Chapters (110)
- Cover
- ALSO BY J. TODD SCOTT
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- PROLOGUE
- I
- II
- PART ONE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- PART TWO
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- PART THREE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- PART FOUR
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- SEVENTY-FOUR
- SEVENTY-FIVE
- SEVENTY-SIX
- SEVENTY-SEVEN
- SEVENTY-EIGHT
- SEVENTY-NINE
- EIGHTY
- EIGHTY-ONE
- EIGHTY-TWO
- EIGHTY-THREE
- EIGHTY-FOUR
- EPILOGUE
- I
- II
- III
- IV
- V
- VI
- VII
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Excerpt from LOST RIVER
- LITTLE PARIS
- DILLON
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- What’s next onyour reading list?
DESPITE THE URGENCY on the call several hours ago, Gualterio’s people were now taking all the time in the world, making them wait, letting a covering dusk fall. It’s exactly what Danny would have done, and not very different from when he was working undercover, trying to meet some Hammerskins or Volksfront for the first time. They’d set times and places they all knew no one was serious about, and he’d end up drinking away hours in some shitty bar, only to get a call to move to another, even shittier, bar, or an apartment or motel near a freeway. Maybe he was supposed to meet two guys, and instead eight showed, or no one at all. Other times they’d send a woman, sometimes a teenage kid.
Skinheads, narcos, cops . . . they all played the same game, and John Wesley Earl had been a hell of a real poker player. He used to tell Danny all the time that to win the big hands—to win it all—you had to play patiently, bluff aggressively, and never, ever, be the first one to blink.
During his time with the Earls, Danny had become a pretty good card player, too.
—
HE’D SET UP THE BACK OF THE BRONCO like a sniper nest.
He had the M110 SASS laid out next to him on the sleeping bag, along with a handful of Clif Bars and a case of Gatorade and two empty gallon milk jugs to piss in. He’d drilled seven ragged holes through the smoky camper shell in three of the four cardinal directions, masking them with electrical tape that he could push away with the muzzle of the rifle or his knife. The raised bed of the Bronco gave him some elevation, the makeshift murder holes presented him clear sight lines and firing angles across the whole front of the property and at least two sides of the house, and the camper shell itself provided cover and concealment.
He’d dropped his AR-15 and some extra mags about ten yards to the south of the truck in a knot of ocotillo, next to the sheriff’s Big Bend truck. That was his fallback position once Gualterio’s men figured out where he was hiding. If they were good, and he was going to assume they were, he’d probably get about four or five good shots off before they zeroed in on him. Maybe more, maybe less, depending on their number and how distracted they were dealing with the sheriff and America and Fox Uno. Sheriff Cherry had said there was supposed to be three total: two bad guys, and Amé’s mother, but it didn’t matter what they’d said, only who showed up.
The truth was, anything or anyone could appear down that gravel drive.
And that was fine with Danny, as long as whatever or whoever it was appeared soon, before he fucking suffocated to death.
—