The Texas Murders

CHAPTER 1

THE ARROW SOARS silently through the air and strikes the target a hundred yards away with a thunk.

I lift my binoculars to see where the arrow hit. Dead center.

Bullseye.

In my Texas Ranger uniform of shirt, tie, boots, and cowboy hat, I lean against the fence and watch as the woman nocks another arrow and draws back her bow. Even through the rustling noise of the small crowd, I can hear the creak of the bowstring. She stands poised, the muscles in her arms taut. The other competitors — all men — have been using modern compound bows with cams on the strings and peep sights to make aiming easier. They have wrist releases to draw back the string. But the woman, a Native American wearing a uniform from the Ysleta del Sur Pueblo Tribal Police, has only an old hickory bow she pulls back with three fingers — and no sight to aim with except the tip of the arrow.

And yet she’s been cleaning up against all her competitors. They started shooting at forty yards and worked their way up to one hundred. She’s so far ahead in points that she could miss the target entirely and still win the competition.

She releases the arrow, and this one strikes dead center, too.

I applaud along with the small crowd gathered to watch. The woman takes no notice. She draws back her third and final arrow.

Her body is the picture of concentration. Spine arched. Right arm drawn back into a tight V. Left arm holding the bow as straight as the arrow she’s about to fire. Her hair is pulled into a single braid that runs down the length of her back. Her eyes squint ever so slightly. She holds the bowstring back by her jawline, touching the corner of her mouth with the tip of her forefinger. Then, in a fluid motion, she releases the tension on her fingers and lets her hand slide back, gently brushing her shoulder.

The arrow launches forward, cutting an arc through the air as it travels the length of a football field.

I hold my breath along with everyone else watching.

The arrow strikes the target, not only in the center area, but so close it seems to be touching the other two arrows. The only way she could have a tighter pattern is if she’d split the arrows like Robin Hood.

The crowd — not nearly as big as the demonstration of talent deserves — applauds the woman. Her competitors, gracious losers, take turns shaking her hand to congratulate her. She nods her head politely. She doesn’t smile.

Over the PA system, a voice announces the winner. Ava Cruz.

I’m at the second annual Texas Law Enforcement Charity Shoot, a fundraising event held on a massive shooting range outside of San Antonio. Sheriff’s deputies, state troopers, highway patrol deputies, and Texas‑based representatives from the FBI, ATF, and DEA are all here showing off their shooting skills to raise money for the Texas Fallen Officer Foundation.

I’m slated for the fast‑draw competition.

I skipped the event last year, caught up in an investigation. But this year my captain called me up and told me he entered me in the contest.

“Rory,” he said to me, “the Texas Rangers didn’t win a single event the first year. I want you to change that.”

Wandering around, waiting for my competition, I stopped on a lark to watch the archery contest, mostly because I thought the archers deserved an audience as much as the shooters. As someone who’s honed his weapon skills to an art, I can appreciate the female officer’s dedication to become that good.

I step forward to go congratulate her, but before I get two feet, a hand clasps my shoulders.

“So you decided to show up this year?”

I turn to find a man dressed in a loose button‑down shirt and a ball cap lettered FBI. He stands an inch or two under six feet, and has dark hair and a big, confident smile.

“Hey, Ryan,” I say, extending my hand. “Good to see you.” It’s Ryan Logan, an FBI special agent in charge based out of Dallas. He and I have crossed paths a few times, but mostly we know each other through our reputations.

Ryan is a quick‑draw specialist. Aside from having an impeccable record with the FBI, he spends his free time going to shooting competitions throughout Texas and the Southwest. Though my captain entered me this time, I’m no stranger to fast‑draw competitions like this. In my twenties, I used to enter them for fun — and even won a few. But Ryan’s familiarity with this scene goes far beyond my experience. Going into today, I knew that as last year’s winner he’d be my toughest competition — the clear favorite.

Over the PA system, we hear an announcement that the fast‑draw competition will begin in five minutes.

“Ready to have your ass handed to you?” Ryan says affably.