Her Texas Lawman
Autor:in
Addison Fox
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Chapter 1
Noah Ross looked out over his team in the south Texas FBI field office, headquartered in the heart of Midnight Pass, and mentally cursed their continued bad luck. He counted himself fortunate—he hadn’t had a team this good in his decade and a half with the Bureau—and they fought by his side every day. But even with their dedication, expertise and collective smarts, they were no closer to their goal: capturing their former boss and the recent predecessor of Noah’s current position, Rick Statler.
“Intel puts him in Juárez on Friday.” Ryder Durant gave his report with a steady calm and minimal inflection in his voice. No mean feat considering the man’s hatred for their quarry.
Durant was one of the best on the team. He also had a personal interest in this one since Statler had held Durant’s fiancée, Arden Reynolds, and Statler’s ex-girlfriend, Shayne Erickson, at gunpoint a month prior.
Noah quickly amended his thought. The running assumption had been that Shayne Erickson was Statler’s ex, but in the weeks since the hostage situation that proved to be all it was. An assumption.
One they had continued to review, over and over, as they evaluated the time Statler had spent with the woman and what his possible connections might be since he escaped FBI custody two weeks prior.
Arden had sworn up one side and down the other that Shayne wouldn’t have helped Statler, but Noah was keeping his options open. He’d managed far too many cases where a hurt, misbegotten woman was left behind, only to pair up with a piece of scum after a few frilly promises.
Hadn’t his ex-wife done the same? Or was the proper term late wife? The monikers conflated in his mind too often for comfort, and on the way to being an ex before she died was too complicated to work through every damn time he thought of Lindsey.
Besides, he preferred ex, anyway. While he had desperately wanted her out of his life a decade ago, he’d never wanted her dead.
Ignoring the shot of regret he’d never been able to convince himself to abandon, he refocused on Durant and his report. “So, Mexico is his latest known whereabouts?”
“It’s false.” Ryder’s response was immediate and devoid of emotion. “He knows how to cover his tracks and there’s no way he’d let himself be seen that easily on local cameras. He’s either stayed close or he’s far from here. But the intel feels like a plant.”
“Do you think he’s close?” Noah asked.
“Yeah.” Ryder lifted his cap and ran a hand through his hair. “I think he’s got further plans here in Midnight Pass.”
“You think he’s going to make another play for Shayne Erickson?” Brady Renner spoke up.
“We have to assume that despite showing no signs of attachment behavior before, Statler’s attached to Erickson,” Durant answered. “That was clear when he kidnapped her. He also doesn’t like to lose. He’s spent too long and come too far to give it all up now.”
Noah cursed the realities of what they were dealing with. An ex-FBI leader who knew intimately how they worked, now with proven mob ties and an ex he’d formed an unhealthy attachment to. Hadn’t his escape further attensted to his determination? A well-placed bribe against a vulnerable agent assigned to hold him and Statler had escaped into the seeming ether.
And that bribe only scratched the surface of what the man was capable of.
Statler’s list of sins was long and growing longer with each discovery the team made. From supporting local criminals when he was still in Boston to the trafficking and criminal underworld he supported once he got his promotion and arrived in Texas, Rick Statler had fooled a lot of important people for a very long time.
Which only added to the crap storm that hovered over them as they worked the case.
Top brass with egg on their face never boded well for anyone.
“Any other sightings?”
“Nothing else in the past week.” Durant shook his head before standing and walking to a large dry-erase board they’d set up in their conference-room-slash-war-room. He gestured to the map they’d set up, a trail of surveillance photos tacked beside it. The same board had the supposed sightings to date as well as the safe house where Statler had hidden out. Ryder’s K-9, Murphy, had advanced first on that rescue mission and had taken Statler down pretty hard.
Ryder continued, “And even with the few weeks he spent in custody on antibiotics, Murphy’d done a number on him. I know we keep saying he could just as easily be holed up here in town as he could be buried deep somewhere in Mexico while the heat cools off, but my money’s on here.”
Noah’s money was on here, too, but he valued Durant’s assessment. He’d also been doing this long enough to know that sometimes it was worth it to talk things out. Put one idea after another, trying them on for size. Which brought them squarely back to Texas or points farther south or any freaking place in between.
That was what they were dealing with.
And they had so little to go on, nothing pointing them in any definitive direction.
So they’d keep working what they did know. Or were still uncovering. A shocking amount continued to come out on Statler’s past activities, on top of the exhaustive interrogation they’d done while they had him in custody. The discovery that Statler was working with several drug cartels outside the country had put everyone on edge.
But the biggest surprise—discovered on Shayne Erickson’s tech after they’d confiscated it—was that the work with the cartels was the tip of the iceberg. Statler had apparently gone all in with a prominent and multifaceted Russian mob organization, a situation that had only escalated the scrutiny on the case and ensured the highest echelons of government wanted this situation handled PDQ.
What Noah still hadn’t pieced together was how Statler had worked it all so far under the radar.
Sure, there were ways around the system. Someone with a determination to do bad things could always find a way. It was harder in the Bureau, but that didn’t make it any less true. What he couldn’t figure, though, was how the man had fostered the depth of connections that he had and how he had done it with no one the wiser.
They’d yet to find even a whisper that Statler had another inside man helping him. Even the junior agent who’d helped him escape had been nothing but an opportunity on Statler’s part—a weak link he leveraged. Nor had the tech team had much luck beyond skimming some search details off Statler’s equipment that would raise eyebrows.
Yet somehow Shayne’s computer held the key to everything?
It didn’t play for him.
Nothing ran nowadays without a digital footprint. Yet Statler had skulked around like a freaking ghost except on his girlfriend’s devices.
Which brought Noah right back to Shayne Erickson.
Was she the connection? By all accounts the woman was a successful consultant, specializing in wireless communications. She had a home office, extensive electronics and a professional ability to use them.
Which circled him right back around to traitorous-girlfriend territory.
Noah gave the meeting another five minutes before dismissing everyone to lunch. After they were all gone, he got up and stood before the same board as Durant. His gaze drifted to Shayne Erickson’s photo, just as it had so many times over the past month. He skimmed the various images tacked up on the board, one of her on Main Street in a yoga outfit, another of her speaking at a conference and a third of her, also in professional mode, in a headshot that had been pulled off her website.
A distant idea began to take shape, nagging from somewhere deep in his brain that there was a clue to her whereabouts in those photos.
Although she’d been nothing but cooperative after her kidnapping rescue, they ultimately questioned her in every way imaginable and then needed to let her go. But since the news broke of Rick Statler’s escape from FBI custody, Shayne had disappeared, too. Was she on the run? Helping Rick?
Or maybe she was running scared, fearful of being the man’s next target.
He turned that last one over as he took his fill of the photos on the board: the soft fall of blond hair resting against her petite shoulders, clad in a black business suit. Bright blue eyes stared back at him from the photo, their seemingly clear vision as unsettling as always. He was a good judge of character, damn it. And he didn’t give people the benefit of the doubt because they were attractive or because somewhere deep beneath his breastbone he felt a soft tug.
And he sure as hell didn’t give them the benefit of the doubt because he could still remember their arms wrapped tightly around his neck as he carried them from the room they’d been locked in as a prisoner for nearly forty-eight hours.
Until proven otherwise, he had to keep up his guard.
And until proven otherwise, he had to believe Shayne Erickson was in league with the enemy.
Shayne Erickson stared at the darkened face of her cell phone and cursed her situation once again. Turned off, it was nothing but an expensive—and useless—screen. Just like her tablet and her computer. Which hadn’t kept her from hanging tightly on to all three, each wrapped securely in a bag that rarely left her side. Nor had it stopped her ridiculous vigilance in keeping them charged.
She had no desire to be tracked the moment she turned them on, but she’d be damned if she wasn’t going to use them should the need arise.
Only so far, nothing had arisen except for endless hours of boredom and self-recrimination.
The boredom was a steady reminder that she likely spent far too many of her normal waking hours on all three devices.
And the self-recrimination because...well...how in the hell could she have been so stupid?
Over and over, she’d thought through the past months in her relationship with Rick Statler. Every conversation. Every date. Every whisper of their time together. And never, in any of those thousands of moments, had she ever considered that he was a psychotic monster?
Not once?
How could she have been so utterly freaking clueless? The man was a violent criminal, involved in any manner of sordid, horrific crimes.
And now he was a violent criminal on the loose.
She was a smart woman. Hell, she prided herself on being savvy and self-aware. The room she was currently hunkered down in was proof of that. Her business had taken her all over the country and even expanded into the occasional international job. She’d recently taken up a lease to set up an actual office outside her home.
It was a small space—she didn’t need much room—in a newly built office complex about twenty minutes outside Midnight Pass, but it did put her closer to the airport when she needed to travel. It had also given her tangible proof of her work. Something that required her to get dressed and do more than sit behind a desk in her home office still clad in her proverbial bunny slippers.
She ran a business. A damn good one.
And because of it, she knew the score. She had experience. Street smarts. And at thirty-two, she’d learned long ago there was no such thing as Prince Charming. There was Prince-Charming-from-Time-to-Time and that was about as good as it got.
For anyone.
So how had she let Rick Statler slip beneath her guard? Because he was attractive? Thoughtful to her? Interested in her work?
What had prompted her complete and total lapse in judgment?
Because Rick Statler wasn’t just a run-of-the-mill jerk who’d shown his true colors and ghosted her after they’d had a few dates and a few rounds of sex. The man was certifiably psychotic, with a list of kills to his credit and Russian mob connections. Connections he had used her former computer—still in FBI custody, thank you very much—to contact.
The new laptop secured in her bag was a small, unexpected boon, courtesy of an anxious shot of paranoia. That first night at home, before the FBI had come with their warrants, she’d glanced over at the new laptop she’d purchased for her business. Some strange sixth sense had compelled her to make a full copy of her existing laptop, and she was grateful for it now.
She was quite sure the federal geeks would figure out she’d done it, but for the time being, at least she had something. And the additional paranoia that had her hide the laptop with her next-door neighbor had been the second win. Mrs. Santiago had been so excited for her, watching with hopeful eyes as Shayne’s relationship with Rick had progressed. The older woman—now disappointed and irate on her behalf—had been more than willing to stash a few items when asked.
Unfortunately, Shayne wasn’t able to get much out of the device because she refused to go online. That was a sure path to discovery, and besides, her expertise involved communications networks, not hacking.
Obviously, her expertise didn’t extend to picking solid men to share her life with, either. A point made more than evident as Rick had held her and her friend Arden Reynolds at gunpoint while kidnapped in a government safe house he’d repurposed.
Without warning, she was back in that room, her hands tied behind her with thick plastic zip ties, fear coating her throat in thick, syrupy waves that tasted like metal. Then those moments of freedom when Arden managed to get them out of the restraints as they determined what to do also came back to her. And then the way Rick had stood before her, that easygoing smile somehow twisted into something beyond recognition, as he told her about how good a future they’d have together.
Whatever she’d battled in her own mind, none of it compared to how sick and messed-up he really was. So much had come out since the kidnapping. The endless questioning from the FBI, set up in the guise of “meetings,” To determine what she knew. The search and seizure of her home, also under the guise of finding any details Rick might have left behind.
They’d told her little, but she’d put together enough. The questions about Rick’s time in Boston and his work in the Midnight Pass office. The suggestions that he knew cartel heads and Russian mobsters. And maybe the saddest of all, the recent discovery that he’d killed an innocent ranch hand on Arden’s property, just to incite panic and confusion.
Even now, she could remember his eyes flicking over her in that safe house, washing over her in the same predatory fashion as a snake sizing up its prey. The man she’d felt herself falling for—the man she’d felt lucky to have found—had turned into some sort of super-villain right before her eyes.
The good guys had arrived, like a full cavalry riding in to save them. FBI lead Noah Ross had come to her rescue, along with Arden’s fiancé, Ryder Durant, and his faithful K-9, Murphy.
But Rick had still won, finding a way to escape FBI custody and go on the run only a few weeks later.
Noah had remained kind to her through all the questions about Rick. He’d shown the same warmth and support when rescuing her from the safe house—even carrying her from it when she was still struggling with shock and overwhelming fear. But even with the kindness, she sensed underneath it all he believed she was collaborating with Rick.
The thought made her skin crawl.
How could anyone think she could be a part of any of that? Despite her ignorance of Rick’s true personality, she’d somehow painted herself into a very bleak corner. Trapped, with no one to believe her.
That was what the days since the kidnapping had taught her. The fear that had blossomed and spread in that small cabin had grown deep roots in the ensuing days as she talked to the FBI. There weren’t enough polite platitudes in the world to erase their abundantly obvious lack of belief.
Which meant she was on her own and marinating in feelings of distrust—for others and herself.
Nothing she tried since—no amount of yoga or positive thinking or even her plots and plans to reach back out to law enforcement for help—could stem the bitter tide of acidic fear.
So instead, she fought through it. She forced breaths in and out of her lungs. And she plotted and planned. She might not have her tools ready at her disposal, but she still had her mind. She could map out an action plan. And, if she thought long enough and hard enough and dug down deep enough in her memories, she could find something about Rick Statler to take to the Feds to get them to help her.
Right now, she was the ex-girlfriend on the run. They had no reason to believe her and no reason to help her.
But if she could become a witness with tangible proof they could use, she might get them to believe her.
With that thought foremost in her mind, she grabbed the legal pad off the top of the small stack she’d created over the past few weeks. She’d even built out a calendar, racking her brain to remember every single thing she’d done since meeting Statler, in search of some useful information.
It had been a taxing exercise and had reminded her, more than once, that her dependence on her digital tools was far more foundational than she’d understood. But it had also forced her to think. To remember the various conversations she’d had with Rick as they’d gotten to know each other. To remember the places they’d gone and the times he’d opted to stay in rather than go out, often feigning a need to borrow her computer quickly for work.
Slowly but surely, she’d crafted a picture of her life over the past six months.
She could only hope there was enough actual, tangible proof in her notes and scribbles and remembrances to catch a killer.
Determined, Shayne focused on the recent spate of notes she’d jotted down in a fervor the night before. She reviewed the odd conversations she and Rick had shared in the days leading up to the night she was kidnapped. And then his mad ramblings as he’d held them captive, bragging about how smart and clever he was. She reread the odd, rambling words as a layer of unease swirled over her skin, puckering her flesh with goose bumps.
Then she fought back the scream that crawled up her throat as a loud, heavy knock slammed into the office door.
Noah’s free hand drifted over his gun, and he allowed it to hover there as he pounded on the door with his other fist. It was a long shot, but the idea to look into Shayne Erickson’s new professional digs had come to him just as he’d given up staring at his board to head out for lunch.
The idea had kept him company, rolling around in his mind on the walk down to the sub shop, but it was only when he found himself buying two subs, a roast beef sandwich for himself and a turkey club for Shayne, that he’d realized his intent.
“It’s Noah Ross. Open up, Shayne.” He bent down to pick up the bag of subs he’d set at his feet, hollering as he stood. “I’ve got lunch and I want to talk to you.”
Dead-calm quiet radiated from the other side of the door, but something had Noah staying right where he was.
When he lifted his hand to knock once more, he heard the distinct sound of footsteps. Everything inside Noah stilled as his earlier thoughts came back to him. Although he’d played a hunch, he wasn’t entirely convinced Shayne Erickson was innocent.
Was it possible Statler was with her?
The subtle snick of the lock broke through his thoughts before the door drifted open. Still on high alert, Noah surveyed the space in front of him, half-convinced his old boss would be standing there.
Instead, he had the fleeting impression of stale air and an odd hopelessness evident in the pulled blinds and dark atmosphere of the shuttered office.
“What are you doing here?” Shayne stood beside the door, out of sight of the street or anyone who might be in the parking lot.
Or standing guard, watching.
“I came to talk to you.”
She made no move to gesture him in, yet something in her stance telegraphed her discomfort standing there with the door wide open. He saw the calculation on her face—should she let him in or slam the door—before she seemed to make a decision in his favor. With that foremost in his mind, Noah pressed his advantage.
“Can I come in?”
She shrugged but didn’t answer, moving back in a gesture of welcome.
Well, not quite welcome, Noah amended to himself. Resigned acceptance was a more apt term. But he stepped in all the same, removing the hand that had hovered over his gun so that it rested at his side.
He stayed in self-defense range but relaxed enough to not seem threatening.
She closed the door behind him, the snap of the lock echoing in the silence between them. “How’d you find me?”
He considered making something up but went with instinct as he decided the truth might be the way to get close to the answers he needed. And he needed some measure of truth to get her to drop her guard. “No one’s seen you, and you haven’t used a credit card or logged into your personal accounts. I played a hunch.”
Shayne hadn’t moved from the door, her tall frame stiff where she blocked the entrance. Her casual outfit of workout pants and a T-shirt couldn’t hide the edgy wariness that suffused her. Or the fact that her slim frame had edged toward gaunt after more than two weeks on the run. “So I’m being watched?”
“Yes.”
“Because I’m a person of interest?”
“Because Rick Statler is a wanted man and anyone remotely related to him is under watch.”
Those thin shoulders slumped, defeated. “Which means you didn’t come here to tell me you caught him.”
Noah nearly stumbled over the assumption. Was that why she’d answered the door? “No.” He held up the bag in his hands. “I did bring lunch, though. Come on and eat with me.”
Although her gaze remained wary, she moved away from the door and followed him toward the small kitchenette he could see off the edge of the office space. Curious, he quickly scanned the area. The kitchenette was small, but he saw a coffee maker on, the pot half-full on the counter. An open shelving unit sported office-sized boxes of granola bars, mixed fruit and crackers.
Taking a seat at the table, he watched as Shayne crossed to the fridge. “Regular or diet soda?”
“Regular.” He spied a rack full of soda and another that looked rather depleted before she closed the fridge door. “How long have you been living on crackers and fruit?”
“Longer than I ever thought I’d have to.” His drink hit the small table with a thunk, hers following behind it before she dropped into the chair opposite him. “But I also never thought a food run before moving in here would come in handy like it has.”
Noah considered the trash can. Although he saw a few granola bar wrappers, it was surprisingly empty. “Have you been going out?”
She looked up from where she unwrapped her sandwich. “Only late at night.”
“That’s the worst time to go out.”
“I’m careful.” She spoke the words around a mouthful of turkey, and Noah didn’t miss how her eyes closed slightly at that first bite.
“I’ve spoken to any number of victims who’ve said the same.”
“I’m not a victim. And since I was the first to buy in here and this place is still under construction, I’m not at risk of running into people, so I won’t inadvertently make someone else a victim.”
“This isn’t living—it’s surviving. Hiding out in a few darkened rooms. If that’s not living like a victim, what would you call it?”
She laid the sandwich down on the paper in front of her and reached for her soda. “Victim suggests an innocence lost. While I’m innocent of knowledge of Rick Statler’s crimes, I let the man into my home and into my life.” She stopped but sheer grit reflected back out of those deep blue depths. “That’s on me.”
Noah slowly unwrapped his own sandwich, giving her comment time to hover between them before replying, “That’s awfully understanding of you.”
“It’s got nothing to do with understanding. It’s the truth. I’m a grown woman. I know my own mind. I run my own business. I had no business getting involved with Statler.”
Noah considered the harsh tones and couldn’t deny they ticked another mark in the innocent column.
Only he hadn’t come here to determine innocence or guilt.
Then why did you come?
He’d come here, damn it, to find her and find out what she’d been up to. No credit cards, no digital signals. It was like she’d vanished, and it was his job to make sure she didn’t go on the run.
“What are you going to do when the food runs out?”
“I keep hoping you and your team will catch him before that’s a problem. And if not, I’ll stick to my late-night runs to the mini-mart up the road.”
Noah set his sandwich down. “Shayne. That’s not smart and you know it. Staying here isn’t smart.”
“What other choice do I have?”
“There has to be something you can do. Family? Friends?”
“There’s nothing. And there’s no way I’d drag into this the few people I do talk to.” Her voice was flat, the lack of emotion adding one more check to that innocent column.
But it was the bleakness in those captivating eyes, turning them a troubled shade that edged toward gray, that pulled somewhere deep inside him. He knew what it was to care for someone. Worse, he also knew what it meant to have that affection betrayed by a person you believed you knew.
What did Shayne Erickson know?
And despite everything he’d learned in his career—hell, in his life—why was something tugging at him so hard to believe her?
