Texas Hold 'Em (Smokin' ACES) - By Kay David Page 0,69
thing she knew, she was waking up, the television blaring. The hands on the clock on the wall above the flat screen pointed to two. Was it a.m. or p.m.? She drew a complete blank until she pushed away her sleepiness and turned toward the window. A ribbon of black parted the drapes, and she had her answer. Two a.m.
She stumbled to her bedroom in a panic, intending to change into her uniform and deal with her mother’s disappearance. Then the phone rang again.
“This is Jake McBolton with the crime lab in Austin,” a deep voice said to her tentative hello. “Is this Sheriff Renwick?”
“Yes, it is.” She’d expected her mother to be at the other end of the line. Again with the confusion versus relief. Would she feel this way forever if Gloria wasn’t found? “What can I help you with, Officer?”
“I hope I’m going to help you,” he said. “We have a report ready on something that was submitted by Agent Timothy Santos. I was told if his name was attached to any request that came to the lab, I was supposed to get it done yesterday, so as soon as I received the…um…specimen by courier, I went to work. He put your name on the form and said to get hold of you if I couldn’t get through to him, which I can’t. I know it’s late. Or maybe I should say early, but—”
“What’s the problem?” she asked impatiently. “Spit it out.”
She heard the rustle of papers. “Could you please tell Agent Santos I don’t know whose body parts he sent up here, but I do know for sure they don’t belong to anyone named Juan Enrique—”
McBolton’s words entered her brain at the exact moment she heard the sound of breaking glass. Exhausted and fuzzy, she still had the phone in her hand when two masked men ran into her bedroom, their guns thrust before them.
Dropping the phone, she screamed and launched herself for the nightstand and the pistol lying on top of it. One of the men tackled her just as her fingers brushed over the metal grip, and they went down in a heap, the table crashing into the wall, the lamp falling over and hitting the man with a glancing blow that did nothing except shatter the lamp and send a shard of glass slicing across her forehead. In the second it took for her to blink away the blood, he grabbed her, pinning her arms behind her. She moved to break his hold, but he anticipated the maneuver and blocked it. He did the same with her second attempt, wrestling her to the floor and holding her down with his hips.
“I’m the sheriff,” she cried. “Let me go, dammit.” She bucked him off and got one arm free, but he grabbed it again and wrenched it up behind her back. Pain exploded down her shoulder as he used the leverage to jerk her to her feet. “Turn me loose,” she screamed. You’re assaulting a law enforcement officer—”
The second man leapt over the bed to slap a rag around her face. She coughed, then gagged. Her last thought was of Santos before everything went dark and silent.
Chapter Sixteen
The Ice House was quieter than normal, Santos realized as he walked inside. Behind the bar, Keeper mimicked the standard pose of every bartender in every movie he had ever watched—polishing a glass and looking out over the customers. Last call had come an hour ago, and his expression made it clear he was anxious for the bikers who remained to leave. His gaze flicked to Santos’s face before it bounced away, and he found himself wondering if the bartender knew what had gone down in Mexico. News traveled fast in this part of the country, especially when it was associated with the cartel. People wanted to know what was happening, and they wanted to know sooner rather than later. They might need to get out of the way.
Santos took one of the barstools and lifted two fingers. Keeper hesitated, weighing his liquor license against Santos’s unhappiness if he didn’t get his drink. Deciding he’d rather risk his business than a black eye, he brought over a shot glass and a beer, then retreated to his spot midpoint down the bar.
Santos made short work of his drinks and nodded in Keeper’s direction. The bartender sighed and repeated his actions, Santos’s voice stopping him in mid-flight. “Where is everybody?” Usually the party was still going strong this late,