Shadow Fall (Tracers Series Book 9) Read Free

a matter I could use your help on.”
    Something stirred inside her. Curiosity. Or maybe ambition. Whatever it was, she’d take it. Anything was better than feeling numb.
    “I need you to drive up to Cypress County. They’ve got a ten-fifty off of Fifty-nine.”
    His words surprised her even more than the midnight phone call. Tara knew all the 10-codes from her cop days, but dispatch had switched to plain language, and nobody used them anymore. A 10-50 was a deceased person.
    She cleared her throat. “Okay. Any particular reason—”
    “Take Martinez with you. She’s got the location and she’s on her way to your house, ETA ten minutes.”
    Tara checked her sports watch.
    “Stay off your phone,” he added. “You understand? I need complete discretion on this.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And one more thing, Rushing.”
    She waited.
    “Don’t let the yokels jerk you around.”
    TARA DROVE NORTH on the highway hemmed in by towering trees. Barely an hour out of the city, she could already feel the change as they passed through the Pine Curtain. The night seemed thicker here, darker. She leaned forward, peering through the windshield at the moonless sky.
    “Next exit,” M.J. said, consulting the map on her phone. “We’re looking for Dunn’s Road.”
    Tara glanced at the agent beside her. M. J. Martinez was a rookie, not even a year on the job.
    “You know, it’s after one,” M.J. said, looking at Tara. “I can’t believe I’m even awake right now. I’ve had about three hours’ sleep in the past three days.”
    Tara took the exit ramp. “At least you got a shower. I smell like gym socks.”
    M.J. didn’t deny it. She’d been involved in the raid, too, but from a planning perspective. In her former life, Martinez had been a tax attorney. She was smart and organized but green when it came to fieldwork. Tara had her HPD experience plus SWAT training under her belt, so she tended to be more hands-on.
    “This is it,” M.J. said. “Dunn’s Road. Hang a right.”
    Tara slowed, squinting at a sign marking a narrow road. Her headlights swept across tree trunks. The thicket gave way to jagged stumps, and Tara switched to brights. She thought the stumps looked ominous until the houses came into view, ramshackle wooden structures with sagging porches. Rusted septic tanks and dismantled cars littered the yards. Some of the homes were strangled by kudzu and had plywood covering the windows. None had seen a coat of paint in decades, unless you counted graffiti.
    They passed the charred carcass of a house, and M.J. looked at her. “Meth lab?”
    “Good bet.”
    The houses petered out, and so did the pavement. M.J. consulted her phone again because Tara’s ancient Ford didn’t have a GPS. The Blue Beast barely had a working heater. But the tires were new, and the four-wheel drive could handle anything. Tara changed the oil religiously so it wouldn’t crap out on her.
    “Looks like we’re getting close,” M.J. said, studying her screen. Instead of an address, Jacobs had provided her with GPS coordinates, along with the interesting factoid that FBI participation in this matter—whatever it was—had come at the request of the Honorable Wyatt H. Mooring, a federal judge.
    “Veer left,” M.J. instructed.
    Tara buzzed down the windows, filling the SUV with cold, damp air that smelled faintly of rotten eggs. It was cloudy out but no rain in the forecast, although that was yet another aspect of tonight that might not turn out as planned.
    “We should be veering left again,” M.J. said, “after what looks like maybe a creek?”
    They dipped down over a low-water bridge and heard the rush of water.
    “Logging route,” Tara said, noting the clear-cuts on either side. They pitched and bumped over the rutted road, passing a rickety cistern and another rusted septic tank. They rattled over a cattle guard and passed through a gap in a barbed-wire fence. Tara glanced around but didn’t see any livestock, or any other