“According to the man I talked with this morning, the slaves are kept on large, isolated ranches. There are ranches in Texas, apparently, the size of small states—and run with better security. The D.A.’s office decided it would be best to bring in an outside investigator. Someone who had no ties to the area and therefore could see more clearly just how high the rot went. They hired Jonathan. He spent the last eight months working under cover, compiling hard evidence, taking testimony, and following leads. Last week Jonathan called the D.A.’s office from some little Mexican border town outside Rio Bravo. He told the D.A. he had uncovered evidence that a certain millionaire Texas rancher was not only involved in the slavery ring but had financed and equipped his own small army, which he used to acquire more land and oil rights from smaller ranchers. Jonathan told the D.A.’s office he would be sending them a four-hundred-page report within the week, complete with names, dates, incriminating documents, and eyewitness testimony.”
She sighed, swirled the Scotch in her glass, and finished. “The report never arrived, James. Jonathan apparently made it back to Houston okay. They found him very early this morning. His apartment had been ransacked. The report was gone. And Jonathan had been shot. Murdered. They found him on the floor of his study.” Her voice broke. “He wasn’t even wearing his glasses … and the poor boy couldn’t … couldn’t see a thing without his glasses.”
“I’m sorry, Andrea. I really am.”
She looked at him, her eyes moist. “The Houston D.A. says they’ll get the people who did it, James. He promised me. But he said it’ll take a long time. He said the people responsible probably have a lot of money. And you know what that means.”
Hawker’s jaw tightened. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
“James,” she went on, “I don’t think I’ve asked you for a single thing since we’ve been divorced, have I?”
“No, Andrea. I’m sorry to say you haven’t.”
Her eyes were like those of a sad young child. “I’m asking you for something now, James. I want you to go down there. I want you to find out what happened to Jonathan … and why. I’m not looking for revenge, James. But I am looking for justice. Jonathan had so much to offer … so much to give. It’s just such a damnable … waste.”
She shuddered again, and as she did she held her arms out toward Hawker, and Hawker scooped her up, holding her through the long crying jag that followed.
So what can you say to a woman who is crying? Even when she’s your ex-wife?
Nothing.
Hawker held her tenderly, stroking her hair and patting her. Finally she fell into a fitful sleep, laying there in his arms beside the fire. And then Hawker, tired by the long morning workout, also drifted off.
It seemed they awoke simultaneously. It must have still been well before noon, but the fire and the overcast sky outside made it seem later.
Hawker opened his eyes to find that he was looking deep into the liquid brown eyes of Andrea. Their noses were only inches apart, and she was smiling.
“Thanks,” she whispered. “Thanks for listening.”
“No charge, lady. Anytime.” Hawker made a move as if to get up, but she stopped him with a touch of the hand.
“And how has your love life been, Mr. James Hawker?”
Hawker felt his abdomen stir at the fresh huskiness in her voice. It was a tone he recognized.
“My love life? Dull. Bo Derek’s supposed to stop by at seven, and that Ronstadt girl—she claims to be some kind of singer—says she’ll be here at eight. That means I’ll have to hurry with Dolly. And believe me, it’s no easy job to hurry with Dolly.…”
Andrea touched her finger to his lips. “I wish mine was as dull. The last three men I’ve been interested in have been gay. Artists, you know.”
“Geez. That must be like opening an empty box at Christmas.”
“You don’t have to sound so happy about it.” She propped her head on one elbow and kissed him softly on the lips. Her mouth was moist and warm. Hawker cupped his hand behind her head and pulled her face to his and kissed her again. She seemed shy and tender at first, but then she groaned softly as she settled back on the carpet. Her mouth opened, wet and wanting, and her back arched.
He could feel the tension go out of her muscles when he touched her, and he knew that in some strange way this was to be a necessary release for her. A way of saying yes to life in the face of her brother’s death.
Hawker’s right hand slid up the rutted curvature of her ribs and found the heavy, warm weight of her breast. She groaned again and pulled him tighter to her as her own hand searched for and found the opening at the top of his jeans.
Then suddenly she was standing, her back to him. She pulled the sweater off in one fluid motion, then unbuttoned her blouse. She wore no bra, and her breasts were paler than the skin of her bare abdomen. They were full and heavy, with very long, dark nipples that strained upward.
On his knees now, Hawker unzipped her jeans and slid them down to her ankles. She stepped out of them, standing before the fire only in sheer beige panties through which he could see the black gloss of her pubic thatch.
Hawker slid the panties down as his lips traced the heat of her thighs. Andrea’s fists knotted in Hawker’s hair as his tongue found the inner depths of her, tasting the sweet mixture of sweat and salt as he lowered her once again to the carpet.
Her back arched, and her face grew flushed as she escaped into that timeless world of physical pleasure; a world that knew no pain or loss, only the inexorable drive to join, to complete, to rebuild and prevail.
Then, with a growl, she rolled away and pounced on top of him, her eyes feverish.
Her breasts hung heavily over his face, and he touched her nipples with his tongue.
“Your turn,” she purred.
“But I’m not done with you,” he protested.
“You’re damn right you’re not.”
Her hands shook as she found the zipper on his jeans and pulled his pants off. Eagerly she took him in both small hands and guided him toward her hungry mouth.
For a time she was like an animal who was starving. And Hawker could do nothing but lay there, fighting for control as the woman both used him and gave him pleasure.
“Oh, James,” she moaned as the two of them approached their third—or fourth—climax. “Oh, James. Why did we ever split up?”
Hawker stopped what he was doing for a moment and kissed her belly button. “Because,” he said, trying hard not to smile, “we couldn’t stay in bed twenty-four hours a day.”
“We could have tried,” she growled. “Why in the hell didn’t we try?”
Buy Houston Attack Now!
About the Author
Randy Wayne White was born in Ashland, Ohio, in 1950. Best known for his series featuring retired NSA agent Doc Ford, he has published over twenty crime fiction and nonfiction adventure books. White began writing fiction while working as a fishing guide in Florida, where most of his books are set. His earlier writings include the Hawker series, which he published under the pen name Carl Ramm. White has received several awards for his fiction, and his novels have been featured on the New York Times bestseller list. He was a monthly columnist for Outside magazine and has contributed to several other publications, as well as lectured throughout the United States and travelled extensively. White currently lives on Pine Island in South Florida, and remains an active member of the community through his involvement with local civic affairs as well as the restaurant Doc Ford’s Sanibel Rum Bar and Grill.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, 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, businesses, c
ompanies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1984 by Dell Publishing Co., Inc.
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2453-2
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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