He supports me in every single thing I do, large and small.
He can make me laugh till I can’t breathe.
But most of all, he stuck by my side and helped get me through the darkest period of my life. He led me to a light at the end of it that I never thought I’d see again.
And oh, yeah—he looks sexy as hell in his freshly pressed suit.
“…let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”
I gaze out at the people seated all around us, many of whom have trekked from far and wide to our beloved family farm, this small group of our very nearest and dearest, everyone smiling big despite the scorching August Texas sunshine.
As I scan all the faces, I become aware of just how much a true family affair this wedding is.
I’m standing under a wooden trellis built by my brother Hank, decorated with local wildflowers picked and arranged beautifully by his wife, Debbie.
My brother Stevie walked me down the aisle—and I could have sworn I heard the manly retired Marine sniffle.
My “something old” is my own late mother’s wedding veil, as light and silky as a spider’s web, which we’d kept tucked in the attic all these years.
My “something new” is a lacy garter, given to me by my sister-in-law, Kim, at the tame but hugely fun bachelorette party picnic she threw for me last weekend.
My “something borrowed” is a pair of earrings lent by my future mother-in-law, a warm and caring woman I’ve grown so close with.
And my “something blue”…well, that one wasn’t quite so easy. It’s tucked into my corset. Its metal edge is pressing gently but firmly into the skin above my heart.
How fitting, I think.
It’s a silvery-blue matchbox car that used to belong to Alex.
As a little boy, he played with it constantly. “Blueberry,” he called it. Some children have blankets or stuffed animals they carry around for comfort. My son had a tiny toy car named after his favorite fruit.
And now I’m the one carrying it around for comfort. A reminder that, even in the happiest of moments, a part of me will always be in pain.
But also a reminder that, even though Alex is no longer with us in person, he is with me on this day.
He is with me every day.
“Who gives this woman to be married to this man?”
Stevie steps forward. “I do.”
With a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and a whispered “Love ya, sis,” he delivers me to my future husband.
And then comes the big finish.
“Do you, Margaret Elizabeth, take—”
“Her friends just call her Molly, Pastor,” my fiancé says with a big smile. Laughs all around.
“Do you, Molly,” our officiant says with a warm grin.
I hear an excited rustling from the crowd behind me. The snap of photographs. This is everyone’s favorite part of a wedding. Mine, too.
“…take this man to be your lawful wedded husband?”
The pastor continues—but my body suddenly tenses with a flicker of panic.
That one word: lawful.
The law. The police. That caravan of Feds that sped into town weeks ago.
My “hell of a plan” is so close to being pulled off—but the cops are closing in on us even faster than I thought!
We can’t get caught, I think. Not now. Not ever. We’ve come so far. We’ve risked so much. To lose it all now—no, no, no—
“…for as long as you both shall live?”
Those familiar words snap me out of my inner panic. I try to compose myself. Those few seconds, I can tell, feel to the congregation like an eternity. What’s she thinking? they must be wondering. Is she having second thoughts?
Far from it.
I want the next words I speak to be completely untarnished. All those years ago, I said them halfheartedly, with doubt and trepidation.
Not this time.
“I do,” I finally say in a sweet whisper, my eyes welling with joyful tears.
“I absolutely do.”
4 minutes, 30 seconds
“Consider each and every one of ’em heavily armed…and willing to die.”
In Mason’s almost twenty years with the FBI, he’s used that phrase to describe a group of suspects only a handful of times.
Once was a radical antigovernment militia group holed up in the punishing Belmont Mountains in western Arizona.
Another time was an Islamic terrorist cell suspected of plotting to blow up a skyscraper in downtown San Antonio.
A third was a band of ex–Mexican Special Forces operatives hired by a Sonora drug cartel to smuggle thirty-six million dollars’ worth of cocaine into Corpus Christi via a decommissioned Soviet submarine. Yes, a submarine.
Now Mason was in dusty little Hobart, Texas, population just over ten thousand, applying that label to a ragtag group of bank robbers and horse-auction plunderers—not to mention suspected gunrunners, drug dealers, and money launderers.
In the past few weeks, Mason explains to his audience, the case has progressed even more rapidly. The Shell station where the anonymous phone call was placed had plenty of security cameras…but they were pointed only at the pumps and inside the convenience store—not at the pay phone out back. (“What’s the damn point of even having them,” Mason grumbled at hearing the news, “if you can’t see everything?”)
Still, the cashier on duty that afternoon remembered the caller well, and was able to provide a vivid description. A sketch was quickly distributed to police stations, post offices, and local newspapers all around the region. Before long, sightings began pouring in.
Right now, Mason is standing at the front of a giant rectangular room, a VFW hall located on the edge of Hobart’s meager downtown. The heels of his cowboy boots click softly on the beige linoleum floor as he paces back and forth, making eye contact with each and every person seated in front of him.
The last time Mason held a multiagency briefing like this, it was in a cramped conference room in a rural police station near the Texas–Oklahoma border.
Today, four times that number of agents, sheriffs, rangers, and officers are gathered around and can still all barely fit.
But that’s not the only difference.
This briefing isn’t solely informational.
It’s also tactical.
“We believe,” Mason says, “the suspects are based on a farm just a few miles from here. Two or more may be blood relatives.”
On the white screen behind him is projected a giant and scarily high-resolution aerial photograph of the rolling land in question: multiple acres of dirt and grass, a few scattered structures (including a small woodshed), and a short driveway leading to a modest farmhouse.
“County records say they’ve owned the land for decades,” Mason continues. “Generations, even. And yet…”
Mason nods at Special Agent Emma Rosenberg, a nerdy, high-strung analyst on loan from the Bureau’s forensic accounting and financial crimes unit—basically a CPA with a badge and gun. She simply blinks at Mason, confused, a deer in the headlights…until she realizes he wants her to speak.
“Uh, yes, right, I apologize,” Rosenberg says nervously, adjusting her chunky plastic-framed glasses. “My investigation has concluded that in twelve of the past sixteen fiscal quarters, following inspection of each putative resident’s aggregate fiscal assets and gross incomes, having compared them against the estate’s total liability, taxable and otherwise—”
“Aw, just spit it out, Agent Poindexter!” says good old Ranger Kim with a smirk. He’s leaning against a side wall, packing a wad of chewing tobacco behind his leathery bottom lip.
Agent Rosenberg bristles. She’s a prim New Englander offended by this Texan’s attitude. “These people,” she replies curtly, a bit of a chill in her voice now, “pay far more in property taxes, upkeep, and bank fees than they earn in reported income.”
“In other words,” Mason says, stepping in to pick up the thread, “they’re spending mone
y they’re not supposed to have. They’re criminals. Now…”
He turns back to the projected image of the farm, using a red laser pointer to point out specific sections and features.
“As you can see from this drone surveillance photograph taken around five this morning, the compound has exactly zero unguarded points of entry. Nothing but high fences, long ranges of sight, and little cover. Entry’s not gonna be easy, even if they weren’t armed to the teeth with assault rifles.”
“Nothing my boys can’t handle, Chief.”
That growl of a voice belongs to Agent Lee Taylor, a grizzled and unshakable former Green Beret and current commander of the FBI’s El Paso SWAT team. Given the enormous risks of the upcoming farm raid, he’s made the four-hundred-mile trek to plan the mission and oversee his men personally. And Mason’s damn glad to have him here.
After a grateful nod to Taylor, Mason cues the final slide: an array of photographs of the multiple male suspects, each scarier-looking than the next.
“These are our targets. Memorize their faces better than your spouse’s and children’s. Because I do not want one of these ugly mugs to be the last thing any of y’all see. You’re authorized to use deadly force if and as needed. Understand me?”
This elicits sober nods of understanding from nearly everyone in the room.
The agents and officers understand the orders. The risks. The stakes.
“Because, remember,” Mason continues, echoing his earlier warning, “consider every last one of these sons of bitches trained, prepared, heavily armed…and willing to die. Which is what separates them from us. Whatever happens out there, I’m not willing to lose a single one of you. That’s an order.”
Mason looks out at his colleagues’ brave, stoic faces.
Praying it’s an order his whole team can follow.
50 seconds
Mason was dying—for a frosty glass of iced sweet tea with lemon, that is.
His constant craving for cold sugary drinks may be his one and only vice.
He’s typically a man of conviction, passion, and incredible self-discipline. Yet when it’s a sizzling-hot day in Texas, his mind is like an addict’s: all he can think about is mainlining some sweet tea and lemon.
So after he dismissed the briefing, Mason did just that—to slake his thirst, but also to steal a few moments to gather his thoughts. After the most painstaking preparation he’s ever put into a case, he knows an extremely dangerous raid is just hours away.
A few blocks from the VFW sits the Scurry Skillet, a cramped little greasy spoon that looks like it hasn’t been renovated since the Eisenhower administration. Mason ducked inside and took a seat at a window booth. A stout, sassy, sixty-something waitress named Dina took his order and then raised her eyebrow.
“A whole pitcher?”
“Yes, please. Extra ice, extra sugar, extra lemon. And then,” Mason added with a smile, “in about twenty minutes, directions to the men’s room.”
Once his thirst had been quenched, his sugar craving sated, and his waitress generously tipped, Mason stepped back outside onto Hobart’s quaint little Main Street, intending to hoof it back to the VFW command center.
Agent Taylor and his team should have a preliminary assault plan sketched out by now. A second FBI drone flyover of the farm should have been completed, which will provide more detailed and recent photographs.
Word has even come in that a pair of agents in the next county over is following up on a promising new sighting of the stringy-white-haired man caught on camera purchasing those Halloween masks. But there have been so many false leads on that mystery suspect over the past few weeks, Mason isn’t getting his hopes up.
Mason barely makes it halfway down the block when—This damn summer heat, he thinks—he starts sweating again. And experiencing a familiar beverage craving.
But there’s no time. Not now. Mason has to get back.
Without slowing his pace, Mason removes his mahogany-colored felt cowboy hat, then starts to dab his moist brow with a handkerchief—that old, lacy, threadbare, feminine one embroidered with his initials, a meaningful gift from the love of his life that he always keeps tucked in his breast pocket.
Right near his heart.
The agent is about to round a corner when he hears a voice behind him.
“Mason?! How in the heck are you?”
He turns around to see a jolly woman about his age smiling big. She’s wearing a floppy sun hat and oversize sunglasses, and has two small children in tow.
“Uh…I’m well. Thank you. How about yourself?”
Mason smiles back—but a little uncomfortably. This woman is familiar, her voice, her look…but he can’t quite place her. Maybe the sweat dripping into his eyes makes it hard to see. Maybe it’s her “disguise” of sunglasses and a hat.
Great, Mason thinks. A Fed who can’t recognize a face.
“What brings you back to Hobart so soon?” she asks.
Mason offers a simple shrug—and a deliberately vague answer. “An FBI agent’s work is never done.”
As the woman chuckles, Mason tries to do some quick mental detective work to piece together who she is. She called him Mason, not Agent Randolph, so it’s unlikely she’s one of the dozens of local witnesses he has interviewed in recent weeks. But she had asked what he was doing back in Hobart.…
“I suppose this town’s your new home now.”
And suddenly, it hits him. Mason knows exactly who this woman is.
“Yes, I suppose it is…Kathleen. And I couldn’t be happier about that.”
One of the woman’s children pulls on her sleeve, mumbling indecipherably.
“Just a moment, Luke. I’m speaking with Aunt Molly’s new husband.”
“Aunt” isn’t quite accurate. Kathleen Rourke is technically Molly’s second cousin, whom Mason had only met once before and who could stay only for the ceremony.
And yes, Molly Rourke is Mason Randolph’s new wife.
“She looked so beautiful up there. My gosh. So radiant. You both did. Especially after all y’all have been through.”
Then Kathleen gestures to her adorable but nagging children. “I’m so sorry I had to duck out before the reception. Couldn’t find a sitter, and these two were itching to get home.”
“That’s quite all right,” Mason replies, mussing the younger one’s hair. “It meant a lot to us that you were there. It really was a full family affair, just like Molly said.”
Kathleen gives Mason a quick hug good-bye, then sets off with her brood down the street.
Which is when Mason realizes he’s still holding his cowboy hat in one hand, and in the other that rather ratty woman’s handkerchief—embroidered with the initials MER, for Mason Edgar Randolph.
He shares the monogram with his blushing bride: Molly Elizabeth Rourke.
In fact, the handkerchief was originally hers, sewn by her grandmother when she was just a girl.
Of course, Mason didn’t know this when, after dating her for just a few weeks, he discovered the lacy piece of cloth tucked in a dresser drawer. He had a minor panic attack, worried his very new girlfriend might be just a little too clingy. Had she already started making him personalized accessories?
When they realized the coincidence, they couldn’t believe it.
It was just the first sign of many that these two were meant to be together.
When their six-month anniversary came around, since Molly was hurting for cash so badly—there was even talk of the bank taking back her family’s farm—Mason insisted they not buy gifts for each other of any sort.
Molly followed the letter of that command but ignored the spirit completely. She gave her boyfriend that “personalized” handkerchief they’d laughed about months earlier, wrapped in newspaper and tied up with string.
Mason has kept it inches from his heart ever since, a reminder of their bond and love. Even now, wearing the wedding band he’s still getting used to, it’s a tradition he plans to continue as long
as the piece of fabric holds up.
Mason blots his forehead with it, then tucks it away. He dons his cowboy hat. He spins and marches back toward the VFW command center.
His new, beautiful, wonderful wife is waiting for him just a few miles away.
But first, he’s got to go get some bad guys.
And not get killed in the process.
3 minutes, 40 seconds
Forty-six fully armed FBI SWAT agents stand counting down to combat.
In addition to an automatic assault rifle or tactical shotgun, each carries an average of thirty-two pounds of equipment: body armor, ballistic helmet, sidearm, night-vision goggles, flash grenades, zip-tie handcuffs, rounds of extra ammunition.
Yet as Mason—already sweating under the weight of the Kevlar vest hung over his torso—paces in front of this group, giving them one final mission overview and pep talk, they all stand still as statues. No rustling. No rattling. No fidgeting.
The silence is impressive. It’s eerie. It’s terrifying.
“Strike time is at twenty-two-hundred hours exactly,” Mason announces. “That’s less than forty minutes out. So listen up.”
He commences one last run-through of the plan with his assembled troops. He wants to explain, too, how he and the salty Agent Taylor arrived at it.
“A traditional stealth entry was out of the question,” he says. “Just too damn dangerous. Too much ground to cover.” He gestures to the image projected behind him of the multi-acre farm, to its endless flat fields dotted with shrubs and trees and a few run-down shacks and sheds. “Too many possible traps. We’d be far too exposed.
“So how about a full dynamic entry?” Mason asks rhetorically. “Ripping down the farmhouse doors, roping onto the suspects’ roof by helicopter, guns blazing? Hell, that might very well be the start of World War III.”
In the end, Mason says, he and Taylor decided on a mix of both.
The forty-six assembled agents have been divided into four groups; each will approach a separate side of the rectangular property, slowly and visibly.
Meanwhile, the farm’s power is going to be cut, plunging the place into darkness.
The 13-Minute Murder Page 18
