Texas Hold 'Em (Smokin' ACES) - By Kay David Page 0,70
at least in the parking lot, if not inside.
Keeper pursed his lips as if considering how not to answer the question. Giving up after some consideration, he said, “Making runs, I guess. Or sleeping off last night. We had a bikini contest. It got a little wild.”
He could only imagine what Keeper would think of as “a little wild,” then he decided the bartender’s explanation was probably a lie. He’d definitely heard the news about the raid on Ortega’s villa. Like roaches when the lights come on, everyone had scurried back to wherever they hid when things got uncomfortable.
He downed the second shot, and then sipped his beer and assessed his thoughts. Gloria had been his last, best hope at finding Ortega, and he had failed. He’d failed both her and Rose. If the state of Texas found him as lacking as he found himself, he might be searching for a job pretty soon. Maybe he should just become the biker he pretended to be. Or maybe he could buy The Ice House. Being the owner of a run-down bar made as much sense as anything else.
A distant roar rumbled through the open-air bar. He swiveled toward the sound and watched the ACES team pull into the parking lot, along with a dozen other riders. He recognized their patches. They were Dos Y Tres men. Trying to ward them off, Keeper flapped his arms uselessly as the riders came inside laughing and slapping each other on the back like old friends.
Austin caught Santos’s eye, then claimed the table nearest to the bar. The rest of the team joined him, Keeper reluctantly heading their direction. The ACES members were as angry as he that Ortega had escaped, but they hid it better, saying they’d find him eventually. Santos stayed where he was. He didn’t feel like trying to match their optimism. Jessie broke off from the men and came to his side.
“It’s not your fault.” Reading his expression, Jessie turned around and leaned against the bar facing out, her elbows propped up on either side of the scuffed wood at her back. “If Ortega had still been there, you would have gotten him.”
“Probably so, but he wasn’t, and I didn’t.” He drained his beer and set the bottle on the bar with an angry thud.
“So what are you going to do?”
“I happen to be fresh out of ideas on how to proceed.”
“So you’re just going to sit there, feel sorry for yourself, and get pissed?”
He threw her a cold look. “You’re pushing it, Jessie. Back off. I’m still your boss.”
She gave him a stare that told him exactly what she thought of his warning. “What about Gl—”
“Don’t go there, Jessie. Not now.”
She lifted her hands and held them up, returning to the table where the others sat, brushing off their questions with a shake of her head.
He turned back to glare at the margarita machine whirling away behind the bar. He hated it when he let his anger get the best of him. Especially when it was only masking frustration. He looked down into his empty beer glass, thought about Rose, and everything else he had done, then slid off the stool to walk toward his team. He’d taken two steps when his cell phone rang. The caller ID gave him a 512 area code. That covered central Texas, including the capital, Austin.
“Is this Timothy Santos?” a stranger said.
“Who’s asking?”
“This is Jake McBolton. Thank God I’ve finally found you. I’m with the—”
“I know who you are,” he broke in. “What do you want?”
The man began to stutter, and his nervousness finally registered with him. He sounded as if he were about to hyperventilate. Santos went on full alert. “What’s wrong?”
“I just called Sheriff Renwick to give her a report I did for you, and something happened while we were talking.”
“What do you mean ‘something happened’?”
Santos had reached the picnic table, and everyone looked up as he spoke, the tension in his voice alerting them.
“I…I think someone grabbed her. We were talking, and I was telling her about this report, you know, the one about Juan Enrique you wanted? The tests were negative. That wasn’t his body you sent me.”
Santos gripped the cell phone, his knuckles going white. “Tell me exactly what happened while you were speaking to her.”
“We were talking, and then she cried out and dropped the phone. I heard her tell someone she was the sheriff and he should turn her loose. I heard something—maybe a table or chair—turn