“We think they set off on foot, probably across the river. She’s with three of my men, her mother and her sister,” Syd said. She’d retrieved the radio and was tinkering with it. “Maltz, do you copy?”

The only response was static.

“And unless the kid joined a biker gang, it appears they’ve got company?” George asked.

“Definitely. We’re not sure how many, though.”

“Christ, Jake. I can always count on you to get my ass in a sling.” George rubbed his chin. “All right. We’ll head north on route 128, across the river. With any luck, we’ll pick up their signal. I’ll see if I can raise the locals to help.”

“You sure the locals aren’t the problem?” Syd asked skeptically.

“My, aren’t we paranoid. You really are a spook.” George grinned. “I assisted on a case up here a few years back. If it’s the same sheriff, he’s good people.”

“We’ll have to chance it, Syd,” Jake said, gazing toward the river. “ Madison can’t walk, she’ll be slowing them down. They’re probably running out of time.”

Madison covered her ears. It was like being in the middle of a war movie, but so much louder in real life. She’d had no idea guns were so deafening. She didn’t know how anyone could stand shooting them.

The commando-boys had stashed her, Audrey and Bree behind a rickety shed on the outskirts of a ranch. There was a house a few hundred feet away, but despite the noise nobody had appeared at the windows-probably empty. They’d been headed there, hoping to find a working phone, when all hell broke loose. Maltz had ordered them to stay down while he and the other men handled the situation. That was what he’d called it, a “situation,” as if this was all a big misunderstanding, not life and death. She had no idea how many people were out there trying to kill them, but it sounded like hundreds. The three of them huddled together, hands over their ears, terror in their eyes.

“There are too many of them!” her mother yelled as a spray of bullets sent a chunk of wood flying off the shed.

Bree spoke, but her words were overwhelmed by a rapid pounding that tore up the ground twenty feet away.

“We have to run for it,” her mother said, eyes wild. “Get to the house, call for help.”

“I can’t run, Mommy,” she said, tears streaming down her face.

“I’ll go,” Bree said.

It took a second for Madison to process the words and realize that Bree was serious.

“No, honey…risky…” her mother’s voice was drowned out by another explosion.

Madison recognized her sister’s grave expression, the same look of intense concentration that terrorized opponents during field hockey games. She reached out a hand to stop her, but Bree was already on her feet, running for the house.

She zigzagged crazily, bullets spitting up clods of dirt around her. It was amazing that Bree knew to swerve like that, Madison thought, impressed. She’d already covered half the distance. Madison had forgotten how fast she was, she’d been an all-star forward back in California but ditched field hockey after the move. Bree said the team at the new school was lame, they’d never win, but Madison figured she had another reason. Watching her slip through the trees, fast and sure-footed, it looked as though she would have dominated every game.

“Is she going to make it?” As her mother spoke there was a brief lull in the shooting, and her voice was overly loud. She sounded hopeful, and scared.

Madison didn’t answer. She watched, riveted, as Bree vanished into another stand of trees. There was more cover now, she’d made it through the open field and only had ten feet to go. “She is,” Madison breathed, hardly believing it. “She’s going to be okay.”

Suddenly a figure emerged from the shadows on Bree’s left. Madison opened her mouth to scream a warning, but it was too late. The man lunged for Bree, driving her sideways with a long sweeping tackle. Madison felt her mother clutch her hand, heard her shrieking as they both watched Bree vanish beneath him.

“I’m getting really tired of warehouses,” Rodriguez said in a low voice.

Kelly didn’t answer, but silently agreed. They were in a cluster of warehouses on the outskirts of Houston that were nearly indistinguishable from the ones in Laredo. It made Kelly recall what Jake had said the other day, about always feeling as if he was getting off the freeway in the same place.

It was nearly four o’clock. They’d managed to grab the last two seats on a flight from San Antonio and landed a half hour ago. True to his word, Agent Taylor had wrangled a tactical unit from Houston to participate in the search. Not before Kelly got an earful from ASAC McLarty, however. Apparently the Phoenix D.A. had thrown a press conference announcing arrests in the Morris case, and the Bureau was happy to have everything tied up with a bow. McLarty was less than thrilled to discover that not only did Kelly suspect the Salvadorans were innocent, but that one of the nation’s most prominent businessmen might be involved. He’d told her in no uncertain terms to tread carefully.

“You don’t find anything, I want you on a plane home tonight,” he’d thundered.

“And if I find something?” Kelly asked, unable to keep the challenge from her voice.

The only response was a dial tone. She suspected that no matter what happened, she probably couldn’t count on a good reference from McLarty in the future. Which was a shame, since he was the reason she’d transferred to this unit. But when her case in the Berkshires went sideways, Kelly quickly learned there was only one job McLarty was interested in protecting: his own. She shouldn’t have been surprised. During her tenure she’d served under her fair share of ASACs. But she’d thought McLarty was different. It was incredibly disheartening to have the wool ripped from her eyes.

Kelly stood back. The tactical unit was going in first, for which she was secretly grateful. Over the past few days she’d had enough busting down doors to last the rest of her life. Rodriguez looked moderately better after catching a catnap on the plane. She still felt like crap, and hadn’t been able to reach Jake in California. She hated when they fell out of touch like this. The worst part was admitting that after a few days, she had to remind herself to call him. She suspected that wasn’t a good sign.

Kelly shrugged it off, trying to get her game face on as the tactical team swarmed through the door. A series of calls echoed through the warehouse and bounced back to her and Rodriguez.

“Ready to see what’s behind door number three?” Rodriguez asked, eyebrows raised.

“I’m hoping for a brand-new car,” Kelly said drily.

“All clear!” someone yelled from inside.

Kelly reholstered her Glock as she entered. The warehouse was dark, solely illuminated by a dim bulb in the far corner. Suddenly, the lights clicked on-one of the agents must have found the switch. This warehouse was about double the size of the other two. On the near side of the room, a set of rickety card tables had been pushed together and were surrounded by folding chairs. Beer bottles, empty chips bags and decks of cards littered the surface and the surrounding floor.

“Tire tracks,” Rodriguez noted. “Something big came through here.”

“Definitely,” Kelly agreed.

There was a pile of clothes in the center of the room. Two of the tactical team officers knelt beside it. The rest of the warehouse was bare.

“Uh-oh,” Rodriguez said.

Kelly crossed the distance quickly. As she got closer the clothes resolved themselves into a body lying in a pool of congealed blood. Two more steps and she could make out what was left of his face. He was in his mid- to late-forties, tall and thin. He was wearing jeans and a button-down shirt.

“Dead.” One of the officers glanced up at her. “You know him?”