Far Gone Read Free Page A

long-haul truck drivers looking for a break in the monotony between El Paso and San Antonio.
    Jon swung into a space beside an ancient Chevy and checked his rearview before getting out. The chilly air smelled of dust and diesel fuel. The sky was clear, and a half-moon shone down on the desert landscape. Jon approached the dilapidated bar. Neon beer signs cluttered the windows, and the thin walls seemed to vibrate with every guitar riff.
    Inside was stuffy and loud, just as he remembered. He stepped away from the door and skimmed the crowd. It was the Spoke’s usual array of men, most well on their way to being drunk. The women were of the heavily made-up, bottle-blond variety, with plenty of cleavage on display. They were here to have fun or make a buck, maybe a little of both. Some faces were familiar, some not. He cataloged all of them, swiftly discarding the ones that didn’t line up with his objective tonight.
    Jon turned to the pool room, where a brunette with a cue leaned low over the green felt—a move choreographed to get the attention of the beer-swilling man behind her. Jon peered at her face.
    Right hair color, wrong type.
    He scanned the room again and his gaze landed on a woman seated on a corner bar stool. Slender build, leather jacket, straight dark hair that didn’t quite reach her shoulders. She glanced toward the door, noticed him, and gave him a brief look of appraisal before shifting her attention back to the bartender.
    Torres was right. She didn’t fit. Before joining the Bureau, Torres had put in five years on a Houston vice squad, and he was good at reading people. Jon was glad now that he’d hauled himself out of bed.
    The woman lifted a drink to her lips as he edged around the crowd. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. There was something about her alert expression, her posture. She noticed him again in the mirror behind the liquor bottles, and her gaze narrowed as he walked over and claimed a stool.
    “Hi,” he said.
    No answer. She was about as approachable as a coral snake.
    The female bartender lingered a moment, seeming amused, then slipped away to tend to other customers.
    “Buy you a drink?”
    She looked him over with cool blue eyes. “Thanks, I’m good.”
    “No, really, I insist.” He nodded at her almost-empty glass. “What is that, whiskey?”
    She seemed annoyed by his persistence but not surprised. “Jack and Coke,” she said.
    He caught the bartender’s attention and held up two fingers.
    The brunette shifted to face him, and he noticed the thin gray T-shirt beneath the leather. Faded jeans, snug. Scarred black biker boots. A slight bulge under her jacket told him she was packing. He pulled his gaze back to her face. She wore black eyeliner, and a trio of silver earrings dotted both ears.
    The drinks arrived.
    “I’m Jon, by the way.”
    She watched him over the rim of her glass as she took a sip.
    “You’re new in town,” he said.
    “So are you.”
    “Is it that obvious?”
    “The accent. Michigan, is it?”
    “Illinois.” He tipped back the drink and tried not to cringe at the sweetness of it.
    She was watching him while keeping a close eye on the mirror behind the bar. Clearly, she was looking for someone tonight, and it wasn’t him. She rested an elbow on the counter and pretended to give him her undivided attention.
    “Illinois is a long way,” she said. “What do you do?”
    “Search for people, mostly. And things.”
    At her questioning look, he expanded.
    “I’m with ICE. Immigration and Customs Enforcement.”
    The corner of her mouth lifted, and he felt a warm pull he hadn’t felt in a long time.
    “Think I’ve heard of it,” she said.
    “They move us around a lot. I started out near Canada. Now I’m down here. So what about you? What’re you doing in town?”
    “Passing through.”
    “Where you headed?”
    “Wherever.”
    He watched her eyes. Calm. Clear. Not lying, really, but giving nothing away. He was used to evasiveness. Most