Texas Outlaw(3)

These guys look like pros. They’re wearing black tactical gear from head to toe, including masks and bulletproof vests, standard issue for law enforcement or military personnel (though your average citizen can get this stuff on the internet).

Even if these guys are professionals, I still have one question.

“Why the hell are you guys robbing a bank at lunchtime?” I say. “There probably wouldn’t be a soul in here at any other time of day.”

“Not that we owe you any goddamn explanation,” the guy with the AR-15 says, “but the vault’s on a time lock.” He checks his watch. “And it’s just about time.”

With that, he disappears into a back room. Now is the time for me to make a move. But even if I could get the drop on the guy with a gun to my head, Mr. AR-15 would hear the gunshot and come running. He’d open fire with the assault rifle and tear the place apart. He could kill everyone in the room before he needed to reload.

The eyes of the guy with the Beretta dart to the pistol on my hip, then back up to my face. I can tell what he’s thinking. He’s wondering how to disarm me. If he gets close enough to reach for the pistol, maybe I can disarm and disable him. Asking me to remove it from the holster and drop it will risk putting a gun into one of my hands, even if he insists I use the left one. Or I could leave my hands right where they are, shoulder high and far from my gun belt.

“I don’t want any trouble,” I say to the guy. “I’m going to let you walk right out of here. You don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“If anyone’s gonna get hurt, Ranger, it’s you. I hate the fucking Texas Rangers. I might kill you just ’cause I feel like it.”

The guy’s voice is rough and strained. These guys might be professionals, but this one’s nerves are shot. I need to find a way to keep him under control.

“Let me remind you,” I say, maintaining a steady, calm voice, “killing a Texas Ranger is capital murder. They’ll give you the needle for it.”

In other states, death-row inmates die of old age while their lawyers delay their sentences with endless appeals. But this is Texas, which executed more people last year than every other state combined.

The hand holding the gun trembles slightly.

“It’s also capital murder,” I say, “to kill someone during the execution of a robbery. If you shoot anyone today, anyone at all, that’s a death sentence. Automatically.”

I’ve scared him, which isn’t necessarily a good thing.

“You and your partner are free to go,” I assure him. “I don’t care about the money you’re stealing. Maybe you’ll get caught at a later date. Maybe you’ll get away with it. That’s not my problem today. What I care about is that no one gets hurt.”

I can’t gauge the impact of my words. The guy watches as his partner lugs two loaded duffel bags, one on each shoulder. He hauls them up onto the counter and then, like a bank robber in a movie, climbs atop the marble. He stands and shoulders the assault rifle, swinging it around at the people standing in the lobby.

Some are crying. Some are shaking. All of them look scared to death.

“All right,” Mr. AR-15 announces, breath heaving from carrying the bags, “since we had the bad luck of a Texas Ranger walking in on us, we’re going to have to take us a hostage.”

“There’s no need to take any hostages,” I say. “I’m going to let you walk right out of here.”

“We seen you circle the parking lot,” he says. “We know there’s another Ranger out there. We need some insurance we won’t be followed.”

Mr. AR-15 looks overly confident, crazed almost. But his partner, Mr. Beretta—I can tell he’s spooked. His eyes bulge in his mask. And his arm is getting tired, too. His gun hand is shaking more and more.

“If you have to take anyone,” I say, “take me.”





Chapter 3



MR. AR-15 GIVES me a look that says he’s considering my request.

“I’ve got handcuffs on my belt,” I say. “Put them on me. Get one of the tellers to give you a canvas money bag to put over my head. I won’t see a thing. You can leave me wherever you want once you know you’re safe.”

His eyes drop from my face to the belt at my waist. The cuffs are on one side, the loaded gun on the other. He knows he won’t be safe as long as I’m armed.

“Ain’t gonna happen, Ranger,” he says. “We’re gonna take us one of these pretty little customers. The kind that they’ll put all over the news, saying, ‘Those damn Texas Rangers fucked up and got that little girl killed.’”

He uses his assault rifle as a pointer. “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe,” he says.

Each person cringes as the gun aims at them before moving on.

“You are it,” he says finally, aiming the rifle at the youngest person in the room, a pretty girl who can’t be eighteen. She lets out a sob, and her eyes swim with tears.

I have to do something.

And I have to do it now.

Mr. AR-15 bends his knees like he’s going to hop down off the counter, but my best chance—my only chance—depends on keeping him above the rest of the crowd. It will be safer for all of the bystanders if I’m shooting upward.

“Wait!” I yell as loudly as I can.