Page 84

CHAPTER 82

RUNNING, I PASS a huge outbuilding with five vehicle bays. Two of the garage doors are open, revealing a sixties-era Shelby Cobra and a brand-new Tesla Roadster. From here, I can see the house, with the pool behind it and a peninsular deck extending from the second story like a massive diving board.

As I arrive at the swimming pool, I slow for an instant, considering my next move. Before I can decide, an armed man runs out onto the deck. Muscled like a professional wrestler, he wields a TEC-9 with two hands. I dive into the water just as he lets the gun rip. Bullets pierce the surface and dart through the water, followed by comet trails of bubbles. I swim along the bottom, doing an underwater breaststroke like a frog, careful to keep my SIG Sauer in my hand. Bullets continue to rain into the water, so many that his magazine must be almost empty.

When the firing stops, I press my boots against the bottom and push myself to the surface, almost directly underneath the shooter. I can’t be sure my gun will still fire after being submerged, but I don’t have time to think about it. The man pops a new magazine into his TEC-9 and leans over the balcony railing.

I shoot him in the throat before he can fire.

He teeters, clutching his neck as blood dribbles down into the pool. Then his body tumbles over. I lunge out of the way, and he hits the pool in an explosion of water. A plume of crimson spreads from the body as it bobs to the surface.

I grab the edge of the pool and haul myself out.

I move toward the stairs, my boots sloshing water. I almost run up the steps to the balcony toward the house, but I spot a door, tucked away under the stairs, and I remember that the woman said Mr. Z took Marta to the basement.

I kick the door open and race down a set of stairs, taking three at a time. There’s another doorway at the bottom. I hesitate, readying my gun, listening. I make out some kind of thud .

I raise my foot to kick the door open.

Garrison Zebo—recognizable from his bleached hair and leather-tanned skin—is slumped on the floor atop Marta Rivera.

Neither appears to be conscious.

I throw Zebo off of her. His eyes are open—he’s awake—but he’s as flaccid as a noodle.

“Marta!” I shout, checking her pulse and listening for breath.

I find a faint beat in the artery in her neck. Her eyes flitter open. Then she bolts upright, taking a gasping breath, looking around in terror.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m a Texas Ranger.”

She throws her arms around me, and I hold her trembling body. Through the open door, I hear sirens, close and getting closer.

“You’re safe.”