Chapter 13
Chapter 13
F reight robberies weren’t common in the United States. They were in China and gaining popularity in Europe. But now Texas had joined the party. It was an invitation Sully wished he could rescind. A moving crime scene, sixty miles per hour to be exact. What a nightmare. He might wonder if the danger was worth the reward, but so far nearly a million in freight had been stolen—jewels, tech, even shoes. There were thousands of trucks on the road at any one time. Predicting which one would be hit next was an exercise in futility. Worse, they knew it was the Cortez family but, like always, couldn’t catch them at it.
Their best bet was to stage a semi and hope for attack, which was how he now found himself in full tactical gear, stuffed in the back end of a semi, barreling down a lonely stretch of highway. It was even hotter and more airless than he thought it would be. Sweat poured off his face and soaked his shirt.
“Man, I wish I had my ukulele,” Garcia, to his left, whispered. Every cop had a persona. Sully was Sanguine Cop, mellow and cheerful until he wasn’t and then look out. When he turned mean, everyone knew it was because he had a reason to be. But Sanguine Cop was a far cry from Class Clown Cop. That was Garcia, always butting in with a stupid or inappropriate joke to make them laugh. Or annoy them.
“Man, shut up,” Lopez hissed. He was Perpetually Annoyed Cop. Far from being a hothead, he’d merely seen enough of humanity not to want to see it anymore. Not surprisingly, he was a decade older than everyone but the lieutenant who maintained the privilege of calling their plays from an air-conditioned mobile unit. “One thousand frickin’ degrees in here, and you’re talking about a guitar. Wish I had a guitar right now. I’d garrote you with it.”
“I’d sing us all a song right now,” Garcia continued undaunted. “Like Kermit.”
Across the trailer, Harris snickered. Harris was Laughs Inappropriately Cop, the one who found the humor in the worst situations possible at the worst possible time. Somehow he and Garcia always ended up together, joking and laughing until steam came out of Lopez’s ears. And Sully, Sanguine Cop, watched it all with a passive smile.
“Kermit played a banjo, you frickin’ moron,” Lopez hissed.
“Kermit lover says what,” Garcia pretended to cough and Harris lost it, doubling over, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
“Ah, man, I hate you morons,” Lopez groused, but everybody knew he lied. For better or worse, they were a brotherhood. Why else would they be cramped in the back of an airless, windowless semi, hoping against hope they’d be attacked?
“Movement,” the lieutenant hissed in their ears, and everybody went silent and sat up, gripping their weapons.
The semi slowed suddenly, exactly as if someone had cut in front of it and tapped the brakes. This is it, Sully thought. He could feel it. As if to prove his theory, the back doors of the semi swung open. Two men rappelled down from the truck’s roof. There was a breathless second when the Rangers stared at the thieves. Sully made direct eye contact with one. The man wore a balaclava, obscuring all of his face, minus his eyes. They were eyes Sully recognized. Cold. Lifeless. Black. The eyes of Diego Cortez. Gotcha, Sully thought.
Except he didn’t. There was a swirl of activity, a burst of gunfire from both sides, and then the intruders were gone, as quickly and easily as they’d arrived.
“Freakin’ ninjas,” Lopez said, tossing aside his cap in disgust.
For once, Harris didn’t laugh.
“You sure it was Cortez?” his lieutenant asked Sully for the third time.
“I’d stake my life on it,” Sully replied. He knew those eyes. He’d spent the last four years tracking them. The problem, as always, was the lack of concrete proof. He couldn’t take a man into court and tell the jury he knew it was him by his psychotic eyes.
The lieutenant sighed, expressing their combined frustration. The Rangers were elite, the best Texas had to offer. Being one step behind a notorious crime family was a blow to their well-deserved pride. “Next time,” the lieutenant said, trying to rally spirits.
Sully was usually the first to rally, but today he stared into the distance, feeling more than frustrated. He felt disturbed. In that moment he recognized Diego Cortez, he could swear Diego Cortez recognized him in return. And both of them seemed to be thinking the same thing. Now it’s personal.