Ariana turns down the street that she and the Aarons live on. She pulls into the Aarons’ driveway and immediately spots Jessica kneeling in the garden, no doubt getting an early start on her work before the heat of the day makes gardening unbearable.
“Is Tom here?” Ariana shouts.
“He’s at the paper,” Jessica says, rising from a crouch.
Ariana can’t believe he’d be at work this early. As if she can read Ariana’s confusion, Jessica says, “Today is deadline day. He always goes in early to get a jump on things.”
Ariana says thanks and backs the truck out of the driveway, leaving Jessica with a confused look on her face. She races over to the paper. She wonders for a moment if she should park behind the building. There’s no parking lot back there, just a sagebrush-filled area. The truck would be better hidden but not completely out of sight. She opts for the parking lot in plain sight. McCormack has a dozen of these trucks. She hopes it won’t raise any suspicions.
She goes to the front door and finds it locked. There’s no receptionist in the lobby. It’s too early.
She pounds on the door as hard as she can, trying to make enough noise that Tom might hear it from his office. Twenty seconds later, he comes out from the newsroom. His expression changes from irritation to alarm when he sees Ariana.
“Ariana,” he says, swinging the door open. “What the hell happened? Are you okay?”
Ariana smiles and says, “Are you ready to win the Pulitzer Prize?”
Chapter 97
THE ENTIRE NEWSROOM is empty, but Tom closes the door to his office anyway. He has a few employees who show up early on deadline days, and he wants to ensure that his and Ariana’s conversation remains private.
“Tell me everything,” he says. “Start from the beginning.”
She does. It’s an elaborate story, and it’s taking longer to tell than she’d like, but she wants Tom to understand each detail. He needs to be able to convince the Rangers in Waco of everything that’s happened, convince them not to trust the Rio Lobo police chief. Plus, Tom needs to keep her name out of it, because if the Rangers think this info came from Ariana Delgado, wanted fugitive, they’ll discount it all and simply come after her. The more solid information Tom can convey, including about Lieutenant Hendricks’s death, the more likely it is the Texas Rangers as well as the federal agencies will rush into Rio Lobo. Even if Rory doesn’t survive—which she doesn’t want to think about—the drug ring will be exposed.
“Okay, I think I got it all,” Tom says as he looks over his notes.
Then he and Ariana hear something.
Footsteps.
They look through the window of the office door and see Chief Harris standing outside the window, gun drawn. One of his patrol officers, Hank Humphreys, is with him.
Ariana rises in a protective stance, but she has no weapon. She left the rifle in the truck. She didn’t want to make Tom feel uneasy.
Speaking of the truck, she curses her stupidity for not parking it out back. Rory wouldn’t be so eager to invite her into the Texas Rangers if he saw her now, she thinks.
Harris could easily open the door—it’s not locked—but he opts for a more dramatic entrance. He slams the butt of his gun against the glass, exploding shards into the office. Then he steps back and kicks the door at its handle. The wood around the latch splinters, and the door bangs open, knocking more glass down onto the carpet.
Tom Aaron tries to get in front of Ariana, but she holds him back with her arm so they stand side by side.
“This is outrageous,” Tom shouts. “You have no authority to walk in here and—”
Harris slams the butt of his pistol against Tom’s nose, sending him flying backward onto the floor.
“Here’s my authority, you son of a bitch.”
Ariana moves to intervene but freezes when she sees Humphreys’s pistol pointing at her chest. Harris grabs Ariana by the hair and yanks her head back. He places the barrel of the pistol under her chin.
“You couldn’t just leave it alone, could you?”
“You’re a disgrace to that badge,” Ariana says.
Harris throws her into a corner and tells her to put her hands against the wall. He places the gun in the small of her back and begins searching her. His hand lingers on places she doesn’t want him to touch.
Humphreys grabs Tom and pulls him to his feet. His nose is clearly broken. Blood cascades over his mouth and chin. He blinks back tears and looks woozy.
Humphreys shoves him over the desk and cuffs his hands behind his back. Tom’s face is pressed against his notebook, blood dripping onto the pages. Harris picks up the notebook, glances at the notes, and flips it closed. He shoves it into his back pocket.
“What’s wrong, Chief?” Ariana says. “Don’t like what you see there?”
“This is a violation of the First Amendment,” Tom says, his voice nasal and hoarse. “My lawyer—”
Harris pulls his gun back and jams the barrel against Tom’s nose. Tom winces in pain and turns away from the barrel.
“You can take your lawyer—and your First Amendment—and shove them up your ass.”
Ariana thinks of what Rory might say in this situation.
“It’s not too late to come out on the right side of this, Chief.”
Harris grabs her by the hair again and shoves her against the wall. He leans his body against her and places the gun against her lower back. His mouth is by her ear. She can smell the coffee on his breath.
“Keep talking and I’ll smash that pretty face of yours,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Ariana doesn’t respond. She knows that won’t get her anywhere.
Harris looks at Humphreys and says, “Take Tom to the station and wait to hear from me. Lock him up. Don’t let him make a phone call. Not to his lawyer. Not to his wife.”
“What about Ariana?” Humphreys says, pulling Tom by his cuffed wrists.
“The Rio Lobo Police Department is about to have an opening for a detective,” Harris says. “If you want the job, shut your goddamn mouth and don’t ask any more stupid questions.”
Chapter 98
I TRY TO stay hidden, but I position myself to watch McCormack’s ranch through the scope of the .223 M4. The telescopic sight doesn’t have the magnification Gareth’s M24 does, so I can’t see much. But I see enough.
A trio of ATVs peels off from the house and heads in the direction of the open space. No doubt going to look for Ariana. One of my reasons for making up the story was so they might do that. That’s six fewer of McCormack’s soldiers I have to worry about right now.
I’m beginning to wonder if Gareth isn’t going to come out here after all. If he doesn’t climb up on the tower, I’ve already decided I will climb down and walk over to the ranch.
We’ll have that showdown.
It will be suicide, of course.
Even if I shoot Gareth in an honest-to-God duel, there’s no way Carson McCormack will stick to his word. His men will gun me down within seconds.
But I’ll do it.
As long as he doesn’t double-cross me, I won’t double-cross him. That’s just the way I was raised.
When I’m almost convinced he’s not coming, I spot a figure leaving the ranch house and heading this way on foot. I focus the sight. The person is Gareth, and he has his sniper rifle slung over his shoulder and his SIG Sauer holstered at his hip. He’s dressed in black clothes, no doubt so he can stay hidden atop the derrick, where I’m hiding now.
The platform is a square with a hole in the middle. To one side of me is the metal mesh railing, which will keep me from rolling off. But in the center, where the drilling equipment would be if the derrick was operational, there is nothing but a straight drop to the ground.
I lie flat on my back to stay out of sight. I keep the rifle at my side. I don’t pull my pistol out of its holster.
Not yet.
I don’t want my hands to sweat on the grip.
Gar
eth has half a mile to walk. I try to calm my nerves, slow my breathing. I stare at the sky—blue from horizon to horizon without a single cloud.
I think of Willow.
I think of Ariana.
I think of my father telling me, A Texas Ranger is justice.
When Gareth gets close, I can make out the sound of his pants moving through the overgrown weeds. When he’s below, I hear the crackle of a walkie-talkie.
“Gareth, come in,” Carson says over the walkie-talkie.
“Yeah, I’m here,” Gareth says.
I’m eighty feet above him, but the air is so clear and silent that I can hear every word of the exchange.
“Harris has the girl. Delgado. She’s alive.”
“Copy that.”
“Yates lied to us. He’s up to something.”
My heart pounds. Fear flows through my veins. Please, God, don’t let them hurt her.
“What do you want me to do?” Gareth asks. “Come back?”
Carson tells him not to return to the ranch house. He wants Gareth to go ahead and get into position in case I show up.
“If Yates isn’t here by the deadline, I’ll send someone to pick you up. In the meantime, Harris is bringing her to the ranch. We’ll get her to talk. I told McQueen to get the blowtorch.”
“Don’t kill her,” Gareth tells his father. “I want a lock of that bitch’s hair for my trophy case.”
They end the connection. A second later, I hear Gareth’s boots on the ladder, scaling the oil derrick.
I stand up as quietly as I can, staying out of sight of Gareth as he climbs. The platform is small. The world seems to sway around me. I feel like I could topple over and fall right down the middle. My stomach clenches.
I take my SIG Sauer out of its holster. I slide my finger inside the trigger guard.
One of Gareth’s hands comes over the top onto the platform. Then the other. He hoists himself to where his head can swing over the ledge.
“Hold it right there, Gareth,” I say, aiming the gun at the bridge of his nose. “Make any sudden moves and I’ll drop you off this tower with a hole in your skull.”
He looks at me and laughs. His eyes are covered by sunglasses, so it’s hard to be sure, but his facial expression indicates he isn’t the least bit surprised—or scared.
“You double-crossing son of a bitch,” he says, as if we’re old pals and I just played a practical joke on him.
“I only double-crossed you because I knew you’d do it to me.”
He shakes his head. “It was Dad’s idea.”
“I figured,” I say.
He doesn’t seem at all concerned that I’m about to arrest him, which has me worried. Doesn’t he know he’s beat?
His rifle is slung over his back and his pistol is on his hip. He can’t get to either one of them in the position he’s in, not before I get a shot off.
I tell him to climb up onto the platform, keeping his hands where I can see them and away from his gun belt. He does as he’s told. I back up to give him space, and he stands up, staring at me defiantly. Then I tell him to slowly remove the rifle from his shoulder, holding it only by the barrel, and set it on the metal platform, the barrel pointed toward him.
Again, he does as he’s told.
Keeping my gun on him, I pull my handcuffs off my belt with my free hand.
“Now,” I say, “use only the thumb and forefinger of your left hand to unholster your pistol. Drop it off the derrick.”
“No,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“I got an alternate proposal,” he says, grinning like he holds all the cards. “How about we have that old-fashioned shoot-out after all?”
Chapter 99
“THAT’S NOT HOW this works,” I say to Gareth. “You’re under arrest.”
“Like hell,” he says.
“Gareth,” I say, “we’re eighty feet off the ground, and I’ve got a gun aimed at your heart. You’re about to go skydiving without a parachute. I’m not messing around.”
“Neither am I,” he says. “You ain’t taking me alive, Yates. I’m going for my gun one way or another. The only choice is whether you give me a fighting chance. Come on, cowboy. Holster that gun and prove that you’re quicker than me.”
I don’t want to take his bait. I would be stupid to agree. When we were out on the range, I missed the bottle on purpose, but he was still just as fast as me. Now we’re less than ten feet apart, standing on top of an eighty-foot oil derrick—and I’m a much bigger target than a beer bottle. Even if I’m faster and more accurate, I would put myself at great risk.
I could get wounded.
I could get killed.
I could fall right off this damn oil derrick.
“I’ve got nothing to prove to you,” I say.
“Come on, Ranger,” Gareth says. “I know a part of you wants to do it.”
He’s right.
A part of me.
The hothead part that’s always getting me into trouble.
But I’m considering his proposal. I hate the son of a bitch standing in front of me. I hate him because he killed Dale Peters and Skip Barnes and probably Susan Snyder. I hate him because he dated the girl I like and treated her like shit. I hate him because he was born into the kind of privilege most people can only imagine, and he’s done nothing with it except hurt other people. I hate him because he’s an arrogant, egotistical, chauvinist asshole. I hate him because he’s a homicidal maniac. I hate him because, when it comes down to it, he’s a bully.
But mostly I hate him because he killed a Texas Ranger.
Kyle and I had our differences, but at the end of the day, he and I wore the same badge. My mind flashes to an image of Kyle, coughing up blood with his last breaths, and I can’t help myself.
The hothead inside me wins.
“All right,” I say, keeping my gun on Gareth. “I’ll give you a fighting chance. But first you have to answer three questions.”
He looks hesitant. In my peripheral vision, I get the sense that we’re being watched from the ranch house. But I can’t take my eyes off Gareth long enough to be sure. Unless they have a sharpshooter as good as Gareth, we’re too far for any of them to do anything. I think they’re going to let this play out, confident Gareth can handle himself. Until I hear ATVs racing to get in range, I’m going to assume that’s the case.
“If you’re so damn confident you’ll beat me,” I say to Gareth, “then what does it matter? You’re going to kill me sixty seconds after you give me your confession.”
He shrugs, consenting to my questions.
“That was you up on the hill yesterday?” I say. “You killed Dale and Kyle?”
Gareth nods, grinning. Proud of himself.
“And you killed Skip Barnes and Susan Snyder?”
“Not Susan,” he says, still smiling. “Poison ain’t my style.”
“Why’d you set up Ariana?” I ask. “You could have just made Skip disappear. Why the whole elaborate frame job?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time. It almost worked. Once I kill you, it will work.” He chuckles, so pleased with himself. “Besides, it felt kind of poetic after what I done to her daddy.”
“What?” I say, surprised for the first time by any of these admissions.
“I set him up for selling drugs back when we were in high school,” Gareth admits. “Stashed the bag in the janitor’s closet. Got my buddies to tell the cops that he sold to them. That’s what that little bitch gets for not putting out after Homecoming.”
I’m on fire inside. I’ve never felt such rage. Even in high school, the depravity of Gareth McCormack knew no bounds.
“Who killed Susan Snyder?” I say, trying to subdue the anger in my voice.
“Sorry, Ranger. You’re out of questions.”
He’s right. I should have made it ten questions, but I gave him my word that we would do this.
“Fine,” I say.
I toss the handcuffs toward his
feet. They slide across the metal and stop at his boot. Then I holster my gun.
I hold my hand at my side, six inches from my gun. Gareth does the same.
“Here are your choices, Gareth,” I say. “Reach slowly for the handcuffs and you live. Reach quickly for your gun and you die.”
He doesn’t look the least bit nervous.
What a sight we must be, standing atop an oil derrick, facing off like a couple of Texas gunslingers from a hundred fifty years ago.
“Before you make your choice,” I say, “know this. You’re stronger than me. You’re a better shot with a rifle than I am. You were probably a better football player than I ever was, and you were no doubt a better soldier than I ever could be. But there’s one thing I do better than anyone. You want to test me on that, I’ll see to it you wake up tomorrow morning in hell.”
He smirks. “Nice speech. You finished?”
“Yeah,” I say. “My conscience is clear. You’ve been warned.”
“Good,” he says.
And his hand flies as fast as lightning to his gun.
Chapter 100
IN A SPLIT second, he snatches his gun grip, yanks the pistol free, slides his finger into the trigger guard, and raises the barrel—all in one fluid motion. All at an unbelievable speed.
He’s the fastest gunman I’ve ever seen.
But he’s not fast enough.
My bullet punches a hole through his heart before he can get his pistol into a firing position. He takes a step back, his face filled with surprise. He tries to lift the gun to get off a shot, but his muscles aren’t working anymore—not with his heart gushing blood from the hole in his chest instead of pumping it through his body.
I holster my gun.
His arm drops to his side and the pistol slips from his fingers, clanging against the metal. His knees buckle, and he topples forward into the big opening where the drilling equipment would normally be. He falls headfirst, his body spinning in a half somersault, globs of blood arcing out behind him. He lands on his back eighty feet below with a sickening thud.
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