I'm on the county road in under a minute, on Highway 71 in under five.
* * *
I call Bullseye on the burner from the road.
He picks up on the first ring with a bar's noise behind him. Music. Glasses. A woman laughing somewhere. "Brother. Saw the news on the ranch hit. Was about to call you."
I keep my eyes on the road. "Where are you?"
"Smitty's outside Brady. Longhorn's with me. We been here two nights."
The word *Brady* goes through my chest like a hot wire.
"Bullseye."
"Yeah."
My hand grips the wheel one notch tighter. "How far are you from the old wool warehouse on Commerce Street?"
A pause. The bar noise behind him gets quieter, like he's stepping outside.
His voice when it comes back is different. "Brother. That's a four-minute drive from here. Why the fuck are you askin' me about that buildin'?"
I take the exit onto 87 north without slowing. "Hartley's there. He's got Nash."
A longer pause. "You sure?"
My jaw locks. "I'm sure. It's where my old work used to stage. Hartley would take the boy somewhere that means somethin' to me. That's the closest one inside our range."
"Then he wants you comin' there. He wants you walkin' in."
The Hill Country goes by my window at eighty-five. "He does."
A pause on the line that says Bullseye is doing the same math I'm doing. "And you're walkin' in."
My hand tightens on the wheel. "I am."
The bar noise is all the way gone. Longhorn's voice in the background, asking Bullseye a question. Bullseye's hand muffles the receiver. He says something back.
Then he comes back to me. "Brother. We're walkin' out the door."
I switch the phone to my left hand. The right one stays on the wheel. "Bullseye. Hartley can't see you. You hear me? You stay invisible until I get there. He thinks I'm comin' alone. I am comin' alone. You and Longhorn are just gonna be in the parkin' lot havin' a beer when you hear shots."
"That's all we're doin'."
I pass a cattle truck on the left. "You recon the buildin' before I get there. Don't engage. Just eyes. Tell me what's inside."
"On it."
I drop my speed a notch as a state trooper passes the opposite direction. "My ETA is ninety minutes."
"Copy. You get here, brother."
My eyes don't leave the road. "I'll get there."
I end the call and set the phone on the dash.
The Hill Country goes by on either side of me at eighty-five miles an hour.
