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  Praise for Reavis Z. Wortham and His Novels

  “Reavis Z. Wortham is the real thing.”

  —C. J. Box

  “The most riveting thriller all year!”

  —John Gilstrap

  “A masterful and entertaining storyteller.”

  —Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

  “Entertaining and emotionally engaging.”

  —T. Jefferson Parker

  “Wortham combines the gonzo sensibility of Joe R. Lansdale and the elegiac mood of To Kill a Mockingbird to strike just the right balance between childhood innocence and adult horror.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Populated with richly drawn characters, good and (deliciously) evil, and propelled by some of the best dialog you’ll find in thriller writing today.

  A true winner!”

  —Jeffrey Deaver

  “Reavis Z. Wortham doubles down. Aces high.”

  —Craig Johnson

  “A hidden gem of a book that reads like Craig Johnson’s Longmire mysteries on steroids.”

  —Jon Land

  “Reavis Z. Wortham has once more made this literary (Texas) terrain all his own . . . This is a ripping good tale.”

  —Jan Reid

  “Not just scary but funny too, as Wortham nails time and place in a sure-handed, captivating way. There’s a lot of good stuff in this unpretentious gem. Don’t miss it.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “A gritty, dark, and suspenseful Western with a final explosive showdown that kept me turning the pages late into the night to see who would survive.”

  —Jamie Freveletti

  “Loaded with healthy doses of humor, adventure, and intrigue, populated by a remarkable cast of characters both good and bad, and featuring one heck of an electrifying climax.”

  —Owen Laukkanen

  “Wortham is a masterful and entertaining storyteller.”

  —Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

  “Fast-paced, darkly comic, and leavened with bursts of shocking violence.”

  —Texas Books in Review

  “This is a well-crafted, atmospheric crime novel full of surprises that’s tough to put down; some of the intriguing characters will linger long after the last page is turned.”

  —Lansing State Journal

  “A sleeper that deserves wider attention.”

  —The New York Times

  “The cinematic characters have substance and a pulse. They walk off the page and talk Texas.”

  —Dallas Morning News

  “Captivating characters and an authentic Texas twang.”

  —Library Journal

  ALSO BY REAVIS Z. WORTHAM

  The Rock Hole

  Burrows

  The Right Side of Wrong

  Vengeance Is Mine

  Dark Places

  Unraveled

  Doreen’s 24 Hour Eat Gas Now Cafe

  HAWKE’S PREY

  A SONNY HAWKE THRILLER

  REAVIS Z. WORTHAM

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  ALSO BY REAVIS Z. WORTHAM

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Chapter 115

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Teaser chapter

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 Wortham and Wortham, LLC.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-0-7860-4176-3

  First electronic edition: July 2017

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4177-0

  ISBN-10: 0-7860-4177-3

  To the love of my life, Shana Kay.

  Chapter 1

>   A low-pressure front pulled a cold white blanket across the West Texas high-desert landscape. The mercury dropped in a way the residents hadn’t seen in over a hundred years.

  Heavy snow falling on a thick glaze of black ice almost obscured the temporary Border Patrol check station on U.S. 90. It sat astride the smothered two-lane road running between Ballard and Marathon, funneling the westbound lane to the wide, flat shoulder. The most recent tracks through the station were almost covered by fresh snow.

  “Asi, mierda!”

  Mean as a rattlesnake and twice as likely to strike, the dark-complected driver slowed the dull white Ford conversion van. He straightened from his slump in the captain’s chair as they approached the checkpoint. The weather at first surprised, then pleased him, though it made driving treacherous. The snow covering the slick surface gave them enough traction to reach Ballard. Had it been nothing but freezing rain, they might have wound up sliding into a ditch.

  An attractive young woman with silky black hair rode in the other captain’s chair. Both wore untucked and oversized Pendleton shirts.

  The woman hadn’t taken her eyes off the road since the black ice first appeared back in Ft. Stockton. She tensed at the sight of the check station and leaned forward. “I can’t believe they’re out here in this.”

  The driver stole a quick peek at the dimple in the corner of her mouth and turned his attention back to the road. “Me neither. This is the one reason we didn’t come in from the south.” Their plan was to avoid the permanent Border Patrol stations between the Texas border and the towns of Alpine and Marathon. “There’s no telling when and where those bastards are going to show up.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at the passengers in the rear, then faced forward and spoke with a soft Spanish accent. “Stay quiet and follow our lead.”

  The tips of orange cones protruding from deepening drifts of white choked the van off the highway and into a narrow lane manned by five Border Patrol agents. A sandwich sign marked an open area on the wide, flat shoulder as the “Secondary Inspection.” Beyond that, a five-strand barbed-wire fence separated the highway property from a ranch.

  Agents in bulky green clothing warmed themselves in a tight group in front of a roaring portable heater that melted a wide semicircle in the fluff. The only tracks beyond that were foot trails around two white Border Patrol Tahoes parked parallel to the highway.

  The television blared to life behind the couple, filling the van’s interior with the deafening sound of an animated kid’s movie. The woman’s smooth face twisted in anger and she jabbed her forefinger at the driver’s face. “I’ve had it with this trip! As soon as we get home, I’m filing for divorce. It’ll be just you and these kids back there when I’m gone, then what are you gonna do?”

  He steered into the funnel of orange cones. An agent stepped forward and held up a hand. Four others closed in and took up positions around the vehicle. The driver slammed the transmission into park. “I told you a vacation down here was a stupid idea!”

  The woman glared across the van, thumbed the switch to lower the electric window. “They’re your relatives! I don’t want to stay with them!”

  Her shrill voice boiled out in a rush of warm air and reached the reluctant backup agents who waited with their hands buried deep in the pockets of their parkas. Well-trained and hard-eyed, they were nevertheless victims of boredom and repetition, the same creeping malady known to lawmen and soldiers throughout the world. An uneventful month and the intense cold were the final ingredients to make the team complacent.

  The driver lowered his own window, hung an elbow out the side, and rolled his eyes at the agent closest to the door. He spoke without an accent. “Want to trade places?”

  The young commanding officer glanced at the driver, keeping one eye on the Belgian Malinois German shepherd at the end of the leash in Agent Baker’s hand. The three-year-old canine sniffed the undercarriage.

  “Good morning! I am Lieutenant Burke, United States Border Patrol,” the lieutenant recited. “You’ll only be here for a moment. How many people are in the van?”

  “Two adults and two kids.”

  As Lieutenant Burke spoke, three other men in crisp green winter gear converged on the vehicle, at the ready but listening to the conversation through the now-open windows. “Of what country are you a citizen?”

  DeVaca ran fingers through black hair combed straight back. He adjusted the horn-rimmed glasses on his nose with one finger. “We’re Americans, at least I am. My name’s Lorenzo DeVaca, but I think she’s from some other goddamn planet!”

  The senior agent, Agent Carlos Flores, stepped up to the passenger door and forced a grin off his face.

  Agent Stone stopped where he could see both the passenger side and the rear of the van, narrowing his eyes at the drawn shades behind dark, tinted windows. Taking up a position at the left rear, Agent Rivera glanced at Baker’s dog sniffing the driver’s side.

  “Y’all on vacation?” Lieutenant Burke’s questions delivered in a mild tone weren’t casual conversation. They were designed to elicit a specific response.

  “Yeah. Some vacation.”

  If the travelers stumbled, looked away, or gave any of the signals the agents were trained to look for, the lieutenant would ask them to proceed to the parking area for an inspection. “Where do you folks call home?”

  DeVaca turned his full attention toward Burke. “Dallas, Texas, and this . . . this wife of mine is from Ft. Worth.” He adjusted the glasses again. At the same time, his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror toward the darkness behind him.

  The woman unsnapped her seat belt and twisted toward the rear and into a wall of sound from the television blaring Finding Dory. “You kids turn that shit down right now! No! I got a better idea. Get out. All y’all get out!”

  She yanked at the door handle as DeVaca unsnapped his own seat belt. He grabbed for her arm and missed. “Dorothy! If you get out of this van, don’t think you’re getting back in!”

  Burke’s smile disappeared and he held out a hand. The fun was over. “Passenger! Ma’am, please stay in your vehicle!” His eyes returned to the dog sniffing without interest at the van’s undercarriage.

  Dorothy kicked her door open. “Kids, get out. Your father can go on ahead without us. We’ll be safe here with these nice men.”

  The situation was spinning out of control. Burke pointed a finger at Flores. “Stop her.”

  Flores put his hand on the door, preventing it from opening all the way. “Ma’am, y’all need to stay inside.”

  The agents who’d been lounging near the big heater drifted toward the van to see the show, snickering and elbowing each other like junior high school kids watching the class cutup work his magic.

  The van’s side cargo door slid back, startling Agent Flores. He stepped forward to catch the handle. “Hey kids, y’all don’t get out.”

  Lieutenant Burke reacted to DeVaca’s partially open door and backpedaled from the argument unraveling right before his very eyes. “Driver, I said, do not—”

  In seconds, a dozen things happened. Sharp cracks bit off the order as DeVaca produced a pistol from underneath his shirttail and fired. The 9mm rounds from a Glock 17 cut through Burke’s jacket, but most were stopped by the agent’s tactical vest underneath. He grunted, fumbling for his weapon with a broken right arm that refused to cooperate.

  Dorothy produced a similar Glock from under her shirt and pulled the trigger. The first rounds slammed Flores in the chest, but as he fell back, the soft-nosed bullets stitched up his neck and face, blowing great gouts of blood across the white carpet behind him.

  DeVaca dropped the pistol into the seat beside his leg and snatched up a CZ EVO 3A Scorpion from the floorboard. He twisted, planted his right foot against the front of the well-step, and spun to his left. Using the van’s body as cover from the men behind him, he squeezed the trigger. The machine pistol awoke with the sound of a manic sewing machine.

  The dog handler f
umbled with the leash and his weapon. The vest under his parka absorbed several of DeVaca’s rounds, but one struck Baker in the side of his throat. Blood from the mangled artery fountained against the van’s large window like red water spurting from a hose. Ignoring the agent sliding down the vehicle’s side, the killer lowered the muzzle and shot the dog.

  The sliding door on the passenger side opened and a man called Lion hosed the stunned officers with a fully automatic H&K MP5. They dropped where they stood.

  The van rocked on its springs, and the rear doors flew open. Two men dressed in ballistic vests squirted out. Nicknamed Scarecrow and the Tin Man, they poured it on agents Rivera and Stone at point-blank range with similar automatic MP5s, mowing them down from the sheer volume of firepower.

  The coordinated attack came so fast Rivera had difficulty removing both hands from his coat pockets. He barely had time to grasp the battle-slung M4 hanging on his chest before Tin Man’s bullets slammed him to the ground.

  Agent Stone fired three times, one round punching a hole in the rear bumper as he raised his weapon. Scarecrow’s stream of ball ammo ended the young man’s life.

  Gasping, Lieutenant Burke struggled to unholster a pistol with his left arm. DeVaca swiveled and squeezed the Scorpion’s trigger again. Burke soaked up half the magazine. As he stilled, Tin Man, Scarecrow, and Lion combined to form a frontal assault and cut down three more stunned agents.

  Dorothy grabbed the MP5 from the step-well on her side and added the contents of a slender thirty-round mag to the withering hail of lead. The two remaining agents dove behind the nearest Border Patrol truck, scrambling to bring their rifles into service. The terrified agents’ experience was no match for the battle-hardened mercenaries.