Bond of Darkness (7 page)

A few well-established ranchers and large corporations like the Santiago Trust still held sway here, those who'd long since adapted their breeds and ranching techniques to the mix of barren rocks, hidden water, and harsh desert. Very hardy, ancient breeds of cattle and goats made a good living here.

The radio scanner clicked into life.

"Two-eleven, would it be clear for a forty-three?"

Steve's mouth quirked at this sign of normalcy. Clark Duncan was going off duty for dinner in Gilbert's Crossing, probably down at Uncle Junior's Diner. Thursday night was their fried pie night.

Wonder if she'd make it in time to have any?

She was a Texas Ranger with a star in a wheel on her badge and three counties to look after. Regulations said she should obey all the traffic laws. But she could have toasted Fred's new leg-shackles with fried pies, almost as well as with margaritas.

Still, there was the speed limit.

The black truck growled its disdain, sending the speedometer creeping up.

"Yeah, you understand, don't you, big guy?" She laughed at herself but patted the wheel anyway. "Well, I spend more time with you than anybody else."

She throttled back, easing down to the speed limit, automatically watching for any sweeping beams of light signaling other vehicles. Maybe a rancher, or somebody from town taking the old road down to the border. Or a couple of scientists, taking a break from studying the local fossils, those older lizards this road had been named for. Not that she'd seen any so far, or expected to.

"Two-eleven, stand by to copy."

Imelda was calling Duncan back from Uncle Junior's?

"Two-eleven, copy a signal sixty-three, five-nineteen Sunflower Street…"

Somebody wanted backup at Nikki Castillo's house? Odd, very odd. Nikki was a sweet lady, whose biggest concerns seemed to be her two children, three cats, chocolate—and not talking about where she'd gotten that new Mustang from.

Scenes flickered behind Steve's eyes, the way they often did on a case: Nikki screaming, her kids running out the door in terror.

Cold whispered over Steve's skin, lighter than any breeze her state-procured vehicle could conjure up.

Her county, her town, her people. The speedometer's needle slid a little more to the right. She pushed a recalcitrant lock of hair off her forehead, clearing her vision.

"Shots fired, shots fired!" Clark Duncan's deep voice burst into the radio's silence. Oh damn, that must have been why the first cop had called for backup. The unmistakable staccato drumbeat of heavy weaponry reaffirmed the alarm call. "Officer down! Officer—"

A single, loud
bang
! cut off his words, followed by a muffled thud.

Steve's heart slammed into her chest.

Oh hell, may neither of them have been hurt too badly
. Two cops shot, one of them for trying to help a lady and the other for coming to their rescue. Damn the trigger-happy bastard, whoever he was.

She slammed the accelerator down, sliding her Expedition against the speed limit's edge. A quick grab shoved her blue flasher onto the dashboard and flipped it on, sending its eerie warning whirling through the night and her siren howling. She raced along the road's center line, watching for headlights, and praying she wouldn't meet a stray cow. Her hands were light on the wheel but adrenalin pulsed through her blood like a rock band's heavy bass guitar, hammering out the chase's fundamental chord.

"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 offering 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 a choir boy.

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 cheerleaders' 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 bystanders, 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 rulebook—hah!—she'd be unable to help protect her people.

COMPOSTELA RANCH, TEXAS HILL COUNTRY OUTSIDE AUSTIN

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.