Джеймс Паттерсон - Texas Outlaw

“Gareth, come in,” Carson says over the walkie-talkie.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Gareth says.

I’m eighty feet above him, but the air is so clear and silent that I can hear every word of the exchange.

“Harris has the girl. Delgado. She’s alive.”

“Copy that.”

“Yates lied to us. He’s up to something.”

My heart pounds. Fear flows through my veins. Please, God, don’t let them hurt her.

“What do you want me to do?” Gareth asks. “Come back?”

Carson tells him not to return to the ranch house. He wants Gareth to go ahead and get into position in case I show up.

“If Yates isn’t here by the deadline, I’ll send someone to pick you up. In the meantime, Harris is bringing her to the ranch. We’ll get her to talk. I told McQueen to get the blowtorch.”

“Don’t kill her,” Gareth tells his father. “I want a lock of that bitch’s hair for my trophy case.”

They end the connection. A second later, I hear Gareth’s boots on the ladder, scaling the oil derrick.

I stand up as quietly as I can, staying out of sight of Gareth as he climbs. The platform is small. The world seems to sway around me. I feel like I could topple over and fall right down the middle. My stomach clenches.

I take my SIG Sauer out of its holster. I slide my finger inside the trigger guard.

One of Gareth’s hands comes over the top onto the platform. Then the other. He hoists himself to where his head can swing over the ledge.

“Hold it right there, Gareth,” I say, aiming the gun at the bridge of his nose. “Make any sudden moves and I’ll drop you off this tower with a hole in your skull.”

He looks at me and laughs. His eyes are covered by sunglasses, so it’s hard to be sure, but his facial expression indicates he isn’t the least bit surprised—or scared.

“You double-crossing son of a bitch,” he says, as if we’re old pals and I just played a practical joke on him.

“I only double-crossed you because I knew you’d do it to me.”

He shakes his head. “It was Dad’s idea.”

“I figured,” I say.

He doesn’t seem at all concerned that I’m about to arrest him, which has me worried. Doesn’t he know he’s beat?

His rifle is slung over his back and his pistol is on his hip. He can’t get to either one of them in the position he’s in, not before I get a shot off.

I tell him to climb up onto the platform, keeping his hands where I can see them and away from his gun belt. He does as he’s told. I back up to give him space, and he stands up, staring at me defiantly. Then I tell him to slowly remove the rifle from his shoulder, holding it only by the barrel, and set it on the metal platform, the barrel pointed toward him.

Again, he does as he’s told.

Keeping my gun on him, I pull my handcuffs off my belt with my free hand.

“Now,” I say, “use only the thumb and forefinger of your left hand to unholster your pistol. Drop it off the derrick.”

“No,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“I got an alternate proposal,” he says, grinning like he holds all the cards. “How about we have that old-fashioned shoot-out after all?”

Chapter 99

“THAT’S NOT HOW this works,” I say to Gareth. “You’re under arrest.”

“Like hell,” he says.

“Gareth,” I say, “we’re eighty feet off the ground, and I’ve got a gun aimed at your heart. You’re about to go skydiving without a parachute. I’m not messing around.”

“Neither am I,” he says. “You ain’t taking me alive, Yates. I’m going for my gun one way or another. The only choice is whether you give me a fighting chance. Come on, cowboy. Holster that gun and prove that you’re quicker than me.”

I don’t want to take his bait. I would be stupid to agree. When we were out on the range, I missed the bottle on purpose, but he was still just as fast as me. Now we’re less than ten feet apart, standing on top of an eighty-foot oil derrick—and I’m a much bigger target than a beer bottle. Even if I’m faster and more accurate, I would put myself at great risk.

I could get wounded.

I could get killed.

I could fall right off this damn oil derrick.

“I’ve got nothing to prove to you,” I say.

“Come on, Ranger,” Gareth says. “I know a part of you wants to do it.”

He’s right.

A part of me.

The hothead part that’s always getting me into trouble.

But I’m considering his proposal. I hate the son of a bitch standing in front of me. I hate him because he killed Dale Peters and Skip Barnes and probably Susan Snyder. I hate him because he dated the girl I like and treated her like shit. I hate him because he was born into the kind of privilege most people can only imagine, and he’s done nothing with it except hurt other people. I hate him because he’s an arrogant, egotistical, chauvinist asshole. I hate him because he’s a homicidal maniac. I hate him because, when it comes down to it, he’s a bully.

But mostly I hate him because he killed a Texas Ranger.

Kyle and I had our differences, but at the end of the day, he and I wore the same badge. My mind flashes to an image of Kyle, coughing up blood with his last breaths, and I can’t help myself.

The hothead inside me wins.

“All right,” I say, keeping my gun on Gareth. “I’ll give you a fighting chance. But first you have to answer three questions.”

He looks hesitant. In my peripheral vision, I get the sense that we’re being watched from the ranch house. But I can’t take my eyes off Gareth long enough to be sure. Unless they have a sharpshooter as good as Gareth, we’re too far for any of them to do anything. I think they’re going to let this play out, confident Gareth can handle himself. Until I hear ATVs racing to get in range, I’m going to assume that’s the case.

“If you’re so damn confident you’ll beat me,” I say to Gareth, “then what does it matter? You’re going to kill me sixty seconds after you give me your confession.”

He shrugs, consenting to my questions.

“That was you up on the hill yesterday?” I say. “You killed Dale and Kyle?”

Gareth nods, grinning. Proud of himself.

“And you killed Skip Barnes and Susan Snyder?”

“Not Susan,” he says, still smiling. “Poison ain’t my style.”

“Why’d you set up Ariana?” I ask. “You could have just made Skip disappear. Why the whole elaborate frame job?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time. It almost worked. Once I kill you, it will work.” He chuckles, so pleased with himself. “Besides, it felt kind of poetic after what I done to her daddy.”

“What?” I say, surprised for the first time by any of these admissions.

“I set him up for selling drugs back when we were in high school,” Gareth admits. “Stashed the bag in the janitor’s closet. Got my buddies to tell the cops that he sold to them. That’s what that little bitch gets for not putting out after Homecoming.”

I’m on fire inside. I’ve never felt such rage. Even in high school, the depravity of Gareth McCormack knew no bounds.

“Who killed Susan Snyder?” I say, trying to subdue the anger in my voice.

“Sorry, Ranger. You’re out of questions.”

He’s right. I should have made it ten questions, but I gave him my word that we would do this.

“Fine,” I say.

I toss the handcuffs toward his feet. They slide across the metal and stop at his boot. Then I holster my gun.

I hold my hand at my side, six inches from my gun. Gareth does the same.

“Here are your choices, Gareth,” I say. “Reach slowly for the handcuffs and you live. Reach quickly for your gun and you die.”