Shadow Fall (Tracers Series Book 9) Read Free Page A

creature for that matter. Clear-cuts gave way to trees again, and a sense of foreboding settled in her stomach as they moved deeper into the woods. The road narrowed until the tree trunks felt like they were closing in.
    She looked at M.J., wide-eyed and tense in the seat beside her.
    “What the hell are we doing here?” M.J. asked, voicing the question in Tara’s mind.
    “I think Judge Mooring’s from around here. Grew up in Dunn’s Landing.”
    As if that explained why their boss had sent them scrambling into the forest in the dead of the night.
    M.J. looked at her. “What’s the difference between God and a federal judge?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “God doesn’t think he’s a federal judge.”
    Tara smiled, for what seemed like the first time in days.
    A flicker of light caught her eye, a flash of white through the tree trunks. Her smile dropped.
    “Whatever this is, I think we found it.”
    EMERGENCY VEHICLES LINED the side of the road—sheriff’s units, an ambulance, a red pickup truck with the emblem of a local fire department on the door. A khaki-clad deputy in a ten-gallon hat waved them down.
    Tara handed her ID through the window. “Special Agent Tara Rushing, FBI.”
    He examined her creds, then ducked his head down and peered into the window as M.J. held up her badge.
    He hesitated and then passed Tara’s ID back. “Pull around to the right there. Watch the barricades.”
    Tara pulled around as instructed and parked beside a white crime-scene van.
    M.J. got out first, attracting immediate notice from the huddle of lawmen milling beside the red pickup. They looked her up and down, taking in her tailored gray slacks and crisp white button-down. Then again, maybe it was her curves they were noticing or the lush dark hair that cascaded down her back.
    Tara pushed open her door. Tall and willowy, she attracted stares, too, but for a different reason. She was still geared up from the raid in tactical pants and Oakley assault boots, with handcuffs tucked into her waistband and her Glock snug against her hip. Her curly brown hair was pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail. She grabbed her FBI windbreaker from the backseat, and the men eyed her coolly as she zipped into it.
    Another deputy hustled over.
    “Who’s in charge of this crime scene?” Tara asked, flashing her creds.
    He glanced at her ID, then her face. The man was short and stocky and smelled like vomit.
    “That’d be Sheriff Ingram.” He cast a glance behind him, where the light show continued deep in the woods.
    “I’d like a word with him.”
    He looked at her.
    “Please.”
    He darted a glance at M.J., then traipsed off down a narrow trail marked with yellow scene tape.
    The men continued to stare, but Tara ignored them and surveyed her surroundings. Someone had hooked a camping lantern to a nail on a nearby tree, illuminating a round clearing with a crude fire pit at the center. Old tires and tree stumps surrounded the pit, along with beer cans and cigarette butts. Someone had cordoned off the area with yellow tape and placed evidence markers near the cans and butts.
    Tara studied the ground outside the tape, where an alarming number of tire tracks crisscrossed the loamy soil.
    Another khaki uniform approached her, no hat this time. “Who are you?” he demanded.
    “Sheriff Ingram?”
    A brisk nod.
    “Special Agent Tara Rushing.” She showed her ID again, but he didn’t look. “And Special Agent Maria Jose Martinez.”
    If he was surprised the FBI had shown up at his crime scene, he didn’t show it.
    “We’re here at the request of Judge Wyatt Mooring,” M.J. added.
    He glanced at her, then back at Tara.
    With his brawny build and high-and-tight haircut, Sheriff Ingram looked like a Texas good old boy. But Tara didn’t want to underestimate him. His eyes telegraphed intelligence, and he seemed to be carefully weighing his options. He stepped closer and rested his hands on his gun belt.
    “I got a homicide.” He nodded