Lone Star Wanted (Hard Justice #10)

Chapter One

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The acrid stench of smoke dragged Kincade Maddox back from the edge of unconsciousness. His lungs burned. His throat was raw. Every inch of his body throbbed as if it had been put through multiple rounds in the ring with a heavyweight.

Kincade blinked hard a couple of times, trying to focus, but it was still hard to see more than the haze.

There were sounds and more smells, though, and they were coming in much clearer and stronger than his vision.

Charred wood crackled close by. Something groaned above him, and the warning flashed in his head.

Roof. Collapse imminent.

Gritting his teeth, he forced his arms to move, his muscles screaming in protest as he rolled onto his side. Ash coated the floor, and heat radiated from what was left of the scorched back and side walls.

What the hell had happened here?

And where exactly was here?

He didn’t know. Not yet. But answers weren’t his immediate priority. He had to get out from under that roof before it fell and crushed him.

Pushing to his knees, he winced as debris crunched beneath his palms. Despite the groans and creaks that the walls and ceiling were making, there were some sounds missing. No backup. No sirens. Just the crackle of what remained around him and the roar in his skull.

He scanned what was left of the room. But there wasn’t much to scan. Just an intact area where he’d been lying, and even the windows there had been busted wide open. His gear was gone. No phone. No weapon. No comms.

And no sign of his Maverick Ops partner, Travis Prescott.

That got a reaction from him. Panic knifed through the fog in his head. Travis had been here. Kincade was certain of that. They’d been working a lead together. But the rest was blank.

Blanks sure as hell weren’t good.

But neither was anything about this situation. Well, except for the fact that he was alive.

Kincade staggered toward a jagged shard of mirror still clinging to a scorched dresser. His reflection stopped him cold. Blood streaked his temple. Smoke blackened the side of his face. But it was his eyes—blue, fierce and edged with something he didn’t want to name—that made him pause.

He’d been in burnouts before. Explosions, flash fires, controlled ops gone sideways. But this? He’d never woken up or regained consciousness without knowing where the hell he was.

He made another glance around and realized one thing. He’d been damn lucky. The fire had eaten through nearly half of the house. Thankfully, not the half where he’d woken up. Had he gotten there after the fire and collapsed from maybe smoke inhalation, or had he been left there?

No answers for that either.

He stumbled toward the doorway, such that it was. The frame was charred, and the door itself had collapsed into a heap of blackened wood. Smoke curled from a cracked support beam as he stepped outside.

It wasn’t any cooler here than inside the house.

Heat hung in the air, but it wasn’t just from the fire.

Mother Nature was contributing some of it.

The scorching sun beat down on dry grass, and the breeze carried the scents of ash and dust. But there was no traffic. No voices. No buildings in sight.

No Travis.

He fought the urge to call out. His memory might be shit, but his instincts were intact. Whoever had torched the place might still be close. Waiting to finish the job. Whatever the job was.

Turning slowly, he took in the surrounding area.

He knew this place. It was a safe house.

One of several owned by Maverick Ops, the elite private security firm where he’d worked for almost a decade.

The property was isolated, tucked into abandoned ranchland.

Rusted fencing stretched along the border.

Mesquite trees lined the far edge of the field.

Low hills rolled beneath a bleached-blue sky.

Not another house. Not a soul.

“Why are we here?” he muttered, then corrected himself. “I.”

His jaw tightened. Travis certainly wasn’t here. And worse, Kincade couldn’t remember why he wasn’t.

He tried to rewind the last few hours, but it was like slamming into a black wall with only bits and pieces trickling over the top. There’d been some kind of a lead. A cold case. Something Travis wouldn’t shut up about. Cassidy’s cousin. That murder investigation Travis wouldn’t let go of.

But everything else was static.

He cursed and instinctively reached for his pocket. He needed his phone so he could call Ruby Maverick, his boss. He had to get help. Had to find Travis.

But his pocket was empty.

He checked the other. Waistband. Boot. Nothing. No phone. No weapon. No backup.

Panic surged through him, but he shoved it down. Now wasn’t the time to let anything other than logic and training play into this. Not when he had so many things to figure out.

He scanned the horizon, looking for anything that might help him out of this mess. There had to be a road. A trail. Something. But all he saw was empty Texas countryside and the growing certainty that whoever had done this wasn’t finished with him.

The wind shifted, and he caught the sound of a low crunch of tires over gravel. Kincade froze. A vehicle. Too far to make out, but it was coming fast.

After only a couple of seconds, he spotted a worn dirt track winding through the tall grass and didn’t hesitate.

He sprinted across the clearing and dropped behind a gnarled oak, the trunk just wide enough to shield him.

Bark scraped his shoulder as he pressed close, breathing shallow, ignoring the pain in his ribs and head.

The vehicle slowed. Stopped. When a door slammed, Kincade peeked around the tree, and he saw a white sheriff’s department pickup. It was dust-streaked and idling in the heat.

And stepping out was Cassidy Prescott. Travis’s sister. A deputy with the Blanco Pass Sheriff’s Office.

She moved like someone who’d seen her share of trouble. Steady, precise, alert. Her badge flashed in the sunlight as she drew her weapon in a two-handed grip with eyes sweeping the ruins of the safe house.

Kincade hadn’t seen Cassidy in over a year, but he hadn’t forgotten a damn thing. Not her fire. Not her sharp tongue. Not the night they’d both pretended they didn’t feel what they did.

One night. Fast. Reckless.

And then he walked away.

Not because he hadn’t wanted more. He had. But because Travis hadn’t approved. And Kincade hadn’t wanted to blow the partnership they’d built.

Now she was here, eyes blazing, gun aimed and ready.

“Where is he, Kincade?” she shouted, her voice cutting through the heat like a blade. “Where’s Travis?”

Kincade tensed. So she already knew her brother was missing. Or worse, she thought he had something to do with it.

He stepped out slowly, hands raised, palms open. “Easy, Cassidy,” he rasped. “I don’t have a weapon.”

Her aim didn’t budge. “Then where the hell is my brother?”

He met her stare—blue eyes to blue eyes—and said the only thing he was sure of. “I don’t know.”

Cassidy didn’t lower her weapon. Her boots crunched over the scorched gravel as she stalked closer, her eyes locked on his.

“You were supposed to have his back,” she said, her expression and voice tight and furious. “And now he’s gone.”

Kincade kept his hands up, the heat pressing against his skin like a second burn. “I know he’s gone. I woke up maybe fifteen minutes ago in what’s left of that house. I had no phone, no gear, no idea how I got here. My lungs are cooked, and my head’s splitting wide open.”

Her jaw tensed. “What the hell happened?”

“If I knew,” he snapped, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

” He dropped his hands slowly, gesturing to the ruins behind him.

“Last thing I remember, Travis and I were supposed to meet here. He said it had to be in person. Something big. Tied to that cold case your family never got closure on.”

That earned the smallest flicker in her expression. Pain, grief, maybe guilt. But she didn’t look away.

“I got here… yesterday?” Kincade added. “Maybe the day before. It’s blank after that.”

“You blacked out,” she said flatly, and it didn’t sound as if she wanted to believe that.

Kincade clenched his jaw. “Maybe. Or maybe drugged.” He paused and gathered his breath. “Someone set that fire and knocked me out, and I don’t think it was random. Whoever did it wanted to erase something. Or someone.”

She stared at him for a beat longer. Then, slowly, she lowered the gun. But her eyes didn’t soften.

“You don’t remember,” she said under her breath. “You really don’t.”

“No,” he muttered, tacking on some profanity.

Cassidy stared at him and stared. “Shit,” she spat out, and then she groaned. “Get in the truck,” she ordered. “We need to talk. And you’re not going to like what I have to say.”

Kincade didn’t argue. He crossed the clearing, every step reminding him that his body had been through hell. He yanked open the passenger door and climbed in, the seat scorching hot against his skin even through his jeans.

Cassidy slid in behind the wheel, not looking at him right away.

She fired up the engine, and the old truck rumbled to life.

The A/C blasted from the vents, doing its best to cut through the stifling September air.

Kincade leaned back, the seat digging into his spine, the sting of dried blood at his temple pulsing with each heartbeat.

She glanced over at him finally, her eyes sweeping the gash above his eyebrow. “How bad are you hurt?” she asked as she started the drive.

He reached up, fingers brushing the edge of the wound. “Not bad.”

That was a lie. His head was pounding, and his ribs felt like they’d been stomped by a bull. But he didn’t want to talk about injuries, not when Travis was missing.

She huffed. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

He didn’t argue. Not because he wanted to go, but because he might actually need to. Still, it wasn’t the priority.

“You said I wasn’t going to like what you had to tell me,” he reminded her. “Let’s hear it.”

Cassidy exhaled hard and turned down a narrow road that curved past cattle fences and fields gone to dust. She reached onto the center console, picked up her phone, and tapped the screen. After a few swipes, she handed it over.

He took it. One glance at the screen, and his stomach dropped. It was an official APB. Fresh. Timestamps less than twelve hours old.

WANTED – TRAVIS PRESCOTT. Subject is considered armed and dangerous. Primary suspect in the homicide of Daniel Harlan, former County Prosecutor. Approach with caution. Use of force is authorized.

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