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  “That thought has crossed my mind.”

  “I’ll think about staying around for a while.”

  “Good deal,” Andy said.

  “But I need a few days off for personal business.”

  “Take as much time as you need,” Andy said from his door. “I’ll see you when you get back.”

  On the conference table was a box of five hundred freshly printed business cards that had arrived in the mail. Kerney hadn’t asked for the new cards—probably a clerk had automatically ordered them when his promotion had been posted.

  He took one card from the box and slipped it in his wallet.

  • • •

  An entirely different climate greeted Kerney in Mexico. Even in the late afternoon, the day was warm, the sky a rich blue, and a dry breeze from the open truck window felt good against his face.

  He drove the highway south of Juárez, and passed the turnoff to DeLeon’s hacienda without stopping. Since his only other visit, the access road had been paved and an electronic security gate barred entry. Probably DeLeon’s restoration of the hacienda was complete. Kerney looked forward to seeing it.

  He traveled past a long sweep of hills that blocked the Rio Grande from view, and took a dirt road that led to a constricted bosque along the river. He parked out of sight from the highway, got his gear, and started walking.

  The brown, slow-moving river sucked up the fast-fading light, giving back no reflection, and it stank with a foul combination of human and industrial waste. On the Mexican side, there were holes cut in the twenty-foot-high chain-link border fence big enough for three men to pass through side by side.

  The bosque gave out where the river carved through some hills, and Kerney hiked up a rock-strewn incline. He reached the top as the last rays of a setting sun dimmed to dusk. Below, the bosque reappeared, not very wide, but thicker than before. The hacienda stood nestled against the side of the hill with a view that took in the sloping river valley.

  DeLeon had brought the estate back to life, and the hacienda with its long, two-story sweep looked grand. Plastered mud brown with small shuttered windows that marched along the wall on either side of massive center doors, it resembled a fortified citadel.

  When Kerney had last seen it, the building had been nothing more than an adobe shell sitting above an old basement hollowed out of the hill.

  As the dusk turned to night, Kerney slipped a night-vision viewer out of the pouch. He scanned the hacienda for signs of activity and saw nothing. All seemed equally quiet at the outbuildings, including the small chapel and a circular stone granary that soared like a watchtower next to the hacienda.

  After an hour of watching, headlights came into view on the access road and a car parked in front of the hacienda. It was a Chihuahua federal police unit. Two uniformed officers got out, and one checked the hacienda while his partner rattled the locked chapel door and walked out of sight around the side of the building. No lights came on inside the hacienda.

  After completing the building security check, the cops drove down a gravel road that led to the bosque, spotlighting the old stone foundations and rock fences along the way. Finished with the patrol, they left on the access road.

  Kerney waited an hour and a half until the officers came back and completed another tour. He put the night-vision viewer away, and trotted to the side of the hacienda. Under a portal, arched lead-glass doors opened onto the patio. Kerney inspected the doors with a flashlight and found alarm sensors attached to the glass.

  He backtracked to the chapel and checked for a rear entrance. There was none, but small stained-glass windows showing the stations of the cross ran the length of the building on either side. The windows were wired to the alarm system.

  Kerney figured DeLeon had something valuable inside the chapel—like maybe a priceless religious statue.

  He had no way of knowing where the Mexican cops might be stationed. They could be at the access road security gate, or checking on another jefe’s mansion some distance away.

  It would have to be a smash-and-grab affair. To do it right, he needed to be in, out, and gone in a few minutes. He could make it if he pushed his bad knee to the maximum and got lucky inside the hacienda.

  He picked up a rock, broke a chapel window, and hauled himself inside. The alarm was silent, but intrusion sensors mounted near the ceiling blinked rapidly. His flashlight beam illuminated the Lady of Guadalupe statue on the center of the altar. Kerney grabbed it, kicked open the chapel door, put the bulto on the outside step, and sprinted to the hacienda.

  He blew a hole in one of the glass patio doors with his nine-millimeter, unlocked it, and did a fast-and-dirty search, sweeping his light quickly over the walls of each room. He found the sheathed U.S. Cavalry sword above the mantel in the billiard room. He took it, left his business card on the mantel, and ran like hell, retracing his steps.

  He snatched the bulto from the chapel step at a dead run, and sprinted for the hill. He could hear the sound of a fast-approaching vehicle. He didn’t stop running until he was on the back side of the hill. He jogged to the cover of the bosque before slowing to a walk. Sharp jolts of pain ran up his leg.

  Kerney smiled in spite of the pain as he glanced at the statue and sheathed sword in his hands. It was, at best, a small victory over DeLeon. But he knew it would sting him.

  • • •

  Andy held a brief press conference as Kerney watched from the back of the room. He said a few words about the return of the bulto from an anonymous source, and presented the statue to a museum official who gushed in appreciation while the video cameras whirled and reporters scribbled in their notebooks.

  Kerney slipped away before the reporters started asking questions, and went to pack the sword and scabbard for shipment.

  The sword had a three-quarter-inch blade, a gilded brass hilt, a grip wrapped in twisted wire, and a gold-lace strap attached to the handle. The nickel-plated scabbard had a mounting of gilded brass. It was in mint condition.

  Kerney would mail the sword to West Point, where the other military artifacts found on the missile range were on permanent display. He packed it carefully and included a note returning the items with the compliments of Major Sara Brannon, the army officer who had worked with Kerney on the smuggling case.

  Kerney had been thinking a lot about Sara lately; they had a long-standing date to meet when she returned from her tour of duty in Korea in late spring. It felt like a long time away.

  Andy came in as he licked the shipping label and stuck it on the package.

  “What’s that?” he asked, tilting his chin at the package.

  “Just a memento I’m sending off on behalf of a friend,” Kerney said as he picked up the package. “I have to visit someone. I’ll see you later.”

  Kerney stopped in on Joe Valdez before leaving headquarters. Joe was busy boxing up files. He stretched packing tape over the top of a carton and sealed it shut.

  “That’s it, Chief,” Joe said. “Every shred of evidence on Roger Springer, Sherman Cobb, and Bucky Watson is in these boxes. I have to deliver it to the AG this afternoon. The case is out of our hands.”

  “How far did you get on the money laundering?” Kerney asked.

  “Pretty far,” Joe answered. “Bucky liked to use DeLeon’s money instead of his own whenever possible.”

  “How about for political campaign contributions?”

  “Bucky made some big contributions to the governor’s campaign, but I didn’t track the source.”

  “Would you do that for me before you take the files to the AG?”

  “What are you looking for, Chief?”

  “I’d like to know if Bucky gave DeLeon’s money to the governor’s reelection committee.”

  “What difference would that make? Unless we could prove the committee knew the money was tainted, no crime has been committed.”

  “That’s not what I’m after, Joe,” Kerney said. “Do it on the QT.”

  “Whatever you say.”
>
  “Thanks.”

  After Kerney left, Joe got his penknife out and started opening the taped cartons, wondering what kind of political game the deputy chief was playing. He decided he didn’t want to know.

  • • •

  Robert had been transferred from the hospital in Albuquerque to the Las Vegas Medical Center. Kerney found him in one of the cookie-cutter-modern treatment cottages behind the original nineteenth-century building once known as the New Mexico Insane Asylum.

  The cottage consisted of a combined dayroom and dining area with private cell-like sleeping quarters that branched off from a semicircular core. In spite of the white walls, sunlight from skylights and windows, and the numerous game boards and magazines scattered about, the cottage had a grubby, neglected appearance.

  Robert sat in a plastic chair facing a television set, watching a religious program on a Christian station. A pair of crutches rested against his leg, and his feet were wrapped in bandages.

  Kerney sat down next to Robert, who gave him a dismissive look and turned his attention back to the set.

  “How are you, Robert?”

  “Jesus cut off all my toes,” he said, keeping his eyes glued on the screen.

  “Jesus did that?”

  “He cut them off for raping my daughter,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “That’s pretty harsh.”

  “Jesus knows what he’s doing,” Robert said instructively. “You should know that.”

  “I hope he does.”

  “Do you love Jesus?”

  “Everybody should,” Kerney answered.

  “That’s right. Are you a doctor?” Robert asked, searching Kerney’s face.

  “No, my name is Kerney.”

  “That’s a funny name.”

  “Don’t you remember me?”

  “I never saw you before,” Robert said as he switched his gaze back to the television.

  Kerney stayed until it was clear Robert had nothing more to say.

  • • •

  DeLeon’s forty-million-dollar yacht was anchored just outside the bay of the coastal city of Manzanillo. Enrique watched the wake of the approaching boat cut through the Pacific Ocean before moving to the shade of the canopy on the foredeck.

  DeLeon used Manzanillo as a transfer point for cocaine shipments from Colombia and Ecuador. The product came in by ship to be off-loaded at the dock into waiting trucks. This arrangement was possible because DeLeon had made the local police commander and his immediate assistants wealthy men.

  The boat came alongside, and within minutes Brigadier General Sergio Garcia Perez, deputy chief of Mexican intelligence, was on deck.

  “Señor DeLeon,” General Perez said with a wide smile. “I am delighted to see you again.”

  “It is good to see you, General,” Enrique replied. “Join me for a drink.” He motioned for a mess boy, who came, took the general’s order, and returned quickly with a wineglass.

  “How can I assist you?” Perez asked from his deck chair.

  “I understand you have an agent who is expert at arranging accidents that do not raise suspicion. A Cuban expatriate, I believe, fluent in English and trained by the Americans.”

  Perez masked his surprise. Few people outside the Mexican intelligence community knew of his Cuban asset. “That is correct.”

  “Would it be possible for me to utilize his services?” DeLeon inquired. “Anonymously, of course.”

  “Perhaps,” Perez said cautiously. “Who is the object of your concern?”

  “An American police officer in New Mexico.” DeLeon held out Kerney’s dossier.

  Perez paged through the dossier and scanned the photograph. This was the man who had killed two of his former agents in a shoot-out north of the border. A deep background check would be necessary before Perez would make a commitment; no ordinary policeman could take out two highly skilled operatives so easily.

  “If I agree to your proposal, when would you like this accident to occur?” Perez asked.

  “Only when you are sure there is no risk to you and there is no chance of failure,” Enrique replied, getting to his feet. “But come, other than your fee, we have talked about business long enough. I have had a meal prepared I think you will enjoy.”

  • • •

  As Kerney looked on, Andy read through Joe Valdez’s report on Bucky Watson’s political campaign contributions to the Committee to Reelect the Governor.

  “So the committee got dirty money from DeLeon through Watson,” Andy said, dropping the last sheet of paper on his desk. “Over seventy-five thousand dollars. That’s quite a contribution.”

  “I’m sure they didn’t know the source of the money,” Kerney said. “But it might upset the voting public if word got out the family values candidate got reelected with the help of a large donation from the Mexican drug lord responsible for the murder of two police officers and a multimillion-dollar theft.”

  Andy put the report in order and locked it in his desk. “I think I’ll hold on to this for a while.”

  “Good idea.”

  “We might just get the funds for the expansion the department needs next year.” Andy leaned back in his chair with a satisfied look on his face.

  “Wouldn’t that be great?” Kerney replied.

  • • •

  “But you can stay here as long as you like,” Fletcher said.

  “I can’t keep bunking with you forever,” Kerney said with a shake of his head. He stuffed the last of the shirts into a canvas carryall and zipped it closed. “Besides, I’m only moving six blocks away. We’ll be neighbors.”

  “You’re a workaholic. I’ll never see you.”

  “I may not be working at all.” Kerney went to the closet, took sweaters off a shelf, and dumped them into a plastic bag.

  “Are you leaving the state police?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “What kind of place have you rented?” Fletcher asked.

  “It’s a furnished one-bedroom with a fireplace and patio.”

  “Does it have charm?”

  “It will do for now,” Kerney replied.

  He got his shaving gear from the bathroom and looked around. All of his possessions were packed; it would take no more than two or three trips in his pickup truck to move out. He needed to spend a little money and buy some things. Pots, pans, plates—that sort of stuff. Maybe even a television.

  “I’m going to load up,” he said.

  “I’ll help you carry your things out.”

  Fletcher followed him outside, lugging the large plastic bag. A truck pulled into the driveway and a woman got out. She stuck her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket and walked quickly to Kerney. Close up, Fletcher found her quite attractive.

  “Ms. Lassiter,” Kerney said. He took the plastic bag out of Fletcher’s hand and put it in the bed of the pickup. “What can I do for you?”

  Nita looked at Fletcher and hesitated. “It’s nothing official.”

  “Are you sure you want to talk to me?” Kerney asked.

  “Yes, just for a moment. Please.”

  “I’ll get the carryall,” Fletcher said, stepping off toward the guest quarters.

  “What is it?” Kerney asked.

  “The DA has offered my lawyer a plea bargain—voluntary manslaughter. I’d serve a reduced prison sentence.”

  “What did Dalquist say?”

  “He doesn’t want me to take it. I wanted to know what you thought.”

  “I’m not a lawyer, Nita.”

  “That’s why I’m asking.”

  “If it were me, I’d go to trial. There’s no way I’d agree to be locked up in prison, under any circumstance.”

  “Think I can win?”

  “You’ve got too much to lose not to try.”

  “Thank you, Kevin.”

  “Call me Kerney. Most of my friends do.”

  Fletcher returned in time to see the woman lean close to Kerney with her hand on his arm and say
something he couldn’t hear.

  Kerney reached out and squeezed the woman’s shoulder. She kissed him on the cheek and hugged him before breaking away and giving him one last, long look. She walked slowly to her vehicle and drove away.

  “Why would you let an attractive woman like that walk away?” Fletcher asked. “She didn’t seem to want to leave at all.”

  “I know where to find her, and I have an open invitation to visit, if things work out,” Kerney said, taking the carryall from Fletcher. “Besides, timing is everything.”

  “How true.”

  Kerney smiled. “I’ll see you later, Fletcher.”

  “Dinner here, next Tuesday night,” Fletcher suggested.

  “It will be my pleasure.”

  © SEAN McGARRITY

  MICHAEL McGARRITY is the national bestselling author of twelve Kevin Kerney novels, including the Anthony Award nominee Tularosa. His newest novel, Hard Country, is the first book in a prequel trilogy to his series. Visit www.michaelmcgarrity.com.

  MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT

  SimonandSchuster.com

  COVER DESIGN BY JOHN VAIRO JR.

  COVER PHOTOGRAPH OF ROADWAY © CAR CULTURE/GETTY IMAGES

  ALSO BY MICHAEL McGARRITY

  Tularosa

  Mexican Hat

  Hermit’s Peak

  The Judas Judge

  Under the Color of Law

  The Big Gamble

  Everyone Dies

  Slow Kill

  Nothing But Trouble

  Death Song

  Dead or Alive

  Hard Country

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