulders, glowing olive skin, and what a fuckin body in that snug gold dress. Imagining what was under the dress, sped up his breathing and gave him a huge load of lumber in his jeans.

  Goddam, that’s a gorgeous woman. Have I seen her somewhere before?

  Holding a small gold bag that matched her dress, she walked straight to the Jag and a guy opened the passenger door for her.

  Nate tugged his sleeve. “Come on, asswipe. Get out of sight until she’s gone. That’s the next goddam Governor. The press will be swarming around for pictures.”

  “Calm down,” said Mason, “there’s not another person on this level but you and me. Wait until they go.”

  “Nope, there will be more people coming to get their cars if there was like a fuckin dinner where she was talking. We’re out of here.” Nate revved up the bike and Mason had to hop on or be left behind.

  “Follow the Jag,” said Mason as they pulled into the street. “I want to see where she lives.”

  “Go to hell,” Nate hollered over the noise of the engine. “Not doing it.”

  “Come on. Only take a minute, then we’ll grab a car and be gone.”

  “You’re nuts, know that?” Nate stopped at the light at the next corner, then turned the same way as the Jag. He dropped back behind four vehicles but kept the Jag in sight. His cursing increased as the Jag headed into the hills on the west side of Austin where the rich people lived.

  Nate zoomed past the huge home where the Jaguar came to rest. He turned around three driveways farther down the street and headed back to the city, cursing his brother the whole way. He hollered at Mason over the Harley rumble. “You, asshole, we’ve lost a whole fuckin hour.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Wednesday, August 8th.

  Blackmore Agency. Austin.

  BLAINE HUGGED CARM at the door and said he’d be back from Abilene in a day or two. She had protested his leaving, detailing in Spanish all the reasons he should be staying home and mending his body. That’s what his time off was for, she pointed out, then added with the hint of a smile, that she was thinking of calling Annie and telling her he wasn’t resting.

  “You’re going to tell my mother on me?” He asked in Spanish. Then he laughed and gave her an extra hug. “Farrell will take care of you until I get back, and Lily will be here running the office if you need anything.”

  Giving Lexi one last pat on the head, he trudged to the truck with Jack. Blaine grunted as he heaved himself up onto the high side-step and eased his sore body into the shotgun seat. He pulled the door closed and blew out a breath.

  Jack tossed their overnight cases in the back seat along with Blaine’s briefcase, his laptop and his rifle case. “Think we’re gonna need fire power, boss?”

  “Probably not, unless some asshole tries to kill me on the way. Then we might.”

  Jack nodded as he slid behind the wheel. “Yeah, that’s been happening a lot lately. Good to be prepared.”

  Jack Prima was Blaine’s bodyguard. One of four guys his employer had assigned to him. Extra manpower. Jack had arrived a few months earlier, driving a ‘Jack the Junker’ cube van as his cover, and bringing with him, Andy, Rick and Greg. Good undercover guys and highly trained by one of the alphabet gang of suits. They were an asset to the Blackmore Agency and Blaine wasn’t even paying them.

  Ranger Headquarters. Austin.

  FARRELL AND TRAVIS came from different directions into the city, but they hooked up at headquarters and met with Chief Calhoun in his office for morning coffee.

  Calhoun was in his late fifties, soon closing in on sixty and maybe should have been retired, but who in hell would fill his shoes? His uniform was a little tighter around the middle, and his auburn hair grayer and a little thinner, but the Chief of the Texas Rangers had sharp eyes and a keen mind. He never missed a trick.

  “Brought you Starbucks,” Chief.” Farrell set the large container down on the desk. “Blacky’s gone up to Abilene and left me and Trav on the car-jack murders. I wanted to run down what we’ve got so far.”

  The Chief opened the tab on his coffee and tested to see if it was still too hot to drink. “Got nothing, just like I told Jesse.”

  “Mort thought they might have used a tire iron but the weapon wasn’t found,” said Farrell. “Took it with them, I guarantee it.”

  “Autopsy been scheduled yet?” asked Travis.

  “Tomorrow at the earliest,” said the Chief. “Won’t be a damn clue on the body unless we’re blessed with a miracle.”

  “What about the first victim?” asked Farrell, “Can we get the lab reports on him?”

  “Sure, I’ll have one of the girls copy them for you, but I looked them over already and there isn’t a damn thing we can use. Random-totally goddam random and random is virtually unsolvable.”

  “Blacky loves a challenge like that,” said Travis. “We’ll tell him these cases can’t be solved and then watch the dust fly.”

  The Chief chuckled.

  Farrell shook his head. “Hate these goddam situations where we have to wait for another fuckin body before we’ve got a place to start. Jesus Christ that pisses me off.”

  “Pisses off the third victim too,” said Travis. “He don’t want to be the clue we need.”

  They left the chief’s office to meet Mary in the lobby.

  Mary Polito, crime reporter for the Austin Statesman, and also Farrell’s current girlfriend, sat in the waiting room at Ranger headquarters waiting for the mee
ting in the Chief’s office to end.

  Farrell smiled as he saw her sitting alone in a row of black vinyl chairs against the wall. She was scribbling in her notebook like she always was. Working on her column.

  Petite, with short dark hair, Mary was a looker, a few years older than Farrell, but age didn’t matter to him and he was pretty sure he loved her. At twenty-three, he hadn’t had much experience in the field of romance, but Mary said she loved him, and she was good to him—way too good.

  “Hey, babe, I fetched you a Diet Coke from the vending machine.”

  She smiled, and his heart melted. “You are so sweet.” She patted the chair next to her. “What does Blaine want me to do?”

  “Not too much. At the end of your column, he wants a plea for the public’s help. Like did anyone at the horse show see anything or anybody lurking around the parking lot? Give the date, the row number and like that where the jackers hit.”

  “But not name the victim or anything.” Mary made notes.

  “No, we need descriptions of anybody that looked suspicious, and what the jackers were driving. We’ve got nothing to glom onto, but I can’t tell y’all that.”

  Mary smiled at him. “Your secret is safe, sugar.”

  Cherokee Junction Trailer Park.

  MASON WOKE and checked the time on his phone. Shit, it was almost noon. Becca had been in bed sleeping when he got home from Austin and he didn’t bother waking her for sex. After seeing the governor woman in the city, she was all he could think about. Was that what love at first sight was all about? Mason never believed in crap like that, but he had to wonder. The sight of her had hit him like a fuckin ballpeen hammer right between the nuts. Instant lumber and that didn’t happen much with Becca anymore.

  He sat on the side of the bed and tried to be quiet, not that he gave a damn about Becca, but he wanted to concentrate on the woman, and only her. What was her name again? Nate had told him twice. Doctor Virginia Rodriguez, that was it. Had a high-class ring to it. Virginia.