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Carlos is in his early forties, with a rangy build, long sinewy muscles, and not an ounce of fat on his frame. Usually when I see him, he’s wearing the typical Texas Rangers attire of dress pants, shirt, tie, boots, and hat, with a Colt 1911 on his hip, which he prefers over the standard-issue SIG Sauer I carry. But today he’s unarmed and dressed casually in jeans, a Spurs ball cap, and a gray T-shirt with big red and white letters that sayREZ BALL, a nod to his Native American Kickapoo and Comanche heritage.
“You hear about the armored truck robbery on the Brazos?” Carlos asks.
“Of course,” I say.
Everyone in Texas has heard about the robbery. Company C, where Carlos works, has been collaborating on the investigation with the FBI and local police. I know Carlos is still learning the ropes in his new job, so I wasn’t sure if he’d been assigned to work on the case.
Apparently so.
“I’ve got a suspicion about who might be responsible,” Carlos says, giving me a look that, rare for him, has absolutely no humor in it.
“I don’t work in Company C,” I say. “Why tell me?”
“Because you’re the only Ranger I trust.”
I frown. There are a hundred and sixty-six Texas Rangers in the state, and I trust just about all of them. There are several I don’t know well and a few I don’t particularly get along with, but I’d trust every one of them to do the right thing in a tough situation.
“There’s a chance the person behind the robbery is a former Ranger,” Carlos says. “That makes me think other Rangers might be involved. Or at least compromised.”
Goose bumps rise on my skin. I can’t quite believe what he’s saying.
Carlos explains that he mentioned his theory to his captain and was told, in no uncertain terms, not to pursue that line of investigation.
“Maybe he thought I was just barking up the wrong tree,” Carlos says. “But there might be more to it. I don’t trust anyone to help me figure this out but you.”
“Who do you think it is?” I say.
When he tells me, I can’t believe my ears.
CHAPTER 4
CARLOS SAYS HIS suspect is Parker Longbaugh, who was a mentor to me when I first joined the Rangers. He was one of the most upstanding, moral men I’ve ever worked with—in my company, or any law enforcement around the state. If someone asked me to make a list of all the possible ex-Rangers who might turn into criminals, Parker’s name sure as hell wouldn’t be on it.
“No way,” I say. “It can’t be him. I’d stake my badge on it.”
The expression on Carlos’s face tells me that he’d gotten that kind of reaction from his captain and had expected better of me.
“I’ll listen to what you have to say,” I tell him, holding my hands up in surrender. “But I can see why this was a hard pill for your captain to swallow.”
Carlos explains that the Rangers and FBI believe a group of thieves known as the XYZ Bandits hit the armored truck. There’ve been previous robberies over the past year conducted with similar modus operandi.
Three men on motorcycles.
Carrying submachine guns.
Referring to each other as Mr. X, Mr. Y, and Mr. Z.
They robbed a shipping facility on the coast outside of Galveston last year. They hit a warehouse in Nacogdoches last fall. And all spring, banks throughout West Texas and the Panhandle were robbed by a group that fit the description. The armored truck was by far the most high-profile—and most complicated—but the bandits had been at it for a while.
The robbers are fast.
They’re professional.
They stay away from the big cities.
And, as far as anyone can tell, they only work in Texas.
“We think they carry MPXs,” Carlos says, referring to a gas-operated submachine gun manufactured by SIG, the same company that makes the Sauer I carry. “But they’ve never fired a shot. They’ve never had to. They’re efficient enough they get the drop on every type of security they’ve faced. The armored truck on the Brazos was the only time anyone got hurt, and it was just the guards getting banged up in the crash.”
