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?
She was too focused on the pendejo behind the van door, who she couldn’t get a good angle on. It was next to impossible to shoot at him and shield the sheriff, too . . . and to a lesser extent, Fox Uno, who was groaning and trying to crawl away from her. She also didn’t want to accidentally hit the woman she’d seen—the poor, gray-haired owner of La Tienda they’d tried to offer up as her mama.
She’d emptied the Remington and was now using her AR-15, but couldn’t get to her extra magazines easily, and the air around her was hot to the touch. Not only from the explosion, but from the passing bullets themselves, scorching the sky as they flew by.
Embers swirled around, close enough she could grab them with her hand, and she tasted bitter smoke.
“Tell me how this ends . . .” That’s what Danny had asked her. And although she hadn’t known then, still didn’t know now, she had to believe it wasn’t like this.
She would not allow it to end like this.
She prayed they could hold out for a little longer, as she worked furiously to reload her rifle.
She never felt the bullet.
She thought maybe she’d been kicked or shoved by either the sheriff or Fox Uno.
There was no pain, though, only pressure. A tightening, as if she, too, had been grabbed by the same invisible hand that been holding Danny down only a dozen yards away, although she’d never truly know that.
But when she tried to take a breath, the air wouldn’t come, and she looked down just long enough to see the bloody hole torn through her shirt and her heart.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
Chris saw Amé go down.
He had no idea how bad it was; the bullet didn’t come from the sicario near the van, but off to their right, where Chris could now barely make out two more men moving in the falling dusk. Probably, he guessed, the shooters who’d fired first at Fox Uno. One was huge, heavily muscled, and the other was whip-thin, with dark hair slicked back on his head. They were both in police tactical gear and they were duckwalking, staying low, carefully measuring their shots as they worked hard to stay out of sight of the other sicario.
Chris couldn’t guess who these men were, or where they’d come from. It was as if they’d magically appeared out of the desert, walking all the way from Mexico.
But they had badges . . . They had to be cops or agents, like Garrison.
He raised a hand and started to call out to them, but as they continued to aim down their barrels, he understood they hadn’t come to save him.
In that moment, he and Amé were no different from any other narcos to them.
No better than Fox Uno or the sicarios.