Texas Outlaw (Rory Yates #2) - James Patterson Page 0,97
eighty feet off the ground, and I’ve got a gun aimed at your heart. You’re about to go skydiving without a parachute. I’m not messing around.”
“Neither am I,” he says. “You ain’t taking me alive, Yates. I’m going for my gun one way or another. The only choice is whether you give me a fighting chance. Come on, cowboy. Holster that gun and prove that you’re quicker than me.”
I don’t want to take his bait. I would be stupid to agree. When we were out on the range, I missed the bottle on purpose, but he was still just as fast as me. Now we’re less than ten feet apart, standing on top of an eighty-foot oil derrick—and I’m a much bigger target than a beer bottle. Even if I’m faster and more accurate, I would put myself at great risk.
I could get wounded.
I could get killed.
I could fall right off this damn oil derrick.
“I’ve got nothing to prove to you,” I say.
“Come on, Ranger,” Gareth says. “I know a part of you wants to do it.”
He’s right.
A part of me.
The hothead part that’s always getting me into trouble.
But I’m considering his proposal. I hate the son of a bitch standing in front of me. I hate him because he killed Dale Peters and Skip Barnes and probably Susan Snyder. I hate him because he dated the girl I like and treated her like shit. I hate him because he was born into the kind of privilege most people can only imagine, and he’s done nothing with it except hurt other people. I hate him because he’s an arrogant, egotistical, chauvinist asshole. I hate him because he’s a homicidal maniac. I hate him because, when it comes down to it, he’s a bully.
But mostly I hate him because he killed a Texas Ranger.
Kyle and I had our differences, but at the end of the day, he and I wore the same badge. My mind flashes to an image of Kyle, coughing up blood with his last breaths, and I can’t help myself.
The hothead inside me wins.
“All right,” I say, keeping my gun on Gareth. “I’ll give you a fighting chance. But first you have to answer three questions.”
He looks hesitant. In my peripheral vision, I get the sense that we’re being watched from the ranch house. But I can’t take my eyes off Gareth long enough to be sure. Unless they have a sharpshooter as good as Gareth, we’re too far for any of them to do anything. I think they’re going to let this play out, confident Gareth can handle himself. Until I hear ATVs racing to get in range, I’m going to assume that’s the case.
“If you’re so damn confident you’ll beat me,” I say to Gareth, “then what does it matter? You’re going to kill me sixty seconds after you give me your confession.”
He shrugs, consenting to my questions.
“That was you up on the hill yesterday?” I say. “You killed Dale and Kyle?”
Gareth nods, grinning. Proud of himself.
“And you killed Skip Barnes and Susan Snyder?”
“Not Susan,” he says, still smiling. “Poison ain’t my style.”
“Why’d you set up Ariana?” I ask. “You could have just made Skip disappear. Why the whole elaborate frame job?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time. It almost worked. Once I kill you, it will work.” He chuckles, so pleased with himself. “Besides, it felt kind of poetic after what I done to her daddy.”
“What?” I say, surprised for the first time by any of these admissions.
“I set him up for selling drugs back when we were in high school,” Gareth admits. “Stashed the bag in the janitor’s closet. Got my buddies to tell the cops that he sold to them. That’s what that little bitch gets for not putting out after Homecoming.”
I’m on fire inside. I’ve never felt such rage. Even in high school, the depravity of Gareth McCormack knew no bounds.
“Who killed Susan Snyder?” I say, trying to subdue the anger in my voice.
“Sorry, Ranger. You’re out of questions.”
He’s right. I should have made it ten questions, but I gave him my word that we would do this.
“Fine,” I say.
I toss the handcuffs toward his feet. They slide across the metal and stop at his boot. Then I holster my gun.
I hold my hand at my side, six inches from my gun. Gareth does the same.
“Here are your choices, Gareth,” I say. “Reach slowly for the handcuffs and you live. Reach quickly for your gun and you die.”