Fearless Gunfighter

Rachel Maxwell opened her eyes. The world remained black. She tried to lift her arms, but blistering pain attacked with the slightest movement. She was alive. That was all she was certain of. Death couldn’t hurt this bad.

Her pupils slowly adjusted to the darkness, but the hammering inside her skull was so intense her brain couldn’t identify where she was or why. Random thoughts skirted her consciousness.

A faint line of brightness on the other side of the room provided the only illumination. Most likely a space beneath a door, so there must be a light on somewhere. No windows to let in a scant glow of moonlight. No sounds except her own ragged breathing.

She was on her back, stretched out, perhaps in a bed, perhaps not. Her fingers impulsively went to her face. Her cheeks felt swollen, but numb, the only part of her that didn’t ache. She struggled to focus.

Fear swelled, crashing through her like ocean waves as scraps of nightmarish images crept through the shadows of her mind. The man dragging her into his truck. His creepy hands all over her.

And then the punishing blows.

Her stomach heaved as the memories grew more distinct. Not a nightmare, but horrifying reality.

She forced her body to move, slid over until her hand touched what felt like rough, splintered wood. She rolled off what must be no more than a pallet of some kind and onto the hard floor. Every joint and muscle cried out for mercy as she forced herself to scoot up on her elbows and crawl toward the light.

When she reached the door, she struggled to stand, her fingers clawing at the door frame until she could wrap them around the doorknob.

She hesitated. If the door opened, it might only lead to more hell. But the faint hint of escape held sway. She turned the knob and shoved her body against it. The door didn’t budge.

She beat on the door with her fists. Agony and hopelessness took hold as she slid back to the floor. Tears filled her eyes and sobs shook her pain-racked body. She’d been imprisoned by a monster. The worst was no doubt yet to come.

(#u71481723-de61-5e0e-a577-fc991205f150)Chapter Two (#u71481723-de61-5e0e-a577-fc991205f150)

Tucker Lawrence braked his mud-encrusted black pickup truck in front of a small stucco-and-wood house on a quiet neighborhood street on the outskirts of Lubbock, Texas.

The home was veiled in darkness. No sounds. No sign of movement, which meant Lauren Hernandez hadn’t heard the news yet. The words that would wreak havoc on her life and rip the heart from her chest.

He’d exceeded the speed limits to be the first one here, no easy feat in West Texas, where posted limits were frequently eighty miles per hour with a few stretches at eighty-five. He hadn’t wanted Lauren to hear the tragic truth from a stranger.

He’d be letting Rod down if he did.

So now he’d be the one to walk up that sidewalk and ring the bell. He’d tell Lauren that the man she loved with all her heart, the father of their three young children, would never come walking through the front door again.

He wrapped his hand around the truck’s door handle, but couldn’t bring himself to twist it. Instead he let his head fall to the steering wheel as the heartbreaking images claimed his mind.

Six seconds into the ride on the toughest bull to come out of the chute last night. From the crack of the opening gate, Rod was doing everything right. Great technique. Terrific form. Spurring and staying in control of the bucking, twisting, spinning monster of an animal.

Two seconds to go when the bull went into a spin that threw Rod from the animal’s back and drew him into the vortex. All Tucker could see from his position behind the chutes was a tangle of hooves and human body as Rod tried to free himself from impending disaster.

By the time the bull stamped off, Rod wasn’t moving. He’d died two hours later from trauma to the brain.

Rod. Laughing, joking, adrenaline running high a few hours ago. Now he was gone. All because he’d lost a battle of wills with a stupid bull acting on instinct.

It wasn’t wholly about the money. Nor the glory. Nor the comradery, though all played a part in the rodeo life. It was the thrill of competition, living on the edge, facing death and never believing you wouldn’t walk away, sore but breathing.

Tucker opened the door and stepped out of the truck. Dread tore at his heart anew with each clap of his boots along the cement walk. He’d do what he came for, break the news to Lauren as gently as he could.

He wouldn’t even try to convince her the risk had been worth it. He wasn’t sure he believed that himself now. Bull riding had lost its glory when he’d watched his friend Rod take his final breath.

But where did a man go when he walked away from the only life he knew?

Chapter Three (#u71481723-de61-5e0e-a577-fc991205f150)

Monday, September 18

FBI profiler and special agent Sydney Maxwell stepped into her supervisor’s office, nerves taut, geared for a fight she’d likely lose. Still, it was worth a try. If her worst fear was realized, she’d need all the inside information she could get.

Roland Farmer stood as she walked in and motioned toward the seat facing his desk. He smiled. She didn’t. She liked Roland and respected his judgment, but at this moment none of that mattered to her.

Roland sat down after her, leaned back in his leather chair and tented his fingers. He stared for a few seconds before speaking as if he were trying to assess her mood.

He should have no trouble doing that. It was fear, resolve and urgency. But Roland would quickly pick up more. He’d see her determination and hear the desperation in her voice.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded. She was far from all right, but she couldn’t lead off with that, not if she was to have a chance of influencing Roland to listen to reason.

“What’s on your mind that’s so important it couldn’t wait?” he asked.

“I don’t know if you’re familiar with the situation, but three young women have gone missing over the past six months in the Texas Hill Country under bizarre circumstances. The body of another was found two days ago in a wooded area just outside the small town of Winding Creek.”

“Winding Creek, Texas,” Roland repeated. “Why does that ring a bell?”

“It was a big story on cable news for months about a year ago. A toddler fell and died from a head trauma while his mother was spaced out on heroin.”

“Right,” Roland said. “It’s coming back to me. It wasn’t our case but the mother had the whole town searching for the kid when she claimed he’d been kidnapped.

“A wealthy family, if I remember correctly. One of those ranchers whose cows scratch their backs on oil rigs. But back to the missing women. I take it you think this is a case for the FBI to look into?”

“I do. One of the missing women is from Shreveport, Louisiana, crosses state lines, so it meets our guidelines.”

Roland scratched his chin. “You’ll be pleased that the powers that be agree with you. It helped that the local Texas law authorities contacted the Bureau last night and requested their help. They are concerned they may have a serial killer on their hands even though only the one body has been found.”

“How soon will we be sending an investigative team to the area?”

“I’d guess an assessment team will be in the field within the next forty-eight hours—maybe sooner. Jackson Clark in the Dallas field office will head up the investigation.”

A tinge of relief only slightly eased her apprehension. “They’ll need a profiler as well as several agents in order to move quickly.”

“Are you volunteering to join Jackson’s team?”

She nodded. “It makes sense. I went to school at University of Texas, UT, in Austin. I know my way around the area.”

“I can put in your request with Jackson. He’s aware of your success on the Swamp Strangler case. I’m sure he’s impressed enough to consider you.”

She’d only met Jackson Clark once when she’d attended a weeklong seminar he’d conducted in Quantico. He was a giant of a man, intimidating, demanding—a brilliant investigator. He was not known for being easily impressed.

There was no one she’d rather see handle this case.