“I’ve got eyes on the girl. Good to go,” a team member said in his ear.
“Police! Drop your weapons!”
Voices erupted in Russian. Shouts. Gunfire erupted.
A round zipped past Coop’s ear and punched into the concrete behind him. He pivoted, sighted, and fired two controlled rounds. One man tumbled from a shipping container to the ground, weapon clattering.
A forklift screeched and slammed into reverse, fishtailing wildly as the operator panicked.
“Left side! Two runners!” someone shouted.
SAPD units cut them off.
More shots echoed off the metal walls and roof, like inside a tin can.
Coop advanced, weaving through stacked pallets, scanning for movement. He narrowed his focus, trying to pinpoint the source of the scream.
Then he saw movement low to the ground, a small body dragged across the floor. It was Cheyenne, wrists bound, bare feet scraping on the concrete.
Blood covered her clothes and matted her hair. She was smaller than he’d imagined. But she struggled, not giving up despite being overpowered by the two men who had her by the arms.
One of them yanked her upright and pressed a gun to her temple. Whether meant as a threat or with intent, Coop couldn’t tell. Time compressed. He steadied, sighting carefully, and fired.
The gunman jerked with the impact, a sudden, violent motion that snapped his grip on Cheyenne. The second man shoved her roughly aside. His rifle came up, a menacing threat in the dim light. But he was too slow.
Out of nowhere, O’Reilly tackled him from the blind side. They hit the ground hard, and the rifle skittered across the floor. Younger and in better shape than his target, his partner rolled and came up on one knee, leveling his weapon at the suspect’s chest.
“Don’t even think about moving,” he warned.
“All clear in the rear!” someone shouted.
“East side clear!” another called.
The gunfire faded, leaving only ringing silence and the distant wail of sirens.
Coop moved to Cheyenne, dropping to his knees beside her.
She flinched, screaming again.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he said gently, hands open. “Texas Rangers. You’re safe.”
Her eyes were glassy with shock, trembling as he cut the plastic ties at her wrists. Coop’s jaw clenched, seeing the angry grooves left behind.
“I need a medic up here!” he called out.
Boots pounded toward them, and he moved aside to let them get to her.
Grain dust crunched under his feet as he turned, sweeping the warehouse. A white van sat against the near wall, the logo on the side as Erica had described it, a five-point star with swaying wheat. Shipping crates were stacked against one wall. The end of one stood open, empty except for a bloodstained blanket balled in the corner.
This had been Cheyenne’s world for days.
Coop took in the blood streaks, how small the crate was, how deliberately isolated. Rage surged hot and fast. But he locked it down just as fast. He had work to do.
Two kidnappers, their hands bound behind them, sat on the floor under guard as an SAPD officer calmly read them their rights. A third, the other recipient of one of Coop’s bullets, was being worked on. From the way he was grumbling at the medic, his injuries weren’t life-threatening.
Too bad. Prison was too kind a fate for what they’d done.
Coop studied their faces. None of them matched the photos he’d researched earlier.
