Texas Outlaw (Rory Yates #2)(21)

An engine fires up a block away. Headlights ignite the darkness, and tires squeal. I can make out the shape of a truck, but I can’t see it clearly. The truck heads toward Main Street, and I run back through the parking lot of the motel. If it turns right on Main Street, I might be able to cut it off.

But when I get to the sidewalk, the truck is heading the other way. It’s too far away to get a good look at it. I can’t see the license plate. I can’t tell the make and model. It could be one of McCormack’s trucks, but I can’t be sure. It’s not like there’s a shortage of pickup trucks in Texas.

I watch until its taillights disappear from sight. Then it occurs to me I’m standing on the sidewalk on Main Street holding a pistol and wearing nothing but my underwear. Luckily, there are no cars on the street at this time of night.

As I walk back toward my room, I hear the hiss of air wheezing out of my punctured tire. There’s enough ambient light to read what’s been written on the side of my truck:

Go home law dog





Chapter 27



I WALK BACK inside my motel room and flip on the light. I pick up my phone and call Ariana’s cell.

“It’s three in the morning,” she says. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Can you come to my motel?” I say.

She hesitates, and I realize maybe she thinks I’m propositioning her.

“Three thugs just assaulted me,” I say.

“I’ll be right over.”

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and see red paint freckling my face and frosting my hair.

“Also,” I say, before she hangs up, “do you have any mineral spirits?”

I manage to pull on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt before she shows up five minutes later, riding in on her motorcycle and wearing jeans and an AC/DC T-shirt. She pulls off her helmet, and her hair falls down around her shoulders. Although the jeans and T-shirt she normally wears aren’t exactly formal dress, the concert T-shirt and free-flowing hair is a look that I haven’t seen before.

I like it.

“I would have been here sooner, but I had to look through my garage for this,” she says, handing me a metal container of paint thinner.

I show her the damage to my truck and explain everything that happened.

“You’re lucky,” she says.

“They’re lucky,” I say.

She gives me a look that says, Don’t be so macho. I can’t help it, though. My adrenaline has finally settled down, but I’m still damn mad.

The truth is, I was lucky, but so were they. There are a whole lot of other ways it could have gone down that would have ended up much worse for either side. If the tire iron had connected with my wrist, it would have broken bones. And if I had been able to hold on to the gun, I might have ended up shooting the guy.

Ariana and I take photographs of my truck—it’s a crime scene now—and I get out my fingerprint kit and dust the door and the hubcap. We look around for blood droplets, hoping for some DNA evidence. I’m sure I broke the guy’s nose, but the mask must have kept the blood contained.

When we’re finished documenting the crime scene, I change the flat tire. I don’t ask for her help, but Ariana gives it anyway. Afterward, as we’re wiping the grease off our hands, we notice the black sky has started to turn blue, and a faint orange glow emanates from the horizon to the east.

“Ready to get to work?” Ariana says.

“Hell yes,” I say. “It’s not a good idea to piss off a Texas Ranger.”

Ariana heads home to get ready for the day, and I stand in the gravel parking lot rubbing paint thinner on my arms and in my hair. Afterward, I go inside and take a shower, scrubbing myself with soap and water to get rid of the solvent smell.

I’m skinned up in various places: the bottoms of my feet, my knees, one elbow. I spend a few minutes rinsing the worst of the scrapes with peroxide and putting on Band-Aids.

As I get dressed—tying my tie, pulling on my boots, positioning my hat, and pinning the star to my chest—I feel like a knight putting on his armor for battle. The last piece is my gun, which I holster at my waist like I’m sheathing a sword into a scabbard. I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but as I’m getting ready for the day, I feel like a lone samurai in a Kurosawa film. The difference is in those films, the samurai or knight or western gunfighter is steely-eyed and ready, determined to overcome the obstacles in front of him.

But me?

I’m just weary.

Part of it, I think, is that the jolt of adrenaline has worn off, and my body feels like it’s ready to crawl back into bed rather than head off to work. But the other part, I realize, is that I just don’t feel ready for this. It’s been less than two weeks since the bank, and this assignment in this supposedly sleepy town might have seemed like a walk in the park at first, but it’s turning out to be anything but.

There’s something wrong in this town.

Something rotten.

When I’m finally ready to start the day, I step out onto the porch, squinting my eyes against the sunrise. It’s as if my senses are on high alert and can’t handle the bright, harsh glare of morning.

My phone buzzes.

It’s Willow.

I love her. I do. But I don’t want her worries about me to fuel the fires of self-doubt I’m feeling.