“Where’s Kedrov?” he asked, voice low and lethal.
One of the cuffed men spat at his boots. “Fuck you,” he said in heavily accented English.
Unfazed, Coop shifted closer. “I don’t see a team of your boss’s lawyers riding in to save you. Maybe it’s time to cooperate. So, I’ll ask again. Where is he?”
The man smiled through a split lip and blood-coated teeth. “I’ll be out by supper,” he predicted with a smirk.
“Ya think so?” Coop took his time looking around at the chaos and the bodies, none of them law enforcement. “Your boss won’t be pissed at how badly you fucked this up?”
His smile dimmed, smugness rapidly fading.
Coop moved in, enough to loom.
“Maybe he’ll let you stew in custody for a while. Give you time to make some friends.” He paused, letting the silence work. “You know who’s sitting in Bexar County right now? A man named Doyle Pruitt. He’s got a rap sheet from here to Austin. Has four daughters. A real tender spot for kids and no mercy for those who hurt them.” He held his gaze as he added, “I’ll make sure he knows you’re coming.”
He watched the bastard pale before he walked away.
Sirens wailed outside. An ambulance pulled up. Medics lifted the girl onto a stretcher.
“Where are you taking her?” Coop asked.
“County. Her injuries are superficial, but she’s dehydrated. They’ll want to observe her awhile,” the medic said as she strapped her in.
Cheyenne was watching him. “Are you in charge?”
“I am. Did you want to tell me something?”
Her fingers gripped his forearm with surprising strength. “They killed my mother,” she whispered.
“We know,” Coop said, feeling her grief like a punch in the chest. “I’m so sorry.”
Her lips trembled. Tears spilling over. “They shot my dad tonight, too.” Her hand moved to his vest, fingers curling into the straps. “They took everyone from me.”
That didn’t land. It detonated.
“They’re not walking away from this, Cheyenne. Not any of them.”
It was little comfort, but it was all he had to give her.
She held onto him a second longer, like she didn’t know what came next without someone to anchor to. Then she let go, her hand dropping to her side as the medics wheeled her away.
Coop’s phone buzzed in his vest. He ignored it. His focus was on Cheyenne as she was being loaded up. Kedrov was going down. For the girl he and his thugs traumatized and orphaned, if for no other reason.
***
Thirty minutes later, the cleanup was underway. The crime scene photographer worked the perimeter, snapping methodically. The evidence team had arrived and fanned out, while O’Reilly coordinated suspect transport.
There were three fatalities. The one on the crate who Coop had taken out. The fall had killed him, not the shot to his shoulder. Another who’d refused to disarm. The coroner was taking them into custody now.
The third casualty was Thomas Wilson. Tied to a chair, a single gunshot to the head. Whatever he knew about Kedrov had died with him.
Coop stood near the doors, hands braced on his hips. The air was thick and gritty, reeking of sweat, concrete dust, and burned gunpowder. The aftermath of a shootout had an unforgettable smell. After years with the Rangers, he still wasn’t used to it. The day he was, he’d walk.
His phone buzzed again. He checked the screen, and this time he answered.
“Captain Reyes.”
“You lit up half my morning reports, Lieutenant,” his superior said. “Warehouse seizure. Three suspects in custody. Missing juvenile recovered alive.”
