Far Gone (2 page)

She lifted her gaze to the gunman’s face. Dillon. His name was Dillon. And he was eighteen, tops.

Her heart beat crazily. Her mouth felt dry. Hundreds of times she’d trained to confront an armed assailant. It should have been a no-brainer, pure muscle memory. But she felt paralyzed. Every instinct was screaming for her to find another way.

Dillon’s attention slid to Haley, who seemed to be melting into the Formica counter. The others had inched away from her—a survival instinct that was going to be of little help if this kid let loose with a hail of bullets.

Loud, repetitive commands.

“Dillon, look at me.” She tried to make her voice firm, but even she could hear the desperation in it. “Put the gun down, Dillon. We’ll talk through this.”

His eyes met hers again. He rubbed his nose on the shoulder of his coat. Tears and snot glistened on his face.

“I’ll kill you, too,” he said softly. “Don’t think I won’t.”

“I believe you. But wouldn’t it be easier just to talk?” She paused. “Put the gun down, Dillon.”

She could see his arm shaking, and—to her dismay—hers began to shake, too. As if she didn’t know how to hold her own weapon. As if she didn’t work out three times a week to maintain upper-body strength.

As if she didn’t have it in her to shoot a frightened kid.

He was disintegrating before her eyes. She could see it. His Adam’s apple moved up and down as he swallowed hard.

“You can’t stop me.” His voice was a thread now, almost a whisper. He shifted his stance back toward Haley, and the stark look on her face told Andrea she’d read his body language.

“I’ll do it.”

Andrea’s pulse roared in her ears. The edges of her vision blurred. All she saw was that white hand clutching that big black gun. The muscles in his hand shifted as his index finger curled.

“I’ll do it. You can’t stop me.”

Andrea squinted her eye.

Lord, forgive me.

She pulled the trigger.

chapter two

ANDREA WOKE WITH A KNOT
in her chest. She rolled onto the cool edge of the pillow and tried to hold on to the soft, dreamy feeling that she could slide out of bed and step into her routine. But even her sleep-drugged brain knew it was a lie.

She opened her eyes. The hum of traffic outside was inescapable. Beams of sunlight seeped through the gaps in the blinds, hinting at a bright, agonizingly blue morning that was already well under way.

As she sat up in bed, her gaze landed on the running shoes that had been taunting her for days now. She went into the bathroom and avoided her reflection in the mirror as she brushed her teeth. Then she padded into the kitchen and reached for the coffeepot.

Day three on leave. Just the prospect made her stomach fill with acid. She couldn’t stand another stint in her apartment, but the thought of going outside was worse. As the coffee hissed and gurgled, she glanced around her tiny living room and made a list of all the chores she needed to do—laundry, cleaning, grocery store, bills. It was the same list as yesterday, only longer, and she felt a surge of disgust with herself.

She stalked into the bedroom and wrestled into her sports bra, then jammed her feet into sneakers. Back in the kitchen, she poured a mug of coffee, not bothering with cream, which she probably didn’t have anyway. A few quick gulps. Pulling her tangle of dark hair into a ponytail, she grabbed a baseball cap and was almost out the door when her cell phone chimed.

Andrea eyed her purse. She dug the phone out and wasn’t surprised at the number on the screen.

“Hi.”

“Hi yourself,” Nathan Devereaux said. “Where have you been?”

“Oh, you know. Lounging by the pool. Working on my tan.”

Silence. He didn’t like the sarcasm. Then he said, “Have you seen the news today?”

“No. Why?” Against her better judgment, she grabbed the remote from the coffee table and switched on the television.

“Forget it. Anyway, where are you? I thought you’d be in by now.”

Andrea flipped channels until she landed on a news broadcast. But they were done with local stories, and a photo of the senator’s daughter who had died in that university bombing filled the screen. Andrea studied the picture, which had been plastered all over the news for days now. Julia Kirby. She was beautiful.

And just eighteen years old.

The camera cut to a view of the smoldering building. First responders raced about, ferrying the wounded to ambulances and triage tents. Dust-covered civilians staggered down the sidewalk with wide, shocked eyes, some with shrapnel wounds and ears bleeding from the blast.

“Andrea? Are you coming in?”

“Why?”

“You’ve got an appointment with the shrink, I thought.”

“I rescheduled.”

More silence.

“Something came up.” She switched off the TV and grabbed her sunglasses from the counter. Lot of good they would do her if some reporter was camped out in her parking lot.

“Andie—”

“I’ll be in tomorrow. Eight o’clock sharp. Listen, I’ve got to go, okay? Call you later.”

She stuffed the phone back into her purse and knew it wouldn’t ring again. Nathan wasn’t like that. He wouldn’t call incessantly, but he
would
track her down some other way. He’d probably come pounding on her door late tonight when he knew she’d be home. And he’d probably refuse to leave until she let him in and at least went through the pretense of answering his questions. He was her assigned “sponsor”—whatever that meant—and it was his job to ask.

Nathan had been her mentor when she first joined Austin PD’s homicide unit. They’d been through ups and downs together and many hellacious cases but nothing that came close to this. This was out of her realm of experience, and she didn’t know how to talk to him about it.

Which was what shrinks were for.

Another chime emanated from her purse. She jerked the phone out but didn’t recognize the area code.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

She felt a flutter of panic at her brother’s voice. She’d considered the possibility of her grandparents calling. Dee and Bob read the paper every morning and might stumble across the story out of Austin. She’d planned what she’d say to them, but she hadn’t given her brother a thought.

“Are you there?”

“I’m here.” She cleared her throat. “What’s up, Gavin?”

Now it was his turn for quiet. Andrea waited. Would he bring it up right away or dance around it?

“I need a favor.”

The statement startled her.

“I need some money. Not a lot,” he rushed to add. “And I’ll pay you back, I promise.”

He didn’t know, then. This wasn’t about her at all—he was hard up for cash. If he was like most college kids, she’d assume he needed it for beer or gas. But Gavin wasn’t like most college kids. He wasn’t like anyone. “You been taking your meds?” she asked.

“Come on, Andie.”

“Have you?”

“Yes, all right? Gimme a break. Can you lend me the money?”

“How much?”

“Two thousand.”

“Two
thousand
? You said not a lot!”

“It isn’t a lot.”

“Are you out of your freaking mind? I’ve got rent due next week. Jesus. What’s it for?”

“I’ll pay you back.”

She snorted. “How? Last I checked, part-time busboys weren’t making the big bucks.”

“I quit that job.”

Andrea thought about the number on the caller ID. Her stomach clenched with anxiety, and for the first time in days, it wasn’t because she’d taken another human life.

“Gavin . . . whose phone are you on?”

“A friend’s. Listen, can you lend me the money or not? I’ve got wiring instructions here. You can send it straight to my bank, and I’ll pay you back, I swear.”

“Where are you? Are you even in Lubbock?”

Silence.

“If you dropped out, I swear to God—”

“I didn’t call you to get the third degree.”

“You did, didn’t you? You dropped out. Gavin! You’re what? Fifteen credits shy of graduation?”

“Twelve,” he said tersely. “And I didn’t drop out. I took a leave of absence. For something important. I can go back whenever I want.”

“Go back
now
. What the hell are you doing? And what’s this money for?”

“Damn it, Andie. Why do you have to be such a bitch all the time?”

“Does Dee know? Don’t you dare tell me you hit her up for money.”

His silence confirmed her suspicions.

“They’re on a fixed income! What the hell’s wrong with you?”

She waited, half expecting an answer.

“Gavin?”

The call went dead.

♦

Jon North should have been fighting insomnia on a lumpy, too-short mattress, but instead he was speeding toward a crowded honky-tonk on the outskirts of Maverick, Texas, the capital of Middle of Fucking Nowhere.

All because he trusted Jimmy Torres.

Jon surveyed the array of cars and pickups as he pulled into the gravel parking lot. Located on a two-lane highway just south of Interstate 10, the Broken Spoke attracted its fair share of ranchers, roughnecks, and long-haul truck drivers looking for a break in the monotony between El Paso and San Antonio.

Jon swung into a space beside an ancient Chevy and checked his rearview before getting out. The chilly air smelled of dust and diesel fuel. The sky was clear, and a half-moon shone down on the desert landscape. Jon approached the dilapidated bar. Neon beer signs cluttered the windows, and the thin walls seemed to vibrate with every guitar riff.

Inside was stuffy and loud, just as he remembered. He stepped away from the door and skimmed the crowd. It was the Spoke’s usual array of men, most well on their way to being drunk. The women were of the heavily made-up, bottle-blond variety, with plenty of cleavage on display. They were here to have fun or make a buck, maybe a little of both. Some faces were familiar, some not. He cataloged all of them, swiftly discarding the ones that didn’t line up with his objective tonight.

Jon turned to the pool room, where a brunette with a cue leaned low over the green felt—a move choreographed to get the attention of the beer-swilling man behind her. Jon peered at her face.

Right hair color, wrong type.

He scanned the room again and his gaze landed on a woman seated on a corner bar stool. Slender build, leather jacket, straight dark hair that didn’t quite reach her shoulders. She glanced toward the door, noticed him, and gave him a brief look of appraisal before shifting her attention back to the bartender.

Torres was right. She didn’t fit. Before joining the Bureau, Torres had put in five years on a Houston vice squad, and he was good at reading people. Jon was glad now that he’d hauled himself out of bed.

The woman lifted a drink to her lips as he edged around the crowd. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. There was something about her alert expression, her posture. She noticed him again in the mirror behind the liquor bottles, and her gaze narrowed as he walked over and claimed a stool.

“Hi,” he said.

No answer. She was about as approachable as a coral snake.

The female bartender lingered a moment, seeming amused, then slipped away to tend to other customers.

“Buy you a drink?”

She looked him over with cool blue eyes. “Thanks, I’m good.”

“No, really, I insist.” He nodded at her almost-empty glass. “What is that, whiskey?”

She seemed annoyed by his persistence but not surprised. “Jack and Coke,” she said.

He caught the bartender’s attention and held up two fingers.

The brunette shifted to face him, and he noticed the thin gray T-shirt beneath the leather. Faded jeans, snug. Scarred black biker boots. A slight bulge under her jacket told him she was packing. He pulled his gaze back to her face. She wore black eyeliner, and a trio of silver earrings dotted both ears.

The drinks arrived.

“I’m Jon, by the way.”

She watched him over the rim of her glass as she took a sip.

“You’re new in town,” he said.

“So are you.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“The accent. Michigan, is it?”

“Illinois.” He tipped back the drink and tried not to cringe at the sweetness of it.

She was watching him while keeping a close eye on the mirror behind the bar. Clearly, she was looking for someone tonight, and it wasn’t him. She rested an elbow on the counter and pretended to give him her undivided attention.

“Illinois is a long way,” she said. “What do you do?”

“Search for people, mostly. And things.”

At her questioning look, he expanded.

“I’m with ICE. Immigration and Customs Enforcement.”

The corner of her mouth lifted, and he felt a warm pull he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Think I’ve heard of it,” she said.

“They move us around a lot. I started out near Canada. Now I’m down here. So what about you? What’re you doing in town?”

“Passing through.”

“Where you headed?”

“Wherever.”

He watched her eyes. Calm. Clear. Not lying, really, but giving nothing away. He was used to evasiveness. Most people out here valued their privacy and didn’t let down their guard with outsiders.

Which was one reason so many leads in this case had turned to dust.

She was still watching him. She sipped the whiskey again, and he saw her gaze return to the mirror. A stocky cowboy type steered a woman through the crowd toward the door. Jon recognized him as one of the ranch hands at Lost Creek.

“I should get going.” In a quick, fluid motion she slid off the stool and scooped up her purse.

“What’s the hurry? You haven’t finished your drink.”

“That’s okay.” Her mouth curved into a coy smile. “It’s past my bedtime. I need to get home.”

He stared down at her, and the smile irked him more than the lie. She dug a crisp twenty from her purse and placed it beneath her glass.

“Nice talking to you.” Another smile before she turned on her heel.

He watched her walk away. When she was gone, he slid the twenty into his pocket and replaced it with one from his wallet.