I step out of the car and take a deep breath, inhaling South Texas air as humid as a greenhouse.

I unbuckle the strap on my hip holster, freeing my SIG Sauer for quick access, and approach the front door.

I hear Chelsea crying inside.

I try to see through the front window, but the house is too dark and the sunlight outside is too bright.

“Come on in, Ranger,” a voice calls from inside. “But keep those hands where I can see them, or I’m gonna blow this lying bitch’s brains out.”

CHAPTER 2

I open the door and step inside. The room is dark, but I can make out the TV—a muted Dr. Phil talking to a guest—and then a chair, a couch, and the two people sitting in them.

Chelsea is frozen on the couch, plastered up against the armrest, as far away from Rip as she can get while staying seated. Rip is in a recliner, holding a long-barreled shotgun with one muscular arm. The barrel is aimed at Chelsea, dead center of her chest, and at the range of only a few feet, it wouldn’t matter if it was loaded with bird shot or double-ought buck: the shot would open her up like a sardine can.

There’s blood on Chelsea’s lip, and one of her eyes is swelling and beginning to turn blue. She can’t seem to stop crying, and she looks at me with pleading, apologetic eyes.

She shouldn’t be apologizing to me. I should be apologizing to her.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” I say to Rip, holding my hands away from my body.

“Chelsea’s the one that’s gone and done something stupid,” Rip says. “She caused this shitstorm of a mess, telling you a bunch of lies about me.”

Rip’s file said he was six four, but he looks even bigger than that because he’s so broad and burly, built like an NFL tight end. He’s wearing a wifebeater that has long since faded from white to the color of urine, and his exposed arms are muscular and veiny, painted here and there with amateur jailhouse tattoos. The shotgun he’s holding—a single-shot 12-gauge with an extra-long barrel—would probably be hard for a normal person to keep steady with two hands, yet he’s doing just fine with only one.

My strategy is simple: keep Rip from doing anything crazy until backup arrives.

There’s a pile of paperback books next to Rip’s chair, each one torn in half as if it were an envelope full of junk mail.

“Is that where you get your nickname?” I ask, nodding at the stack of torn-in-half books.