Texas Outlaw (Rory Yates #2)(31)

I ignore him and stare at the one with the bandaged nose.

“Hello again,” I say.

“Have we met?” he says, his voice nasal.

“You should recognize me,” I say. “I wasn’t the one wearing a mask.”

“Mister,” he says, trying to sound tough, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t call me mister,” I say. “It’s Ranger to you.”

With that, I turn to the other guy, the one closest to me, and tell him that we’re here to see Carson McCormack.

“Do you have an appointment?”

Instead of answering, I nod toward the walkie-talkie on his belt and say, “Just call him and tell him we’re here.”

“And what’s your name?” he asks as he reaches for the radio.

“Don’t act like you don’t know,” I say and face forward to wait.

The man with the walkie-talkie turns and walks away, but we can still hear him.

“The Texas Ranger is here,” he says. “He’s got that other cop with him. You know, the girl.”

A few seconds later, the guy tells us to follow him. As the gate opens, he climbs onto an ATV and zooms off.

Before I pull away, I wave the broken-nosed guard over to my door.

“Just listen to me for a second,” I say. “You don’t have to say anything that will incriminate you. Just listen.”

He takes my advice.

“You need to think about what you’re doing here,” I say. “What happened the other night, if that had gone a different way, one of us could have gotten killed.”

“I did two tours in Iraq, Ranger. I ain’t afraid of you.”

“Then maybe you should be afraid of what you’re doing here—whatever you’re doing.” I sweep my hand toward McCormack’s spread. “Serving our country in Iraq is something you ought to be proud of. But sneaking around, vandalizing cars, taking a swing at a Texas Ranger with a tire iron, I don’t see how you could take much pride in any of that.”

He smirks.

“Be all you can be,” I say and point to my driver-side door, which still has the Go home law dog message on the side. “Is this all you can be?”

His smirk disappears, but he still doesn’t say anything.

“I’m not trying to threaten you,” I say. “I can see you’re not scared of me. I’m saying you could still do the right thing.”

“What was all that about?” Ariana says as I’m driving away. “You really think you can get that guy to flip on McCormack and tell us if he had anything to do with Susan Snyder?”

“Probably not,” I say. “But I figured it was worth a try.”





Chapter 40



THE ATV IS idling on the shoulder. When the guard sees us coming, he roars forward again, leaving us to follow in a cloud of dust.

I take my time—I want to look around.

The road winds over a small hill, and we enter a work area the size of a football field full of metal buildings, valve stations, heavy equipment—a backhoe, bulldozer, dump truck, plow, tow truck—and a fleet of oil tanker trucks. I spot Dale working on one of the tankers with Skip Barnes, both of them standing on the bumper and leaning inside the open hood. I give my horn a soft beep, and when Dale looks up, I wave. Dale waves back, but Skip Barnes looks away, as if the sight of me hurts his eyes.

I decide that I need to apply some pressure to Dale. If I can get any of McCormack’s men to flip, as Ariana said, it’s going to be Dale.

As we drive away from the work area, we hear the crack of a rifle. I get a feeling we’re approaching Gareth McCormack’s shooting range.

And I feel certain that’s him taking target practice.

The ATV stops in a pullout next to a dense copse of trees along the creek. One of McCormack’s trucks is already parked there. We climb out of the truck and follow the guard through a narrow, overgrown path onto McCormack’s gun range. It’s a country club for gun enthusiasts, nothing like the flat stretch of land with an earthen backstop my dad built on our property. Here, a long concrete pad marks the firing point, covered by a shade roof. Tables beside each shooting station serve as rifle rests.

All of the shooting bays are empty except for one on the far right, where Gareth is seated, looking through a riflescope, and Carson McCormack, seated also, is looking through binoculars.

The silhouette target is so far away I can’t see it.

Both men wear ear protection, and the ATV driver calls out to them to let them know we’re here.

Carson McCormack pulls the protective earmuffs off his silver head and rises out of his seat, a big smile on his face. In his sixties, he looks a lot like his son; if not as muscular, still in good shape.

He’s dressed informally, jeans and a T-shirt, but for his bright silver python-skin cowboy boots and politician’s smile.

“Here he is,” McCormack says. “Ranger Rory Yates. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

He shakes my hand vigorously.

“I’ve been hearing so much about you,” he says. “And Gareth showed me the video of you in the bank. Very impressive. Texas is lucky to have you as a Ranger.”

He seems completely full of shit, but I act polite and appreciative of his praise.