Chapter Ten
Through the trees, fifty yards from the main processing building, sat the dark, lifted square-body Ford. Steam was still curling lazily from a bullet hole in its front grill—Cole’s shot from the high ridge in Devil's Hollow had punctured the radiator.
"He's trapped," Maya said softly, unbuckling her harness and checking the action on her sidearm. "The truck won't make another five miles."
Luke stepped out into the knee-high river grass, his Sig Sauer drawn; his dark Stetson pulled low.
The morning air along the water was frigid, thick with river fog that clung to the rusted machinery.
He moved around to the passenger side, opening Maya’s door, his large hand resting on her knee to anchor her for a brief, intense second.
"Cole’s five minutes out with the county units," Luke said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "We hold the perimeter until Buster gets here to flush him."
"Look at the conveyor tower, Luke," Maya whispered, pointing her weapon up through the fog toward the top catwalk, sixty feet above the riverbed.
A high-powered rifle barrel glinted in the faint morning light through a gap in the rusted siding.
"He’s not trying to run," Luke growled, his jaw setting hard. "He’s setting an ambush."
Before Luke could pull her back, a muzzle flash strobe-lit the top of the tower. A heavy .45-70 round punched clean through the door frame of Luke’s truck, showering them in tempered glass.
"Go!" Luke barked, grabbing Maya’s tactical vest and driving them both forward into the shelter of a concrete foundation wall beneath the central hopper.
The killer was fired up on adrenaline and blood loss, working the lever of his heavy rifle with frantic, erratic rhythm. Three more massive rounds slammed into the concrete above their heads, sending jagged gravel spalls raining down into their hair.
"He’s high up, but his angle is restricted by the iron support beams," Maya analyzed rapidly, her back pressed against the cold concrete as dust settled over them. "If he stays up there, he has the high ground on the entry road when Cole arrives."
"Not if I take the catwalk stairs," Luke said, his eyes burning with lethal, unyielding intent.
"He’s waiting for you on the stairs, Luke," Maya said, her hand coming up to catch the collar of his vest, her dark eyes fierce and unwavering.
"Look at the base of the main conveyor hopper.
There are three four-hundred-gallon propane tanks linked to the dryer burner.
He ran a commercial fuel line straight up to the top level. "
Luke’s eyes narrowed as he caught the faint, chemical reek of mercaptan bleeding into the river mist. "He’s rigged the tower to burn."
"He wants to blow the complex and burn every corporate record stored in that upper office," Maya said, her analytical mind piecing together the endgame in seconds.
"If I hit the main cut-off valve at the manifold below, I neutralize his incendiary trap.
But you have to keep his eyes on the upper catwalk. "
Luke looked down into her eyes, feeling the raw, terrifying edge of his love and fierce need to protect her clashing with her absolute refusal to sit on the sidelines.
"Sixty seconds, Maya," Luke commanded softly, his hand coming up to cup her neck, his thumb pressing hard against her jaw. "You hit that valve and you get back behind this wall. If he shifts his barrel toward you, I drop him."
"Sixty seconds," Maya promised, her mouth brushing against him in a brief, fierce, fire-forged kiss before she broke away, disappearing into the fog along the lower concrete line.
Luke didn't waste a heartbeat. He stepped out from behind the concrete pillar, firing three rapid, precise suppressed rounds up into the steel siding of the upper catwalk.
The metal screamed as the 9mm rounds struck, drawing an immediate, furious response from the tower. The shooter racked his lever action, firing wildly down into the fog where Luke moved like a shadow through the rusted machinery.
On the ground level, Maya sprinted low through the wet weeds toward the industrial fuel manifold. The air was choking with propane fumes. The valve wheel was old, covered in flake rust, and locked with a thick steel chain.
She reached into her tactical pouch, pulling out her heavy emergency cable cutters. She clamped the jaws over the rusted chain link, putting every ounce of her weight into the handles. The metal groaned, then snapped with a loud clack.
Above her, a heavy footstep slammed against the iron catwalk stairs.
"Grayson!" a raspy, blood-choked voice screamed down from the tower. "You're thirty years too late! The Lawson family owns this river!"
Garrett Lawson—the last surviving heir of the Brazos land syndicate—stepped out onto the open platform, blood soaking the front of his canvas jacket, a road flare sparking red in his left hand as he reached toward the vented propane pipe.
"Lawson!" Luke’s voice boomed through the complex like a thunderclap from thirty feet below on the secondary catwalk.
Lawson spun, raising his heavy rifle, but the red flare in his hand hovered inches from the pipe.
"Shut it down, Maya!" Luke yelled.
Maya threw her weight against the iron valve wheel, spinning it clockwise until the steel seated hard into the brass fitting, cutting the pressurized gas flow instantly.
Lawson struck the flare against the pipe, but only a thin, harmless blue flicker sputtered out before dying in the damp river wind.
His eyes widened in shock—and in that fraction of a second; Luke closed the distance.
Luke cleared the top stairs, slamming his shoulder into Lawson’s chest with the force of a freight train. The heavy rifle clattered over the iron railing, plunging sixty feet down into the muddy riverbed below.
Lawson crashed onto his back against the rusted iron grating, gasping for air, reaching frantically for a hunting knife tucked into his belt.
Luke grabbed Lawson’s wrist, twisting the blade free and pitching it over the rail before pinning the man to the iron deck with a knee planted square into his sternum. He pulled Lawson’s arm back, clicking a heavy pair of steel cuffs around his wrist with ruthless, final precision.
"Garrett Lawson, you're under arrest for the murders of three Texas Department of Public Safety officers," Luke growled, his voice a cold, unyielding hammer of justice that echoed across the Brazos Valley.
Sirens echoed down County Road 308 as two state trooper cruisers and Cole’s truck tore through the gate, red and blue strobe lights painting the fogged riverbank. Buster’s deep, triumphant bark sounded from below.
Luke stood up, stepping back to the catwalk, railing.
Standing on the gravel below, looking up through the mist with her hands on her hips and her dark eyes shining with victory, was Maya.
Luke descended the iron stairs two at a time.
When his boots hit the gravel floor, he didn't care about the arriving deputies, the flashing lights, or the crime scene tape.
He walked straight to Maya, wrapped his broad arms around her waist, and lifted her off her feet, pulling her flush against his chest.
Maya wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face into the notch of his shoulder, letting out a long, shuddering breath as the thirty-year nightmare finally crumbled into ash behind them.
"We got him, Luke," Maya whispered, her voice thick with emotion as she pulled back to look into his dark, fierce eyes. "We brought them home."
Luke looked down at her, his hands holding her face gently, his thumb wiping away the last trace of dust from her cheek.
"We brought each other home," Luke said softly, leaning down to capture her lips in a deep, possessive kiss that promised a lifetime of sunrise over the Brazos Valley.