Dominic Caruso accelerated Kelsey Callahan’s Bureau-issued Ford Expedition down the on-ramp of the President George Bush Turnpike, heading toward Plano. He’d insisted on driving, despite Callahan’s objections. She already suspected him of being complicit in the murder of a couple cartel members, though she hadn’t said much about it, but the run-in with the Garland PD detective had left her leg bouncing like the needle on a sewing machine. Caruso considered talking to her about the incident but quickly decided that he was in mortal danger of getting his head bitten off.
Turf wars notwithstanding, whoever killed Aaron Bennet had come gunning for Callahan. The fact that the killer or killers went to Buttermilk Place instead of Buttermilk Circle gave Caruso a little peek into their intellect and psyche—but, in his experience, assassins hit the wrong person more than a quarter of the time. Two of the first fugitive cases during his early career—when he worked for the FBI more than just on paper—had been victims of mistaken identity. In both cases, the killers had realized the screwup and rectified it in short order.
Caruso checked the rearview mirror several times a minute as he drove, knowing that the people who wanted Callahan dead were very likely back there now. Traffic was heavy and it was getting dark, which would work to Caruso’s favor if he needed to avoid an attack but made it easy for any bad actors to blend into the sea of headlights behind him.
He took the exit toward Campbell Road, watching to see if anyone followed. Three sets of lights came off behind him. He turned left to pass back under the freeway, but instead of continuing down Campbell, he camped out at the green light, squirting through just as it turned red to make a quick left back up the frontage road to the east, paralleling the turnpike back in the direction they’d come from. No one behind him did anything crazy to follow.
Callahan turned to look at him but said nothing. She obviously knew he was working to shake off any unseen tails.
Caruso glanced across the dim interior of the Expedition. “How long since you’ve had anything to eat?”
“I’m fine,” Callahan said.
Caruso decided to press the issue. “Seriously. How long?”
She gave a dismissive shrug. “I don’t know. I had that coffee for breakfast.”
“Before that?” Caruso said. “I’ve been with you since before seven this morning and I haven’t seen you eat so much as a breath mint. You’re starting to look a little hollow around the cheeks.”
Callahan beat her head against the headrest. “We’ve known each other for what, twenty-six hours? I don’t think you’re allowed to call me too skinny.”
“What?” Caruso grinned. “You’ve called me bastard, son of a bitch, and asshole—along with pretty much every other name in the book over that same time period.”
“I did not.”
“Not even in your brain?”
Callahan laughed out loud. “That doesn’t count.”
Caruso turned his head to look at her as he drove. “So you admit it?”
“I admit that I may have thought one or two unflattering things about you.”
“Good,” Caruso said. “Then I’ll admit I am hungry. Can we please get something to eat?”
? ? ?
Moco pounded his hands against the steering wheel, craning his head left and right in search of the lady cop’s Expedition. He cursed Gusano for eating the dab. He’d been forced to eat the rest of his hash oil plain. Without the benefit of the coconut oil, it wasn’t doing a damn bit of good.
Taillights flashed and blinked in a confusing river of red. Oncoming headlights blinded him. She’d gotten away from him—and now the boss was going to set him on fire—or pump him full of so much dope he wouldn’t pass out while the guys cut his feet off with a chainsaw.
This. Could. Not. Be. Happening.
The Worm sat with his nose pressed against the passenger window, head bobbing to his tunes. He held one of the Glocks in his lap, which was the only thing keeping Moco from shooting the stupid bastard in the back of the head.
Moco’s mobile phone buzzed as he merged back onto the turnpike. It was the kid.
“What?”
“You want me to wait outside or follow them in?”
Moco’s stomach did a flip. “What are you talking about?”
“They’re going into the restaurant,” the kid said. “Want me to sit on her car?”
“What restaurant?” Moco shot a look at Gusano. “Never mind. Just tell me where you’re at. We’ll meet you outside.”
“Texas Roadhouse,” the kid said. “I’m on the north side of the parking lot.”
“Wait there for us.” Moco ended the call. He turned to Gusano, suddenly feeling as if he might make it through the night without getting his feet sawed off. Even his anger at the Worm began to fade. “Get ready, my friend.”
Gusano raised an eyebrow. “Are you certain we are going to the correct restaurant?” His tone said he was serious.
? ? ?
Ten minutes after he cut back under the turnpike at Brand Road, Caruso sat with his back to the wall across the booth from Callahan, watching her slather cinnamon butter on a Texas Roadhouse hot roll. She spoke with her hands as much as her voice and was imbued with such energy and fervor that her red hair bounced in time to her words. The food animated her and she appeared to forget about Detective Little and the dead bodies at Matarife’s ranch.
Two hot rolls down, Callahan suddenly put both hands flat on the table and looked across at Caruso with narrow eyes. “You know why they’re trying to kill me, don’t you?”
Caruso started to say something, but she cut him off.
“It’s not because I’ve gotten into their business, if that’s what you were going to say. I muck up people’s illegal criminal enterprises all the time.”
“Okay.” Caruso shrugged. “Enlighten me.”
Callahan gave a tired smile. “It’s because they don’t think I’m playing by the rules.”
“But you are.” Caruso did a quick scan of the room before making eye contact to show he was listening.
“Ah,” Callahan said. “But they don’t know that. Your buddy, John—or whatever his name is—grabs Flaco and pressures information out of him, and then blows away Matarife’s yard help and his girlfriend . . . naked in the swimming pool. Except your friend’s pretty good at staying hidden, so they can’t find him. I’m the face of the investigation, so they’re coming after me.”
Caruso put his hands on the table as well, an interrogation tool called mirroring. She’d be familiar with it, but he did it anyway. “I want you to think about something,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Do you honestly believe that someone who calls himself ‘the Slaughterer’ and sells human beings at online auctions or murders them on camera really gives two shits if you play by the rules? I doubt he even sees any rules.”