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CHAPTER 32

THAT NIGHT, CARLOS and I sit on our respective beds in our hotel room, watching a rerun of an NBA Championship game between the Miami Heat and the San Antonio Spurs. We bought a twelve-pack of Cerveza Sol, a pint of tequila, and some limes, and brought them back to the room to drink with our dinner. Another pizza.

“Is pizza the only food you eat?” I ask.

“I go to Burger King sometimes,” he says. “Did you know they have a special burger just for Rangers?”

I squint at him, showing my confusion.

He turns to me with a grin. “It’s called the Whopper Texas Ranger.”

I smirk and shake my head. “I thought you were better than a Walker, Texas Ranger pun.”

We’re about halfway into the bottle and twelve-pack, neither of us talking much, aside from Carlos’s occasional jokes, which get worse the more he drinks. The day’s events have left us a bit shell shocked. Carlos’s jokes are probably just a way for him to cope, a defense mechanism for emotional pain.

“You okay?” I ask, remembering our discussion on the drive over to the raid about the emotional toll of killing people, regardless of the fact that these were all bad, bad men.

“I’ll be okay,” he says earnestly. It’s a relief that he doesn’t dismiss my question with a joke, but I note he doesn’t actually say he is okay, just that he will be . “You?” he asks.

“Same,” I say, taking another swig.

Despite being dismissed by Ryan, we didn’t leave the scene right away. We stayed to help out whatever way we could: comforting victims, answering questions from crime scene investigators, advising agents and officers. When we finally felt comfortable leaving, we headed to the hospital to see the agent who’d been shot by Llewellyn Carpenter, but we were told he was in surgery. Back at the hotel around three o’clock, we still had a busy day of phone calls and paperwork. We had to update Captain Kane about what happened and wait for a decision about whether we should be removed from duty pending an investigation—which is customary after a shooting—or keep working. In the end, he opted to let the FBI make the decision since we’re currently working on their team.

We also called Ava Cruz and updated her about Marta Rivera. She seemed heartened by the news that the Tigua woman is still alive, but also frustrated that she wasn’t rescued. She kept busy while we were involved with the raid. She arranged for Isabella Luna to come in to the station tomorrow morning for us to interview her. She said Isabella was reluctant, not sure why the tribal police wanted to look into what happened to her four years ago. Ava told her that she might be able to shed some light on other ongoing investigations, and although Isabella said she still can’t remember anything, she did agree to come in.

With our work finally finished for the day, Carlos ordered the pizza while I ran out and bought the beer and tequila. Megan saw the raid on the news and called to check on me. She invited me to the bar, and I politely declined. She said she’d try to call later if there was a lull in the crowd, but the bar is offering two-for-one shots tonight and she expected to be busy. I’m glad I didn’t go—I’m just not in the mood to socialize in a public place right now. And, besides, if I visited her, I’d have to limit my beers to one or two.

After the day I had, I wanted a few more.

Carlos and I had started the evening by watching the local news. Ryan Logan was interviewed giving an update about the raid, which has been all over the media all day. Ryan spun the event like a total success, which I guess it nearly was. Despite Carpenter’s escape with a hostage and the injuries, forty-nine abducted women were found and are being reunited with their families.

That’s why we get into law enforcement work—to help people.

In lauding the FBI and the El Paso Police Department, Ryan made no mention of the involvement of the Texas Rangers. Carlos had seen enough and flipped through the channels, ultimately selecting the basketball game.

“Man, that LeBron James is something else, isn’t he?” Carlos says, taking a drink and turning up the volume on the TV. “He can play defense just as well on Tim Duncan as Tony Parker. Maybe he could hack it in rezball.”

I’m not watching. I’m lost in thought, reliving the intensity of today’s gunfight. Also, I can’t get the images out of my head of the traumatized women, some of them barely clothed, looking around in confusion, many of them stoned on heroin or meth.

I wonder what kind of person goes to a brothel and pays money to rape a drugged woman there against her will. What kind of world do we live in where such a thing happens?

On the bedside table, my phone buzzes. I expect it to be Megan, taking a quick break between serving shots. But when I check to see who’s calling, it’s Willow. I hesitate, feeling guilty if I take it, but then I remind myself that Willow and I are just friends. I reach for the phone.

I could use a friend right now.