Chapter 23
It was after midnight when the GPS led them off the highway and onto a narrow two-car road, cutting through the Hill Country. The pavement thinned before changing to gravel. Cedar and scrub oak closed in, swallowing sound and their high beams.
The lake appeared without warning, a black sheet under a slender moon without a trace of turquoise. As the SUV eased down a sloping drive, the headlights swept over wood siding, a narrow dock, and limestone glowing pale along the bank.
From the back seat, Erica said with zero doubt, “That’s it.”
Coop studied the structure. No lights inside or out. The driveway empty. No signs of life.
He killed the engine. “Wait here.”
“Works for me,” she said without a sliver of disappointment. “That place looks like Michael Myers could pop out at any second.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” O’Reilly muttered.
“Yeah,” he agreed, “but you’re coming with me.”
Both doors slammed a second apart. The door locks clicked immediately after, Erica beating him to it.
Their boots crunched on the gravel as they approached the porch. O’Reilly let him take point.
“You both watch too much TV,” Coop muttered, weapon already in hand. “And your paranoia is rubbing off.”
He tested the door. It was locked. No surprise.
He knocked anyway. “Texas Rangers.”
Only crickets and a distant owl answered.
He glanced at O’Reilly. “Warrant covers forced entry?”
“As you requested,” he said, already stepping aside, weapon in hand.
Coop drove his boot below the knob. The frame splintered inward, dry wood cracking loudly across the yard, scaring birds from the trees.
They entered fast. Clear left. Clear right.
“Try the light.”
“Got it.” A click, a hum, and a single dim bulb hummed on overhead, casting shadows across the small room.
It was as rustic inside as it was out. Cheap couch, a folding table, a small desk by the window, and no electronics. A counter separated a tiny, bare kitchen with no appliances.
“Not exactly a home away from home,” O’Reilly observed drily.
There were only two other doors. One led to a cramped bathroom. The other led to a bedroom with an unmade bed and a nightstand. The place was spartan, impersonal, but lived in.
They searched, looking in drawers, cabinets, and under furniture. Coop lifted the mattress.
Minutes passed. All they found were a few items of clothing, some grocery receipts, and a picture frame on the nightstand.
“Should we call it?” O’Reilly asked.
“Not yet.”
He stepped onto the porch as Erica exited the SUV. She lit the uneven ground with her phone as she came toward him.
“You didn’t find it,” she said, not a question.
“No.”
“It’s here,” she said, no second-guessing, and climbed the stairs.
His instinct was to refuse. But the cabin was secure. They had a warrant. And he wanted leverage over Gruzinsky.
Inside, he handed her gloves. “Don’t touch anything without these.”
She slipped them on. They were loose, the fingertips too long. Then she stood in the center of the room, perfectly still, as though getting her bearings. Her eyes cut to the desk beneath the window and crossed to it.
“We already searched there,” O’Reilly advised as she slid open the shallow center drawer.
She nodded and reached inside anyway. After a moment of sifting and crinkling paper, she withdrew a small brass key.
Coop moved in and took it from her. “What’s it to?”
She glanced toward the bedroom. “Remember Cheyenne’s hiding spot?”
“The rug under the bed,” he murmured, squeezing her shoulder.
He and O’Reilly flipped the bed on end, rolled up the threadbare rug, exposing a cut hatch in the floor secured with a padlock.
“I’ll be damned,” O’Reilly muttered.
Coop crouched and inserted the key. It turned clean. He lifted the hatch. Not a cellar, just a dirt pit, and inside it, a reinforced trunk. He reached for it.
“Wait.” O’Reilly pulled out his phone. “Document first.”
Time-stamped photos taken, they each grabbed a leather strap and hauled it up. It was heavy and awkward, but between them, plus some colorful cursing from O’Reilly, they lifted it out onto the floor.
It wasn’t locked, and he flipped up the lid. The contents included stacks of vacuum-sealed cash and oil-wrapped weapons, enough to bury Gruzinsky.
O’Reilly whistled low. He looked at Erica, who had stayed in the main room but moved to the door to watch. “I take back every joke and wise-ass remark.”
She tilted her head. “I don’t recall any remarks.”
“Not out loud,” he admitted. “I’m not that big of an ass. But believe me, there were a lot of them.”
She shrugged, a hint of amusement breaking through. “It’s not much of a gift. But it has its uses. I’d still prefer kitchen gadgets.”
O’Reilly’s mouth kicked up in a quick grin.
Coop heard it all, but his focus was on the cache as he processed what it all meant. He stood, eyes cutting to the nightstand and the photo.
He crossed the room and picked it up. A woman, with dark hair streaming from under a knit hat, stood with two boys bundled in winter coats. There was at least a foot of snow on the ground. Definitely not Texas.
Everything she saw. Well… not the stash, but she’d led them to it.
“Erica?”
Something in O’Reilly’s voice alerted him. He turned in time to see her sway.
“Hey,” he said, moving quickly and slipping an arm around her waist.
“I’m fine,” she whispered. “Just drained.”
Her visions wrung her out. For him, puzzle pieces locking into place did the opposite. Adrenaline built and heightened his focus.
He held up the frame. “This finishes it.” Not a threat. A fact.
O’Reilly looked on, understanding dawning.
Coop moved her toward the door. “Let’s wrap this up. Then I’m getting you home to bed.”
Not her home and her bed. His. They’d be lucky to see it before sunrise.
He led her out into the night, framed photo in one hand, hers in the other. Soon, Gruzinsky would realize he had one choice. Face Kedrov as a thief. Or face him as a traitor.
Only one of those came with protection.
***
It was nearly three in the morning when two uniformed officers brought Gruzinsky into the interrogation room. They sat him down and secured him to the steel ring then left.
Coop was already seated, elbows on the table. Waiting with a calm that made men like Gruzinsky sweat.
The Russian rolled his shoulders once and smirked. “You interrupt my sleep. This better be worth it.”
Coop didn’t reply. He simply laid out the evidence, photo by photo—the trapdoor, the weapons, the cash.
Gruzinsky barely glanced at them. Dismissive. Or trying to be.
Then Coop dropped the frame. Wood clattered against steel. The frame landed face up, revealing snow, the woman, and two red-cheeked, smiling boys.
He didn’t touch it. But he didn’t look away either.
“You’ve been skimming.”
Gruzinsky grunted. “You think too much, Ranger.”
“You set up your own side hustle,” Coop continued, without inflection. “Cash and weapons stored where Kedrov won’t look.”
Still no response.
Coop added the next piece. “She walked into your cabin and found the key in under five minutes. What else do you think she saw?”
“She is trick,” he muttered. “Parlor game. You have nothing.”
Coop leaned forward, voice low. “I get it. If Kedrov finds out you talked, you’re dead.” He paused deliberately before adding, “If he finds out you skimmed, you’re dead slower.” He tapped the photo. “What happens to them when you’re gone?”
That landed. Gruzinsky shifted, close to squirming, and turned a little green.
He pressed. “You have a choice. Take your chances with Kedrov, who I’m guessing has no tolerance for thieves or traitors.” Coop stood. “Or cooperate. Work with us. And maybe one day you’ll see those little boys grown up.”
He walked toward the door. With his hand on the knob, he checked his watch: 3:03 a.m.
“The FBI will be here in the morning. When they walk in, I’m out.” He turned and made his final offer. “You want a deal with me, you’ve got about five hours. Otherwise, you tighten the noose.”
He opened the door and went through. It had an automatic closer and swung shut slowly. With only an inch left…
“Wait.”
It wasn’t shouted but croaked in defeat.
Coop put out a hand, holding the door ajar, letting the silence stretch before he came back.
“You do not understand,” the Russian muttered.
“Help me to.”
Clearly torn, he stared at the table. Finally, he uttered, hoarse with urgency, “My family… You must protect them.”
“I’ll do all I can to get the feds to see that—”
“No guarantees. No talk,” Gruzinsky said, cuffs clinking as he tried to move his arms but couldn’t.
Coop looked pointedly from the steel around his wrists to his face. “You’ve got it backward. No talking, and the chance to help your family slips away.”
There was a long, drawn-out silence. Coop shifted, ready to walk out.
“Ten days,” Gruzinsky grunted, as if it hurt.
“What happens in ten days?”
“Another shipment. Big one.”
“What kind?”
“Weapons. Drugs.”
“Where?”
He hesitated.
Coop uttered a low warning. “Don’t waste my time. I can let you go to Bexar County. You’ll get the same accommodations as your comrades.”
The Russian swallowed. “Port of Houston. Then it moves west. By truck.”
“Who’s present?”
Another pause. “Kedrov was not pleased with the last mission. He will be there. To oversee.”
And just like that, the war had a clock.