Texas Hold 'Em (Smokin' ACES) - By Kay David Page 0,3

afraid of him. Jessie picked up his tension as well, looking at him nervously from her seat at the kitchen bar.

It wasn’t Joachim who reacted first, though. Before anyone realized he was even moving, Austin Wills slammed down the coffee pot on the rickety coffee table in front of the couch, making the rest of them jump. His specialty was gambling, and his hands were a blur when he dealt the cards.

“We knew the risks when we signed on.” He spoke hotly, his Texas twang deepening as his anger got the best of him. “If you have a problem with that, you should hit the road.”

Everyone stared in surprise. Austin and Bentley were like brothers.

Bentley held his hands up. “I didn’t say I had a problem, shithead. All I meant was—”

Ignoring his friend’s words, Austin took two steps toward the other man, his expression fierce. “You’re about to have a real problem, buddy, and I’m it—”

Before they took a swing at each other, Santos intervened, his voice sharp but weary. “That’s enough. Take it outside or shut the hell up, both of you.”

The two men fell quiet, the angry glares they exchanged continuing the argument, albeit in silence.

As he wearily massaged his forehead with his thumbs, Santos wondered how long Smokin’ ACES could survive. They were down to the bare bones, their nerves shot, their judgment slipping. It’d been three weeks since they’d learned anything useful and six weeks since he’d heard from the woman he’d planted so deeply.

If ACES’s cover was blown, the real bikers would kill them, and if the cartel found out, they’d end up wishing they were dead.

The time had come for him to talk to the sheriff.

…

The stranger pressed the gun against her neck, the barrel cold and hard.

Sheriff Rose Renwick pulled in a breath as the man stood motionless beside the broken window of her Jeep Cherokee. His clothing was as dark as the west Texas sky, his face partially covered with a red bandana, another tied just above his eyebrows.

“Hand over the keys.” He spoke with a forced bravado.

Her body froze but her mind went into overdrive. There was something familiar about the quiver in his voice and his jittery demeanor. Despite his threat, he seemed young to her and inexperienced. While Aqua Frio, the county seat, had its fair share of nameless drifters, same as all the border towns, she wondered automatically if she’d arrested him before.

“You really don’t want to do this,” she said calmly.

Jiggling from one foot to the other, he gripped the pistol tighter, his fingers trembling. “I’ve got the gun. You do what I say.”

“And I’m the sheriff. Which means you do what I say.” She paused. “Drop the weapon, step away from the vehicle, and spread out on the ground. Hands behind your back.”

“Are you for real?”

“Do what I’m saying, then we’ll discuss that issue.”

“We ain’t discussing nada.” He shook his head, his momentary hesitation quickly replaced by a cocky attitude.

Courage from a crystal, she thought. “You’re making a mistake.”

He shook his head with a twitchy movement. “Just hand me the keys, bitch.”

She sighed loudly, making her acquiescence as obvious as possible. “Okay…okay. Hold your horses.” Tilting to her left as if to open the door, she eased her right hand toward the gap between the seats. Her fingers should have found the butt of the Glock she kept there, the one she always made sure was loaded, but they brushed the floor instead.

“Don’t bother,” he gloated. “I already took it.” He curled his hand impatiently, his gaze darting toward the car keys. “Gimme the keys.”

Rose sent a quick glance toward the corner of the lot. She’d noticed the street light was out. Bob Wilson, the county’s one-man maintenance department, had taken his daughter to visit the university in Austin. Which was also why Rose’s broken vehicle window hadn’t been repaired when she’d noticed it the day before.

The shattered streetlight, the broken window, the kid with a gun standing beside her window… Meth-heads didn’t plan things—all they did was act. Someone had searched the SUV, taken her gun, and scouted the parking lot, even figured out what time she’d been leaving the station tonight. What she’d assumed was an ordinary carjacking slowly began to seem like more than that.

“We have a call-in system,” she warned. “If I don’t radio dispatch every fifteen minutes, someone will realize I’m in trouble, and they’ll close the county roads.” Her threat was only partially true. Check-in was expected in thirty-minute intervals