Silence in the truck as they both strained to listen. And then Jon heard it again, a faint hum.
“We got company,” he informed Whitefield, turning to look out the back window. He spotted a pair of headlights coming up fast. “A pickup, it looks like, coming out of the south, possibly from Hardin’s ranch.”
“Shit.” Torres looked around. There was no time to move, so it was a matter of pure luck whether they were spotted or not.
“Whitfield, you copy?”
“Affirmative.”
This was where their ICE vehicles came in handy. It wasn’t that unusual to see border agents trucking through the desert in the middle of the night. The real problem was that if anyone spotted them, they’d abort the meeting, and Jon’s team would miss a much-needed chance to gather intel.
The engine drew closer. Jon watched in the rearview mirror as the twin beams bumped over the landscape. The truck came within fifty yards of their location and zipped past without slowing.
“Whitfield, he’s coming your way,” Torres said. “It’s a pickup.”
Jon shoved the truck into gear and followed the taillights, keeping his own lights off and maintaining a safe distance. He skimmed the horizon, looking for the low canyon Whitfield had mentioned, but it was too dark to make anything out.
“Whitfield, there’s a pickup moving toward you,” Torres repeated. “You copy?”
“Shit.”
“What is it, Whitfield?”
“I’m lit up like a Christmas tree. They definitely spotted me. Everyone’s bugging out.”
Jon hit the brake. There was a sudden flash of light as one of the trucks veered in their direction, then abruptly changed course.
“We’re burned, too,” Torres said into the radio. He looked at Jon. “What do you want to do?”
Jon spotted the white Tahoe and punched the gas. Torres picked up the radio.
“Tell him to follow the Tahoe,” Jon ordered. “We need that tag.”
Torres relayed the message as Jon checked the mirrors and saw two pairs of red taillights disappearing into the night, along with whatever intel they might have gleaned from this meeting.
Unless they could ID the Tahoe.
Jon switched on his strobes.
Torres looked at him. “You’re gonna pull him over?”
“That’s the plan.”
The Tahoe sped up. Jon floored it.
“Looks like he doesn’t want to talk to us.”
They jerked and bounced over the terrain. Jon tried to close the distance.
“Where’s the road?” Torres fiddled with the GPS as the engine whined and Jon edged closer.
The Tahoe veered south suddenly. Jon did the same, following the bobbing red taillights over the prairie. He barreled over low bushes and cacti, still keeping an eye out for boulders.
Jon glanced down at the navigation system. “He’s going for the highway. Tell Whitfield to get ahead of us and head him off.”
Torres relayed the message as they lurched over the uneven ground. Jon pushed his speed, trying to get close enough to read the tag, but they were too far away and the ride was bumpy. Torres took out the binocs.
“Anything?” Jon demanded.
“No.”
Jon checked his speed. He was doing forty-five, but it felt faster with all the dips and rises. Once they reached the highway, he could open up the V8 and overtake them, but out here they were limited.
Jon tracked them doggedly through the scrubland. The brush grew thicker, funneling everyone into a tighter and tighter gap as they neared the road. Jon glanced at the GPS and tried to gauge how much farther.
They hit a rise and caught air, all four tires off the ground. Jon gripped the wheel, bracing himself as they crashed down and immediately hit a bump.
The wheel jerked right. Jon fought for control as they skidded across the dirt.
“Watch out!”
He swerved, missing a boulder. He pulled the wheel, but the truck was listing left.
“I hit something.” Jon slowed and felt the rhythmic limp of a flat tire. He glanced up at the red taillights receding into the darkness. He pressed the gas and heard a metallic screech.
“Dude, you’re on the rim.”
Jon rolled to a halt and pounded the steering wheel. He grabbed the radio.
“Whitfield, we have a blowout. You copy?”
Nothing.
Torres muttered a curse.
“Whitfield, you copy? You need to stay in pursuit. We need that license plate.”
Static. Jon looked at Torres as a scratchy voice came over the radio.
“I think they”—static—“them.”
“You’re breaking up. Repeat?”
“I said I’m on the highway.”
“Where’s the Tahoe?”
“Nowhere. I lost them.”
chapter four
ANDREA WATCHED THE DOOR and waited, annoyed. She’d never been one for surveillance work—she was too impatient. She glanced around the parking lot to make sure she hadn’t attracted notice, but the car wash was busy. No one seemed to be paying attention to the woman leaning casually against the building, watching the truck stop across the street.
She looked at the door as it whisked open and Hardin finally stepped out. She lifted her camera and framed the shot. He had a case of beer in one hand and he was looking the wrong direction, but when he veered toward his truck—
Snap.
Money shot.
Snap, snap, snap.
Three more, just to be sure. She lowered the camera and simply looked. He turned suddenly, as if sensing her gaze.
She held her breath, didn’t move. He couldn’t see her—she was in shadows. And she had a ball cap pulled low over her face. His gaze darted away as he climbed into his truck and fired up the engine.
He peeled out, and she waited a full three minutes before crossing the lot to her Jeep, where she scrolled through the shots. His face was clearly visible and she even got the tattoo on his neck. Mission accomplished.
She motored across town and swung into the grocery to pick up a few things before returning to the Lazy Dayz Inn, which somehow managed to look worse in the light of morning.
Pulling in, she surveyed the low adobe building. By any standard, the place was a dump. But it was within her budget, so she’d been willing to put up with gritty carpet and ice cubes that tasted like rust. She parked and shoved open the door. Reaching for her groceries, she felt a hot zing of pain.
Son of a bitch.
She took a moment to blink it away. Her rib was broken. Either that or severely bruised. Gingerly, she reached across the console and collected the bags.
“Looks like you plan to stay awhile.”
She turned to see Jon North standing there, backlit by the sun. The sight of him made her heart do a little jump.
She told herself it was the thigh holster.
“You always sneak up on people?” She yanked her keys from the ignition and slid out of the Jeep.
He didn’t answer, just stood there blocking her way. He wore desert-brown A.T.A.C. boots, tactical pants, and a navy ICE shirt that stretched taut over his pecs. Except for the aviator shades, he looked nothing like the polished FBI agent who’d shown up at her apartment two days ago.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“About what?”
“Not here.”
She glanced at her motel room door.
“Not there, either. Come on.”
He crossed the lot to a dusty white pickup that had the Immigration and Customs Enforcement logo emblazoned on the door.
Andrea sighed. She glanced down at her groceries. She hadn’t bought perishables because her room didn’t have a fridge. So she left everything on the seat, grabbed her coffee, and joined him at his truck, where he was already waiting with the engine running. He started backing out before she even closed the door.
The truck was full of gadgets—radio, GPS, notebook computer on an arm attached
to the console. Exactly like their police units in Austin, except the inside didn’t smell like vomit, and the equipment was from this millennium.
“Must be nice working for Homeland Security.” She wedged her coffee into the drink holder.
He glanced in her direction, but she couldn’t read his eyes because of the sunglasses. “I thought I told you to stay away from Shay Hardin.”
She adjusted the vent in front of her. “I think you have me confused with someone who works for you.”
He turned onto the highway heading east out of town.
Andrea fiddled with the switches on the dash until a puff of warm air shot from the vents. She leaned back against the seat and made a futile attempt to get comfortable.
“I could have you arrested. You realize that? You’re interfering with a federal investigation.”
She stared out the window as the arid landscape whisked by. Everything looked yellow and thirsty. So many barbed-wire fences, so few cattle. The Black Angus she had seen were rangy and underfed.
For three years running, this county had been ravaged by drought, and her heart went out to the ranchers. Not everyone was lucky enough to have liquid gold lurking under their property.
“Well?”
She turned to look at him and noticed the tightness of his jaw, the tense set of his shoulders. “You want me to say something? How about this, North? You’re full of crap. You can’t have me arrested for anything. I haven’t broken any laws.” She glanced out the window as he eased onto the shoulder. “Where are we going?”
Instead of answering, he swung onto a narrow dirt road that bisected a wide, open field dotted with creosote bushes and cacti. A couple of black pump jacks bobbed in the distance.
“Shay Hardin is under investigation for murder.” He cut a glance at her. “Are you aware of that?”
She stared ahead as they bumped over the ruts. She’d been snooping around for days trying to figure out what the feds wanted with Hardin—and if her brother had anything to do with it. She’d considered a range of possibilities but murder hadn’t made the list.
“Sounds like the sheriff’s bag,” she said. “Why’s the FBI involved?”
“The victim was a federal judge.”
“Who?”
“Arthur Kimball. Of the Western District Court.”
Andrea frowned. “I don’t remember hearing about it.”
“This happened July fourth, six years ago.”
Six summers ago, Andrea had been at the police academy. The training had lasted thirty-two hellacious weeks, and it had kicked her ass. She remembered the bruises and blisters and aching muscles. She’d hardly had the energy to crawl into bed that summer, much less watch the news.
“Think I missed the headline.” She paused and looked at him. “You really think Hardin killed him?”
He pulled up to an oil derrick and shoved the gearshift into park. “Yes.” He climbed out.
Andrea followed. She glanced up at the enormous steel structure looming over her. It looked like a cell-phone tower, only bulkier. She’d always imagined oil wells as loud and dirty, but this one was silent, clearly out of operation for some reason.
North trekked over to a wooden trailer. He mounted a few steps and yanked open the door.
Andrea glanced around. Another dusty ICE vehicle was parked off to the side, in the shade of the building. She reached under her leather jacket and touched the pancake holster at the small of her back. Her department had confiscated her service pistol as part of the investigation, so she was down to her backup weapon, a Kimber Ultra Carry II, which was compact enough not to be noticed by the untrained eye.
She had no doubt North had noticed it.
She followed his path up the steps and opened the door. The inside of the trailer was cold and dim, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust.
A man stood on the opposite side of the room, leaning against the cheap wood paneling. Latino, medium height, medium build. Like North, he wore a T-shirt with the ICE logo on the front. He had his arms folded over his chest and was watching her with a look of guarded curiosity.
North was watching her, too. He’d taken off his shades now, and she could see the impatience in his eyes.
She took her time looking around. What had once probably been the headquarters of a drilling operation was now some sort of comm center. In the middle of the room was a makeshift table made of sawhorses and a sheet of plywood. Several laptops were open on it, their screens facing away from her. A computer and a printer occupied a desk against the far wall. A faint noise drew her attention to the corner, where a police scanner sat atop a file cabinet.
“Have a seat.” North nodded at a metal folding chair.
Andrea propped her shoulder against the wall beside the door. “I’m good.”
He gave the other guy a look Andrea had seen before from countless male colleagues. See? Didn’t I tell you she was a pain in the ass?
North dropped into a chair by the table. He leaned back and scrubbed his hands over his face. It was the gesture of someone who was supremely tired. Maybe she wasn’t the only one who hadn’t slept much last night.
He sighed. “Andrea Finch, meet Special Agent James Torres.”
The man nodded in her direction.
“You’re undercover, too, I assume?”
Another nod.
“Hey, what happened to your lip?” North leaned forward.
Andrea touched her mouth, where it was still raw and swollen. “I bit it.”
His gaze narrowed, and she could tell he didn’t believe her. She didn’t care. She shifted her attention back to Torres.
With just two brief nods, he’d conveyed some important facts. One, they trusted her, which was interesting because they didn’t have a reason to, as far as she could see. Undercover operations were some of the most dangerous activities in law enforcement. Andrea had been involved in more than her share as a newbie detective on the Austin vice team, where her slight build and young face had convinced plenty of johns and drug addicts that she was the real deal. It was dangerous work, and it could quickly become deadly if your contacts discovered you weren’t who you said you were.
The second thing it told her was that they wanted something. Otherwise, why share even the slightest bit of information?
She glanced at North. The tired look was gone now, and he was watching her with a hawklike gaze.
“You were right,” he said. “I can’t really arrest you.”
She waited.
“I would like to request, though, as a fellow law-enforcement officer, that you get the hell out of our way.”
Andrea sighed. “Look, North—”
“It’s Jon,” he said. “That’s my real first name. And I’d prefer you use it, because I gave you my real last name in Austin, and I don’t need that leaking out. Far as anyone here knows, it’s Jon Nolan and Jimmy Garcia. We’d like to keep it that way.”
“Understood.”
“Good,” Jon said. “We’d also like it if you’d go back to your motel, pack your stuff, and head back to Austin.”
“Not happening.”
He and Torres exchanged looks.
“I want some answers first.” She balled her fists in the pockets of her jacket and watched them carefully. “I want to know about the judge.”
“What about him?”
“Tell me about your murder case.”
He watched her, clearly debating how much to say. Maybe he thought if he answered a few questions, she’d back off. She hoped that was what he thought, but it couldn’t have been farther from the truth. Something was seriously off about this setup, and she wasn’t going anywhere until she knew what it was. And even when she did figure it out, she wasn’t going anywhere until she was totally convinced that her brother was not involved.
Jon leaned back in his chair. “Judge Kimball supposedly died in a hunting accident six years ago.”
“Supposedly?”
“That’s what the family mai
ntains. The ME ruled it a suicide.”
“And you’re not convinced?”
“We think he was murdered,” Torres said.
“We know he was,” Jon corrected. “We just have to prove it.”
Andrea watched Jon carefully. He sounded sure of himself. She wanted to know what his evidence was, but instinct told her not to ask. At least, not yet. Right now, he was in sharing mode, but that could shut down at any moment.
“Why would Hardin want to kill this judge?”
“Vendetta,” Jon said.
“About what?”
“Shortly before his death, Kimball ruled on a case of eminent domain. A chunk of land owned by Hardin’s parents was designated to be used for a highway project. They were forced to sell for a fraction of the land’s real value. Then they fell on hard times.”
“Hardin’s dad died of a heart attack a year later,” Torres said. “And now his mom’s in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s.”
She looked at Jon. “He blamed the judge for her Alzheimer’s?”
“Hardin sees the court case as the cause of his parents’ plight,” Jon said. “Ever since then, he’s had a deep-rooted hatred for the federal government. He’s made threats, fired off letters to newspapers. In the months before the judge’s death, Hardin had been following him around. He’d been calling his house, harassing his wife.”
“Doesn’t mean he killed him.”
Jon didn’t bite. He wasn’t going to share whatever evidence he had, and Andrea didn’t blame him. Most investigators she knew played it close to the vest until they had enough for a warrant. Obviously, they didn’t have that, or they wouldn’t be here.
She glanced around the room and noted the map tacked to the wall. It looked to have been created from a satellite image. She studied the red outline someone had drawn with a marker and recognized the shape of Pecos County. Several red pushpins were clustered near the site of Lost Creek Ranch. She recognized the juncture of two dirt roads—the precise location where she’d been jumped by a booted assailant last night.
Going out there in person to gather info had been a little risky. Armed trespassers weren’t looked on kindly around here, even by law enforcement. She was lucky she’d gotten off with some scrapes and bruises and not an ass full of buckshot.
Far Gone Page 4
