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WHEN MY BOOTS hit the top of the train, my legs are yanked out from under me, like I’ve tried to stand on a treadmill spinning in reverse. My butt slams onto the freight car’s roof, and I roll backward, my head bouncing off the metal with a clang. The momentum of the train rolls me sideways toward the edge. I cling to a riveted joint in the roof as my feet dangle over the side. The train rocks and shakes beneath me, vibrating my whole body.
I feel like I’m riding a ten-thousand-ton jackhammer.
I force myself to my hands and knees and crawl away from the edge. I squint my eyes against the wind as I scan the length of the train to find Parker. He’s already spotted me and is facing my way.
I rise unsteadily to my feet. To my left is rolling West Texas desert. If I fall in that direction, I might survive with a broken bone or two. To my right, however, is a steep drop down the canyon. If I fell here, I’d tumble down a hundred feet of rocky cliff slope before smashing into a barricade of boulders on the shoreline.
I lumber forward, like a drunk unable to walk a straight line.
Parker moves toward me, leaping between the cars like an Olympic gymnast. His dexterity gives me confidence, and I pick up speed. When I approach the gap between cars, I don’t hesitate. I leap forward and sail over the coupling connecting the cars. My boots skid on the other side, and for a stomach-clenching instant, I think I’m going to slide off the side of the train.
But then I gain my footing and start running again, getting used to the rhythm of the rocking train. The train chuffs and shifts and rumbles beneath me. My boots clang loudly against the metal.
I leap to another car. And then another. Finally, Parker and I meet on the same car—him on one end, me on the other, as if we’re dueling gunfighters on Main Street in a dusty western town. Fifty feet separate us. Then twenty feet. Ten.
Parker’s pistol is fastened to his hip.
Just like mine.
Parker calls out to me.
“I can’t let you take me in, Rory,” he says. “I’m not letting you lock me up with the scum I used to put away.”
“You called last night to thank me for saving your son’s life,” I say. “Now you’re going to murder me?”
Parker looks stricken. I can tell the warped moral code he operates from is straining to the point of breaking.
“I wish it wasn’t you, Rory,” he says sadly.
I hold my hands out to my side, away from my SIG Sauer. Parker was always good with a gun—all Texas Rangers are—but he’s no match for me. If he goes for his gun, I’ll kill him.
I know it.
He must know it, too.
“No hard feelings,” he says. “Okay?”
The way he says this, it’s as if he’s saying goodbye—as if he’s offering me forgivenessbeforeI shoot him.
“Don’t do this, Parker,” I say.
“Sorry, old friend,” he says, and his hand darts to his holster.
CHAPTER 51
I DON’T GRAB my gun. I keep my arm frozen at my side.
Parker draws fast and aims the gun directly at my chest. I hold my breath and prepare for the inevitablebang.
It doesn’t come.
Parker simply stands on the train, aiming his pistol at me.
“I knew you couldn’t do it,” I say, relieved. “I knew there was something left of the Parker I remembered.”
“Damn it, Rory,” he says.
“No more killing,” I say. “It’s time to come in.”
