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“Yes,” said Alvarez. “When the Goose shot her at close range, a minuscule droplet of blood flashed back and got lodged under a screw on the grip.”
“We’ve got him for sure.”
“We do.”
“You want to know the other thing?” Alvarez asked rhetorically. “It’s this. Joe Molinari, your excellent husband, got an FBI handwriting analyst to read the death threat on the napkin and the note on the matchbook—and compare it with some of Goose’s handwriting samples I found in the Lake files.”
“You’re saying that theyareall a match.”
“It was Goose. The threat left on your car. The writing on the matchbook saying, ‘All bets are off, Marty.’”
“Goose will make some kind of deal,” I said. “But no. The DA won’t make him an offer.”
I gave Alvarez another hug. And as we said good night I thought about how much I loved all of the women in my life. In the back room, the Women’s Murder Club had polished off the pie and buttoned their jackets. I took the check from Lorraine and added an extra-big tip.
I followed my friends out into the perfect night and we all hugged, wished each other good night. I found my Explorer with its new tires, got in and fired up the engine. I called Joe to say I was on my way.
And that I couldn’t wait to get home.
FALLEN RANGER
James PattersonandAndrew Bourelle
No man in the wrong can stand up against a fellow that’s in the right and keeps on a-comin’.
—Texas Ranger maxim first attributed to Captain Bill McDonald (1852–1918)
PROLOGUE
ONE
DELIA MARQUEZ RIDES shotgun in the armored truck, staring out the window as the scenery of Central Texas rolls by. The roadway runs parallel to the Brazos River as the wide waterway meanders through a rocky canyon with mesquite trees choking the shores. The truck rides high on one side of the canyon, separated from the scree-covered bankside by a steel guardrail. Up ahead, at a bend in the river, there’s a lone fishing boat floating on the surface, a little aluminum thing with a single figure kicked back, watching the line for signs of a bite. Otherwise, there isn’t a soul around—not a car, not a person, not even a hawk flying overhead—except for the armored truck and its three occupants.
Delia, new to the job.
David Green, a fifty-year-old former trucker from Louisiana, behind the wheel.
And Seth Frederickson, a tall kid only two years out of high school, in the back with the money.
David and Seth have both been with the First Lonestar Credit Union for more than a year now and seem to know what they’re doing, but Delia doesn’t have too much respect for them. They’re soft. She’s done two tours in Afghanistan, where she fired her weapon on more than one occasion and witnessed friends injured and killed. These guys, Dave and Seth, wear Kevlar vests and carry semiautomatic pistols on their hips, but they go about their business with a casualness that makes Delia uncomfortable. They wouldn’t hack it in the Army.
But this ain’t Afghanistan and she tries to cut them some slack.
The armored truck has bulletproof windows, puncture-resistant tires, and gun ports in the doors, but the three of them aren’t exactly riding in a convoy through enemy territory in danger of running over IEDs or being besieged by rocket launchers.
It’s not her coworkers who need to be more alert—it’s Delia who needs to relax.
This is just a job.
It’s not life and death.
She lets out a deep breath and tries to enjoy the drive. The view sure beats the desert landscape she’s used to.
As the truck approaches the bend in the river where the fishing boat is floating, there is less vegetation crowding the bank, just a rocky slope down to the water. Delia’s eyes drift to the person in the boat. She squints, unsure if what she’s seeing is correct. She would have expected a guy wearing cargo pants and a fishing vest, maybe a hat to keep the sun out of his eyes. A beer in one hand and a rod in the other. Instead, this person is dressed in a black wetsuit and is wearing snorkel goggles and swim fins. A scuba tank sits inside the boat.
The Brazos is deep in this stretch, maybe fifteen or twenty feet, but she certainly wouldn’t have expected someone to go scuba diving here. A muddy Texas river is a far cry from the Great Barrier Reef.
“That’s weird,” Delia says, sitting up for a closer look at the diver.
