governor has asked about you several times, Reynolds, since he saw the video of you during that convenience store shooting."
"Any state trooper would have done the same, sir," she answered stiffly.
"In a bridesmaid's dress with your hair gussied up? My wife still talks about seeing your photo."
She gritted her teeth. "Thank you, sir. I'll do my best to be a credit to the Texas Rangers."
His eyes danced. "There may be some different opportunities, though, around here."
Her heart began to beat faster, more hopefully.
"You spent a lot of time at FLETC on firearms instructor training, after you first left Gilbert's Crossing."
She shrugged, conceding the obvious. Federal Law Enforcement Training Center. Great school—but damn, its location sure deserved the nickname of Nowheresville, Georgia.
"The DPS Academy wants you to look over their firearms curriculum and make sure it's up to date with what you picked up there. Since it's summer, you may also be asked to fill in for some other firearms instructors on vacation."
"I'd be glad to, sir." Sure as hell be more interesting than being polite to politicians.
"CIS may also ask your opinion from time to time about a drug-smuggling case linked to El Gallinazo. Interested?"
"Of course, sir." She smiled, suspecting the curve was more edged than feminine.
And Ethan was a nice bit of relaxation on the side.
----
Chapter Seven
A SMALL FARM TOWN NORTHEAST OF AUSTIN. TWO NIGHTS LATER
Steve rode her Harley Sportster up to Hot Pepper Motorcycles and slowed, warily eyeing her surroundings.
The ranch road leading here had been long and blessed with only a few gentle curves. A few oak trees offered darker shadows against the early night and small houses shone like lighthouses. Fences unrolled ceaselessly at the tarmac's edge, enlivened by an occasional mile marker, popping up like a ghost. The soft, warm scents of cows and corn had blanketed the June night out there but seemed to creep only cautiously through the fence's narrow slats. Here, oil, rubber, and steel ruled.
The legendary custom bike shop had originally been a road-house, during the 1920s and 1930s. It became a truck stop during the 1950s, gaining an impressive set of facilities and fencing, only to dissolve into this backwater when the interstate highway cut through fifteen miles farther east. But it still boasted a flashing neon light overhead, lobbing fireworks into the sky like arrogant artillery shells.
The shop was an advertisement for Serrano Sam's genius. The lights were all
on, shining into the night from the few windows and the big open bays. All the welding equipment, boxes of tools, rolling crates of tools, bins of parts—everything stacked and labeled and gleaming with the joy only methodical men can bring to their temple—all was in perfect order. Even the rubber mats on the bays' floors were smooth and straight. A half dozen bikes, in various stages of completion from black steel to luminous art, stood proudly on their stands. One loomed inside the paint booth like a gold and black praying mantis from outer space.
Outside, a pair of small, dusty Honda CRVs sat in front of the old roadhouse's porch, across from a brand-new Cadillac. A big pickup was parked in the shadows, rarely glimpsed under the neon light's eternal announcement of "Hot Pepper's."
A black truck, perhaps?
There wasn't a living being in sight, not even a dog. Just as surprisingly, she had the only working motorcycle—and a Harley Sportster had never been labeled
quiet
.
Steve frowned faintly, a whisper of air slipping over her skin. Did she have the day of the week wrong?
But the building's lights were all on and the doors were open.
She'd planned to come that afternoon to order a new bike, symbol of her freedom from Fred and any plans for similarity to Donna Reed. But she'd been delayed by having to fill in for another instructor, suddenly called away for a sick child. She wasn't about to wait any longer, since Hot
"Any state trooper would have done the same, sir," she answered stiffly.
"In a bridesmaid's dress with your hair gussied up? My wife still talks about seeing your photo."
She gritted her teeth. "Thank you, sir. I'll do my best to be a credit to the Texas Rangers."
His eyes danced. "There may be some different opportunities, though, around here."
Her heart began to beat faster, more hopefully.
"You spent a lot of time at FLETC on firearms instructor training, after you first left Gilbert's Crossing."
She shrugged, conceding the obvious. Federal Law Enforcement Training Center. Great school—but damn, its location sure deserved the nickname of Nowheresville, Georgia.
"The DPS Academy wants you to look over their firearms curriculum and make sure it's up to date with what you picked up there. Since it's summer, you may also be asked to fill in for some other firearms instructors on vacation."
"I'd be glad to, sir." Sure as hell be more interesting than being polite to politicians.
"CIS may also ask your opinion from time to time about a drug-smuggling case linked to El Gallinazo. Interested?"
"Of course, sir." She smiled, suspecting the curve was more edged than feminine.
And Ethan was a nice bit of relaxation on the side.
----
Chapter Seven
A SMALL FARM TOWN NORTHEAST OF AUSTIN. TWO NIGHTS LATER
Steve rode her Harley Sportster up to Hot Pepper Motorcycles and slowed, warily eyeing her surroundings.
The ranch road leading here had been long and blessed with only a few gentle curves. A few oak trees offered darker shadows against the early night and small houses shone like lighthouses. Fences unrolled ceaselessly at the tarmac's edge, enlivened by an occasional mile marker, popping up like a ghost. The soft, warm scents of cows and corn had blanketed the June night out there but seemed to creep only cautiously through the fence's narrow slats. Here, oil, rubber, and steel ruled.
The legendary custom bike shop had originally been a road-house, during the 1920s and 1930s. It became a truck stop during the 1950s, gaining an impressive set of facilities and fencing, only to dissolve into this backwater when the interstate highway cut through fifteen miles farther east. But it still boasted a flashing neon light overhead, lobbing fireworks into the sky like arrogant artillery shells.
The shop was an advertisement for Serrano Sam's genius. The lights were all
on, shining into the night from the few windows and the big open bays. All the welding equipment, boxes of tools, rolling crates of tools, bins of parts—everything stacked and labeled and gleaming with the joy only methodical men can bring to their temple—all was in perfect order. Even the rubber mats on the bays' floors were smooth and straight. A half dozen bikes, in various stages of completion from black steel to luminous art, stood proudly on their stands. One loomed inside the paint booth like a gold and black praying mantis from outer space.
Outside, a pair of small, dusty Honda CRVs sat in front of the old roadhouse's porch, across from a brand-new Cadillac. A big pickup was parked in the shadows, rarely glimpsed under the neon light's eternal announcement of "Hot Pepper's."
A black truck, perhaps?
There wasn't a living being in sight, not even a dog. Just as surprisingly, she had the only working motorcycle—and a Harley Sportster had never been labeled
quiet
.
Steve frowned faintly, a whisper of air slipping over her skin. Did she have the day of the week wrong?
But the building's lights were all on and the doors were open.
She'd planned to come that afternoon to order a new bike, symbol of her freedom from Fred and any plans for similarity to Donna Reed. But she'd been delayed by having to fill in for another instructor, suddenly called away for a sick child. She wasn't about to wait any longer, since Hot
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