Texas Outlaw (Rory Yates #2)(32)

He turns to Ariana and says, “Ms. Delgado.”

“You can call me Detective Delgado,” she says.

“Of course,” he says dismissively.

Gareth, now standing, approaches and gives my hand a shake like we’re old buddies. Like before, he has chew in his lip and a pistol on his hip.

“Sorry about giving you a hard time at the bar the other night,” he says, almost sincerely. “I get competitive when I know there’s a badass around.”

I tell him it’s no problem, but then I see Carson McCormack has a strange twinkle in his eye.

“Speaking of competitive,” he says. “When we heard you were coming to see us, we had an idea.”

“Who told you we were coming?” Ariana asks.

“Oh, the chief might have mentioned it.”

“What did you have in mind?” I say, trying to hide how pissed I am that John Grady Harris tipped off McCormack.

McCormack smiles devilishly.

“How about a little shooting contest?”





Chapter 41



I TELL McCORMACK there’s no way I’m going to compete in a shooting contest with his son.

“That’s too bad,” he says. “There’s no way we’re going to talk to you without a lawyer present. Unfortunately, my lawyer is in Houston, so it might take a week or so to get him out here.”

The message is clear. If I play along, they’ll answer our questions today. If I don’t, they’ll use all their legal power—and McCormack probably has a lot of it—to stonewall us for as long as they can.

“Don’t do it, Rory,” Ariana says. “This is stupid.”

I know I’m playing right into their hands, but I want answers today, not next week.

“Sure,” I say. “What the heck?”

I can feel Ariana’s disapproval in her stare. Carson tells the ATV driver that he’s excused, and a minute later, we hear his ATV fire up and whine away.

The father and son lead Ariana and me over to the shooting tables. McCormack opens a cooler and offers me a bottle of TexaCola, which I decline. There are a few empties standing on the table with the cooler and an ammunition box. A bumblebee buzzes around the mouths of the bottles.

Gareth takes a bottle, drinks, and says, “Let me show you my baby.”

On the table sits an M24 rifle, the military version of the Remington 700. It has a telescopic sight and is mounted on a bipod to keep the barrel steady. The stock is covered by a sleeve with narrow sheathings to hold the cartridges.

Gareth slides back the bolt and opens the breech. He takes out one of the cartridges, which is almost three inches long, and slides it into the chamber.

“You ever shot an M24?” he says.

“No.”

“Well,” he says, sounding disappointed, “this won’t be much of a competition, then.”

Carson hands me the binoculars so I can see what we’re shooting at. Way out in the range, they’ve set up a folding table with a line of milk jugs. A couple have already exploded from Gareth’s earlier practice, but two remain untouched.

“That’s a thousand yards,” Carson says.

Ten football fields.

A bullet travels faster than the speed of sound but not faster than the speed of light. That means, at this distance, if you were on the other end of the range, you’d see the muzzle flash first. Then at least a second later, maybe a fraction more, you’d feel the bullet hit you. Only a full second after that would you actually hear the gun go off.

That’s how far away the milk jugs are.

Gareth goes first. He sits in his chair, pulls the rifle against his shoulder, and snugs his eye close to the sight. His body goes as still as a statue.

When the rifle goes off, the report is muffled by the ear protection we’re all wearing. In a moment like this—waiting for a bullet to fly one thousand yards—you understand just how long one second can be.

Then one of the jugs explodes, sending white liquid splattering all over the table. Dust bursts from the berm behind the target.

Carson applauds.

“Nice shot,” I say.

That’s an understatement. I’ve seen videos of men doing milk jug challenges. Someone who’s a good shot, a great shot, might need ten tries to hit a milk jug at this range, and that’s with spotters advising him where each shot goes—high, low, left, right—and how to make adjustments.

Even though Gareth was practicing this morning, the fact that he hit a bull’s-eye the first time he squeezed the trigger is nothing short of incredible.

“Your turn,” Gareth says, ejecting a round and reloading.

I sit down and bring the rifle to my shoulder. I’m being set up to fail. We all know it. The rifle hasn’t been sighted for me. If they gave me ten shots, instead of just one, I might have a chance. Even then, someone who is a practiced sniper would probably need more than that to adjust the gun to his own eyes and body—and then he might need ten more to actually hit the target. I’ve never taken a shot at longer than half this distance.

Still, I’m going to give it my best shot—literally.

The cheek rest and length of the stock are adjustable, and I ask Gareth if I can move them. I take my time, making adjustments so the rifle feels right in my arms. They wanted the theater of a shooting competition, so I’m giving it to them.