“I know it isn’t much,” she said at last. “But they had her blindfolded.”
Something came through the line, uttered low, under his breath. Whatever it was, it was probably best she couldn’t make it out.
“This helps,” he said, quieter now. “It gives me something to go on.”
She exhaled. “There’s more. They referred to a ‘boss’ and kept repeating a name. Kedrov.”
A heavy silence followed. The name meant something to him.
“Coop?”
“I’m still here.”
“I think…” She had to force the words out. “I think they shot Thomas Wilson.”
“You only think?” he asked.
“Cheyenne didn’t actually see it. Thank goodness. But she heard a man begging for more time to pay. Then… a gunshot.”
“How do you know it was Wilson?” he pressed.
She had to swallow to continue. “Right before, one of them called him daddy. Find her, Coop.”
“I’m on it,” he said, Ranger-steady, already moving. “Keep your phone nearby.”
Without another word, the line went dead.
Her cheek still burned as she stared at the screen, waiting for it to tell her he’d get there in time. And for the echo of the gunshot, and the word daddy, to leave her head.
Chapter 8
Ackerman Road Industrial Park was awake before sunup. From the shadowed alley two buildings over, Coop sat motionless behind the wheel of his SUV, watching Lone Star Agri-Supply. From this vantage point deep in the dark, tucked behind an industrial dumpster, he had a clean line of sight into the loading bay. Anyone looking out would see another shadow.
Security lights washed the bay in a harsh, artificial glow. Two box trucks were backed up to the dock, their rear doors yawning open as three men at a time moved crates from a pallet jack into the trucks. Uniform, unmarked heavy crates. Not grain sacks or agricultural supplies. Guns. He’d bet money on it.
When he stepped out, the smell hit him first, the air thick with diesel fumes. Truck engines idled, rumbling like distant thunder. One of the roll-down metal doors clanged shut. A forklift whined as it maneuvered between stacks.
It was everything Erica had described with disturbing accuracy. She kept surprising him. That she paid a price for every dark signal didn’t sit well.
O’Reilly came up beside him, ballistic vest cinched tight. “Are you sure about this?” he asked, voice low, nerves barely masked.
Hell no, he thought as he adjusted his own vest. Aloud, he was more confident. “We’re doing this.” Then, into his mic, he ordered, “Stack up.”
The teams moved, hugging the exterior walls, weapons angled low but ready. Two SAPD units covered the rear access. Another Ranger team held the east side where the loading docks opened toward Dietrich Rd. Coop, O’Reilly, and four of their men were ready to go on the west side.
He waited until they were all in position before giving the order. A gunshot cracked, slicing through the warehouse noise, then a terrified scream. High, young, and female.
“Move! Move!” Coop barked, adrenaline snapping through him.
Two dozen officers flowed through the side and rear doors, silent and precise. No flash-bangs, no announcement, boots whispering over concrete. A soft breach. A child inside required more stealth than shock.
A haze hung in the air near the storage bins. Fine, suspended particles that needed little encouragement to ignite. Coop keyed his comm. “Controlled fire. We’ve got suspended grain dust.”
One wrong shot, and the whole place could go up.
The smell hit fast. Bread and diesel, with the too-familiar coppery scent of blood.
They had the perimeter secured.
