Strong Cold Dead (Caitlin Strong, #8)(66)
“Given that’s not quite a realistic possibility,” Jones picked up, “FBI and Homeland already have three hundred agents dedicated to nothing other than finding Daniel Cross, along with Saflin and Zurif. Since they showed no aggression toward the patrolman who asked them to move, and complied immediately, we can assume they don’t know they’ve been identified. That gives us an advantage we intend to exploit to its absolute, goddamn fullest,” he finished, his eyes back on Caitlin.
*
“I notice you left out mention of the Comanche Indian reservation from your status report, Jones,” Caitlin said to him, off to the side of the room. The wide-screen television had gone dark.
“You think I don’t know where the two of you were headed when your captain made the call?”
“You got eyeballs on us?”
“Electronically—you’re damn right, Ranger. This country might be under the gravest threat it has ever faced, so I like to know where my people are.”
“Your people?”
“Anyone worthy of their spit I can count on to save a few million lives,” Jones told her. “I imagine that includes you.”
“Daniel Cross was at that reservation for a reason,” Caitlin told him, checking Cort Wesley’s expression for a reaction. “But I’ll be damned if I can figure out a connection between what happened in Austin and drilling for oil, or something else, on Comanche tribal land.”
Jones aimed his next remarks at Cort Wesley. “We’ve got security camera footage of a man resembling you driving a stolen front loader through a used car dealership showroom. Maybe there’s some connection there. By the way, the footage has mysteriously disappeared.”
“There might be a connection to the bigger picture here,” Caitlin said, before Cort Wesley could speak at all. “We’re looking into it.”
“We?”
“You got bigger fish to fry than worrying about what we’re following up on our end.”
“What were you doing in Houston earlier today, while your boyfriend was laying waste to car dealerships?”
“Interviewing a person of interest.”
“In what?”
“I haven’t decided yet, Jones. What do you know about Cray Rawls?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Could you give your files on him a look and see if there’s anything worth noting?”
“Still your old subtle self, aren’t you?” Jones asked her.
“I’m just getting started, Jones. And while you’re at it, see if you can scrounge up the personnel records of a minerals brokerage company called Jackson Whole Mineral.”
“Got a whiff of something, Ranger?”
“Just playing a hunch,” Caitlin told him.
Jones looked at her, then at Cort Wesley. “Let me tell you one place I don’t want you playing: the Comanche Indian reservation.”
“You mind repeating that?” Caitlin asked him, her gaze narrowing. “I don’t think I heard you right.”
“Yes, you did. The two of you are to steer clear of that land. And this is one time you’re going to toe the line, Ranger. See, I’m assembling a strike team to go in there like it’s the goddamn Little Bighorn, when the time is right.”
“That’s your plan?”
Jones smirked. “Live with it.”
“You’ll never find what you’re looking for that way.”
“The presence of ISIS in-country just took all other options off the table.”
Caitlin stood before him, spine stiffening. “Still got one, Jones.”
“No, we don’t. You’re sitting this one out so the big boys can play.”
Caitlin shook her head, stopping just short of a smile. “You have someone write lines like that for you, or do you just make it up as you go along?”
Jones jammed a phone toward his ear. “I need to take this, if you don’t mind,” he said.
Caitlin watched Jones walk away, unsure whether a call had really come in or not, as Cort Wesley drew even with her.
“So what’s next, Ranger?”
Caitlin continued watching Jones, who seemed to have forgotten she was even in the room. “My great-great-granddad faced off against John D. Rockefeller on that rez, Cort Wesley.”
“How’d that turn out?”
“Not very good for Mr. Rockefeller, as I recall.” She finally turned toward him. “So what do you say we finish that drive north and see if we can make history repeat itself?”
62
BALCONES CANYONLANDS, TEXAS
“Say it, Ranger.”
Cort Wesley’s words seemed aimed straight ahead, at the windshield, as he threaded his truck along the final stretch to the Comanche reservation. The night was the color of pitch; whatever moon there might have been was hidden behind clouds carrying a storm. Lightning flashed at irregular intervals in the distance, shining a spotlight through the dark. Thunder had begun to rumble as well, too far off to worry about for now.
“Say what?”
“What you’re thinking.”
“Same thing you are, I suspect: that whatever killed those people in that diner somehow involves the rez.”
“Through Daniel Cross. As long as you’re not blaming yourself for that, too.”