“All personnel, signal thirty-seven at five-nineteen Sunflower Street. Both officers down. Actor has left the scene in a late model, light-colored Porsche . . .”
Her mouth stretched in a mirthless grin. Late model, light-colored Porsche, huh? Good luck with that city car on these excuses for roads. He was probably racing for shelter on the far side of the border. Only three roads out of Gilbert’s Crossing for that: the river road, the main highway, and her route.
Goddamn murdering bastard, whoever he was. If those two cops died, the Texas courts would have a lovely party with the killer’s worthless carcass—and she’d make very sure he showed up in time to be the guest of honor.
She picked up the mike, long practice making it easy to handle both it and the car. “Reynolds here. I’m inbound on Avenida dos Lagartos ten miles west of town.”
“Copy that, Reynolds.” Imelda’s relief was painfully obvious.
Steve clicked off automatically, already calculating the road’s potential for pure speed. It was charcoal gray, silvery where moonlight hit it and shadowed by ribbons of black, like a network of snakes. Once colorful mountains faded into pewter, their boundaries outlined by the moonlight, while their weather-beaten sides rolled onto the highway’s edges. The highway’s yellow line ran down the center, drawing everything else together—the asphalt, her eyes, every other vehicle.
What were the odds of Gilbert’s Crossing finding enough cops to block all three routes? About as good as her finding a foolproof spot for a roadblock—plumb pitiful. For every narrow gap between a rocky turn, there was an arroyo spilling onto the plain which led down to the Rio Grande and Mexico and offered an escape route. Or a small ranch laden with hostages, or campfires encircled by campers, or scientists planning to ogle the ancient fossils, drat their naive hearts. There was next to no place where she could trap a fleeing suspect, without endangering civilians.
She’d just have to get creative.
The speedometer crept higher and she encouraged it to run. Her mouth was dry, her pulse humming in her veins.
The radio squawked and fumed like a committee of buzzards determined to get their share of a corpse, but not close enough to use their own beaks and talons.
The Feds were promising to close the main highway—toward San Antonio. Wonderful. As if anybody expected a shooter to hurl himself into an American jail.
But a truck’s brakes had caught on fire, while waiting to cross at the big border crossing—a not-unexpected event on such a brutally hot day, given the long lines. The resulting upheaval had triggered a couple of accidents, shutting down the main highway just inside the border. Nobody would be crossing there much before dawn.
So the killer would have to choose between the two much smaller routes.
One city cop had managed to put his car on the river road. He hadn’t seen that light-colored Porsche yet but he was still looking.
Which left Avenida dos Lagartos. The other city cop was racing down it, his voice as high-pitched as his siren. God willing, he’d drive more like an adult than like a choirboy.
A quick glance at the next corner showed a ranch’s lights, half hidden by a rocky outcrop. One set of hostages behind her and out of danger. Their daughter would make it to the cheer-leaders’ camp next Saturday.
She grinned through her clenched teeth. Just had to protect the rest of them, right?
“Two-nine, signal thirty-nine, five miles west of town on Avenida dos Lagartos . . .”
The trigger-happy bastard was heading straight for her. Lovely. Would the aggressive idiot’s testosterone be running so hot and fast he wouldn’t hear or see her? Or care if he did?
After all, she had lights on the dash and a siren, plus some nasty surprises in her trunk. Even better advantages were her driving skills and her local knowledge. God willing, she could shove them down his throat before he found himself some hostages.
She began to sing a Shania Twain anthem at the top of her lungs, celebrating feminine strength.
The highway pivoted again, danced around a corner, and hung for an instant above a small valley. Lights flashed against the hillside below her—and were gone. Another pair of lights painted the rocks a minute later before disappearing.
Her hand seized the mike, faster than thought.
“Reynolds here. I’m less than two miles away, on the far side of Comanche Gap.”
“Copy that, Reynolds.” Two-nine garbled his words, almost swallowing his tongue in relief.
The road swooped down, allowing her an unobstructed view of the valley floor—and the large bonfire burning next to a dirt road and surrounded by four tents. Home base for that scientific expedition in the narrowest corner.
Shit. Her heart went into overtime and tried to shove its way out of her chest.
Try to stop the murdering bastard here—or farther west, back by the ranch? Both options stank.
Two-nine’s siren hummed in the distance, too far away to be helpful anytime soon.
A half dozen figures were silhouetted against the fire. One was pointing at the road. Oh God, she couldn’t reach her bullhorn to tell them to run.
She slammed her foot down, ignoring every rule about obeying the traffic laws. If she didn’t head off that brute before he reached those innocents, what wouldn’t he do to them?
The dusty Porsche reached the horseshoe bend at the valley’s base. Steve charged down the mountain toward it, desperate to box it in. She could almost hear the sports car’s engine snarl, as its driver fought to shift gears and master the narrow, steep turn under the sheer cliff.
Its wheels spun.
The city police car emerged on the valley’s other side and raced forward, its siren abruptly magnified by the rock walls into a banshee’s wail.
More campers emerged from their tents to watch. Did they have a death wish, ignoring the risk that a car would spin out into the valley? But innocents like them were why she’d become a cop.
The Porsche gained traction—but Steve’s far bigger Expedition stood between it and the border.
It veered—and headed off the paved road and onto the dirt road, toward the bonfire. Damn! Her heart forgot to power her lungs.
She swung the wheel over and went after the Porsche, shifting down hard and fast, encouraging her SUV to master the unforgiving terrain. It growled and leapt onto the sand, creosote bushes whipping against its undercarriage.
The Porsche broke through the desert’s thin, hard crust. One wheel sank into dust, wallowing in it like a cat trapped by liquid tar. It came to a halt, the other wheels spinning frantically. An instant later, first one then another broke through and were sucked down, whirring and hissing.
The sports car’s door burst open and a man leapt out, brandishing a Glock. Looked like he knew exactly how to use it, too. Great, just great.
The campers stood perfectly still and stared at him, clearly expecting him to explain himself. Goats would have had more sense than to stay there. If he took one of them as a hostage or they were hit by bullets . . .
Her throat tightened.
Steve slammed her truck to a stop and jumped out, her beloved Sig Sauer coming into her hand like a lover. Her Kevlar vest shifted slightly before settling back into position. “Stop! This is the Texas Rangers! Drop your weapon!”
He glared at her, still standing far too close to those campers. He was more impressive than she’d expected, average height and very fit. He seemed familiar, somehow. A wanted poster, maybe?
“Yield to a woman?” He shook his head and made a very rude gesture. He edged toward the closest camper, who eyed him warily.
Dammit, anybody who’d shoot two cops just for walking up to the door could hardly be trusted around a group of civilians.
Her brilliantly revolving lights splashed briefly over the by-standers, who squinted or threw up an arm—but still didn’t run. And her backup was still on the far side of those creosote bushes. It was up to her to protect them.
“Sir, drop your weapon! You’
re under arrest!” She repeated it in Spanish.
He cursed her and broke into a run.
Her bullet sent grains of sand flying into his face. He whirled to face her, his gun swinging up with the smooth familiarity of long practice.
“Drop your weapon!”
His finger tightened on the trigger—but she got off the first shot of a bitter fusillade.
The spectators finally screamed and scattered like turkeys.
By the time Emanuel Villalobos—or Gilbert’s Crossing’s two-nine—arrived, Steve was standing over a dead body. Several people were retching loudly in the background. Her empty stomach badly wanted to join them and she knew damn well she’d be pouring a lot of peppermint tea into it over the next few days.
Villalobos came up beside her, silent until he blocked her view of the corpse. “I called it in. Backup will get here within five minutes.”
“Thanks.” An empty paper bag had more potential than she did at the moment. The only colorful item in the world right now was that corpse’s name, highlighted in red on a million wanted posters. She’d recognized the matching face the instant her flashlight’s beam had hit it.
She turned to face Villalobos, accepting the need to follow protocol.
“Are you hurt?”
“Not that I know of.” She could have used Ethan Templeton, though. He was the only man who’d ever understood when she needed to be cuddled or really well laid.
“Paramedics will want to look you over, of course.”
“Thanks.” She went back to pondering the dead man’s identity. “At least we know why he was so trigger-happy.”
“We do?” Villalobos cocked his head.
“He’s Manuel Ramirez, El Gallinazo’s top executioner.”
“El Gallinazo? Shit.”
“Yeah.” Or worse, since the nickname “The Buzzard” came from the corpses that brutal drug lord liked to leave behind for scavengers.
And unless she could talk her captain out of following the rule book—hah!—she’d be unable to help protect her people.
COMPOSTELA RANCH
The night was oddly quiet, with only the fountains’ babble to fill it. The horses’ usual reassuring mutters and occasional thuds were gone, lost with the animals’ departure to a safer stable. Even the dogs and cats had been evacuated, together with the unarmed prosaicos. If there was to be an attack tonight, nobody wanted the innocent beasts injured. The plants and trees barely whispered in the slight breeze.
Long limestone buildings, crowned with steep metal roofs, flowed over the hilltop, its elegant trees and rose gardens concealing the protective rifle pits and storm shelters. Jean-Marie and Gray Wolf, Don Rafael’s two eldest hijos, patrolled the gardens, wary and dangerous as prowling mountain lions.
A single fountain flung itself toward the moon on a nearby hill. It was the only waterworks never silenced, even in drought or when a vampiro awoke for the first time, shaken and uncertain. A few white tombstones slept nearby, in between ancient oak trees.
A helicopter’s blades beat through the night, fast and desperate. Nunez was the steadiest of their pilots; otherwise, he’d never have been chosen to convey their hell-born visitors here. But after Don Rafael threw out the uninvited third guest, Nunez had also been needed to take the sleek blond bastard back to the airport.
Only a few minutes spent with those bastards but it had left him spooked enough to fly like a rookie the next time he took off? Damn.
Well, if it had been the legendary Russian assassin, disguised as a boy toy, they’d kicked him out before he could cause any trouble or see anything important.
A whisper ran over Ethan’s skin, despite the hot night, but he forced his expression to stay relaxed.
Devol, their unwanted second guest, strolled beside him around the helipad. He stank of blood and worse, until Ethan could hardly stand to draw breath nearby. It was probably a tactic to drive Ethan off, besides the mark of having fed far too well. Disgustingly so, on the emotions he and Madame Celeste preferred. He wore funereal black which would have done credit to the most stylish rock star. His pace was steady, his features calm. But his fingers twitched and his eyes never strayed far from the guesthouse.
Ethan glanced up briefly, scanning for the returning helicopter. If there was to be trouble, it would come soon, especially with Don Rafael and Madame Celeste closeted inside the guesthouse—thus removing Texas’s greatest warrior.
Tendrils of scent slipped reassuringly down the hillside toward him. Something solid flashed briefly beside a chimney and was gone. One of his men.
The massed compañías—the great warrior companies of vampiros, compañeros, and prosaicos—guarded Compostela like great horned owls, those legendary tigers of the forest. Snipers lurked on the rooftops and sentries prowled every path, ready to take action at the first sign of trouble. A vampiro who’d shapeshifted into a wolf couldn’t have slipped through their cordon without notice.
But Madame Celeste, the New Orleans patrona, had captured Memphis twenty years ago by treachery. She and Devol had slaughtered its large garrison with a bloody ruthlessness, which had shocked even vampiros mayores. How many had she killed that first night—and how many had she saved to destroy the second?
“Think you have enough men to protect you from a single unarmed man and woman?” Devol’s mocking drawl cut through Ethan’s tally.
“Think you have enough to steal another esfera?” Ethan shot back, wishing he could use his guns.
“We won’t need to. We’re going to be invited in.”
“Like hell!”
“Oh yes. Up there—in that ugly little building—Don Rafael and Madame Celeste are negotiating an alliance.” Were Devol’s features taut with certainty—or anguish?
“Alliance?” Did he mean more than a simple treaty to ward off the reckless young Mexican vampiros?
“Consorts.”
That slut? Ethan glared at him. “Not on your life. Don Rafael would never form an alliance with her.”
“Don Rafael’s just another man, as he proved back in New Orleans. You and I are about to become hermanos.” Bitterness threaded through Devol’s voice.
Brothers? Like hell. “I’ll destroy you.”
“If you can.” Devol’s expression regained its familiar angry mockery. “You aren’t much, hiding behind a big estate and all these guards.”
“If you weren’t protected by the laws of hospitality, you’d already be dead. I’m fifty years older than you are and faster.”
“Think you’re such a big man? And just how well have you fed all your life—or did your fancy patrona make you beg for your prey, eh?”
“Beg? I pleasure my partners, in exchange for blood.”
“My patrona made sure every meal was the best—rich and satisfying, as much as I could drink.” He drew out the syllables, curling his lip at Ethan’s far too blatant restraint.
Ethan clenched his teeth, wishing he could flash his fangs and challenge the bastard to a duel instead of playing the dissembling diplomat. Devol and Madame Celeste’s orgies were legendarily long and vicious, making them incredibly good meals if you were a vampiro who fed on pain or worse. Vampiros matured faster the more they ate, so the son of a bitch could be more deadly than his years would normally permit.
The former Bayou Butcher chuckled, liquid evil rippling through the innocent night.
“You’re a fool, Devol, if you think Don Rafael will ask Madame Celeste to be his consort.” Ethan’s patience slipped a notch.
“Are you insulting my creador?” The Cajun whirled on him, a knife handle appearing out of his cuff.
Ethan’s fingers stretched for his gun. Just how the hell had Devol drawn first?
FIVE
A door slammed open up above and Madame Celeste stormed out of the guesthouse, Don Rafael a step behind her. The air almost crackled around them, seething with an interrupted fight. They came down the stairs to the helipad fast, lethal and supple as cobras.
Their co
nversation had gone foul already? Shit.
Ethan’s eyes met Devol’s, each of them snarling at the other, before they assumed expressionless masks. The fight would be continued another day—and would be far more vicious for the delay.
“I will dance on your grave, Don Rafael,” Madame Celeste vowed, glancing over her shoulder, her voice all the more deadly for its utter quiet. “If I can’t have you, then nobody will have you.”
“If you try, you’ll fail.” His voice had deepened, gained a chain saw’s harsh eagerness.
A young man’s irrepressible joy flashed over Devol’s face, an expression so utterly at odds with his callous, dissolute history that Ethan could hardly believe he’d seen it. Then it was gone, leaving the harsh, vicious strength of New Orleans’s alferez mayor behind.
Two vampiros scrambled to open the backup helicopter’s door before Celeste reached it. Devol smoothly handed her into the bird, careful to protect her dress.
She looked down her nose at Don Rafael, haughty as an Egyptian pharaoh. “Just watch me—and weep while you crumble into dust.”
“It is you who will dig your grave here,” he retorted sharply, finishing with an all-too-polite, “madame.”
Devol slammed the door shut and ran around to the other side, an unusual lightness in his step.
An instant later, the helo raced off, carrying the two unwelcome guests back to the airport and thence out of Texas.
Jean-Marie and Gray Wolf came up to stand behind Ethan and Don Rafael.
Ethan flexed his fingers, double-checking their speed and suppleness. He’d have to start practicing even more, now he’d finally have the chance to blow Devol’s head off. He wanted to have his choice of shots.
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