McGlade, the dick, went straight for the sensationalism. I felt awful for her.

  Annie hesitated, and then she stood up and began to unbutton her flannel shirt. This stunt apparently ran in the family.

  A moment later, I was sorry I had that thought.

  Annie wasn’t showing off a scar.

  Annie was a scar.

  Every bit of her front that wasn’t covered by her sports bra was scarred. Shiny, off-white, raised, gnarled streaks of tissue. A giant scar mosaic. Then she turned around, and her back was even worse. It looked like someone had stapled spiced ham to her back.

  McGlade was quiet. I don’t think he was doing his dramatic pause nonsense. I think he was just as shocked as I was.

  When he finally found his voice, he asked, “And this was all the Cowboy?”

  Annie nodded. “And that’s not all.” She put her face in her hands, and when she looked up again, her face had—

  Deflated.

  It seriously looked like someone had pulled her jawbone out of its socket. Her cheeks were sunken in. Her lips flapped, like a chimpanzee. It took me a moment to realize she’d taken out her false teeth, and whatever other orthodontia she’d been wearing.

  “Whoa,” Harry said.

  Annie put her mouthpieces back in, then sat down and began to button her shirt. I tried to imagine the courage it would take to show myself on the Internet if I were scarred like that, and didn’t think I’d be able to do it.

  “Are you assisting your brother in searching for the Cowboy?” Harry recovered enough to ask.

  “No. I appreciate what he’s doing. But I’ve done my best to put it all behind me.” Annie looked away from Harry, speaking directly into the camera. “The past can consume you, if you allow it. I don’t have control over what was done to me. But I have control over how I go forward. If I was seeking justice, or revenge, then the Cowboy would still have the power. The best advice I can give anyone who has had any sort of tragedy is: move on. If you let it define you, you’ve let the bad guys win.”

  That was something to chew on. I was definitely hiding from my past. Pretending it didn’t happen. Pushing away my husband. Keeping all of my scars hidden from everyone, including myself.

  What defined me?

  My daughter?

  I hadn’t even spoken to my daughter since I left Florida.

  My friends were few and far between. My husband was probably cheating on me. My job at the gun range was just something to do.

  What defined me?

  Chasing criminals?

  If that was the case, I was an idiot. Because chasing criminals brought me, and those that I cared about, untold amounts of pain.

  “So you’re saying, after the Cowboy did all of this to you, you wouldn’t shoot him if you had the chance?”

  “Shoot him?” Annie guffawed. “There’s no way I could shoot him.”

  She held up her right hand—

  —and pulled her index and middle fingers off with her left hand.

  Then she held up her left hand and did the same.

  “The Cowboy cut four of my fingers off,” Annie said. “Once upon a time, I was pretty good with a pistol. Now, I’d have a better chance of hitting a target if I threw the bullets.”

  I hadn’t even noticed she had rubber fingers when I shook her hand. Some sleuth I was.

  “My hand is fake,” Harry said, holding it up. “It also vibrates.”

  Awkward.

  When no one reacted, Harry said, “We can cut that. Let’s see… uh… okay. What do you think about your brother’s theory, that the Cowboy has made his opium farm portable?”

  “I agree,” Annie said. “One hundred percent.”

  “What makes you so sure he’s right?”

  “I’ve seen the tracks. There are fresh ones nearby.”

  “Fresh ones?” Harry said.

  “They’re on the edge of our property,” she replied. “Want to see?”

  HERB

  Left.

  Right.

  Left.

  Right.

  So tired.

  So very, very tired.

  Herb remembered the fatigue that came from working tough cases. Sixty to eighty hour work weeks. No sleep. Constantly on the go.

  Left.

  Right.

  Those were his younger days, before Bernice lost her patience and demanded he work sensible hours. He could clearly recall one investigation, it might have been Charles Kork, where he was so exhausted he actually fell asleep standing next to the office coffee machine. His partner, Jack, had woken him up, startling Herb so badly he almost lost his balance and fell over.

  That was nothing compared to how tired he was right now.

  Left.

  Right.

  Left.

  Trudging after the ATV, practically sleepwalking, Herb was ready to give up. All he had to do was fall down. He’d choke to death in a matter of minutes. Probably black out long before it became unbearable. Or he might even get lucky, and his neck would snap.

  Right.

  Left.

  Right.

  Left.

  It was so tempting.

  So, so tempting.

  So, so tired.

  Beyond tired.

  Herb was so beyond tired, he had begun to hallucinate.

  Not anything particularly trippy, like dragons or aliens or talking clouds.

  Herb’s hallucination was based on an old memory, of an old friend.

  Right.

  Left.

  As he plodded along to his death march, he thought he saw a road in the distance. And on that road, clear as if it had been real, was an obnoxious, bright red recreational vehicle.

  Harry McGlade’s motorhome. He’d named that technological, gas-guzzling monstrosity the Crimebago Deux.

  What a stupid thing to imagine.

  Right.

  Left.

  Right.

  Why couldn’t Herb have a vision of his wife? Or angels, welcoming him into the pearly gates?

  Maybe that happened to luckier guys. Herb’s misfiring brain had to imagine, of all things, obnoxious Harry McGlade. Driving through a landscape dotted with white windmills. Of all the stupid—

  That was pretty stupid.

  Very stupid.

  The stupidest thing ever.

  Left.

  Right.

  Left.

  So stupid, that Herb began to question if it was all in his head.

  Of all the things he could conjure up? A whole lifetime of pleasurable activities? Vacations, food, love, sex, friends, holidays, and the thing Herb was seeing was the Crimebago Deux?

  It didn’t make sense.

  And because it didn’t make sense, maybe it did make sense.

  Maybe it wasn’t a hallucination at all.

  One way to find out. And Herb really had nothing to lose.

  In fact, another jolt to the neck might snap him out of his stupor.

  As the RV passed in the distance, no more than two hundred meters away, Herb shouted, “HARRY!”

  As expected, he got shocked. But he managed to keep his feet, and the pain gave him a fat dose of reality.

  The RV was still there.

  It was real.

  Could it be that McGlade was actually looking for them? That he knew he and Tequila were close?

  “HARRY!”

  This time the jolt went on and on, silencing the word in his throat, dropping Herb to his knees.

  Then he was being dragged again.

  Dragged, as the RV drove on, not even slowing down.

  THE MAN

  Jack Daniels is ridiculously easy to track.

  For someone who is so cautious that she faked her own death and is living under the name Jill Johnson, she doesn’t seem to have any awareness of her surroundings whatsoever.

  And neither does her rotund partner in crime, Harry McGlade.

  Both former cops. Both with successes in the private sector. And neither take any precautions to make sure they aren’t being tailed.

  He follows until the bright red motorhome—real inconspicuous, McGlade—comes to a stop in the middle of a field.

  The man picks up speed—

  —and drives right past them.

  He watches the rearview, wondering if they’ll follow. Almost hoping for it.

  But they stay parked.

  There’s a rolling hill ahead. He drives the rental car just past the crest, pulls over, and gets out. Unlike his blissfully unaware target, the man takes a long, hard look in all directions to make sure there’s no one else around, before going into the trunk and taking out the rifle case.

  It takes three minutes to assemble the takedown Kel-Tec SU-16A. He pauses several times during the rifle’s assembly, to peer through a Leupold scope.

  To look at Jack.

  To look all around him.

  Nothing but wind turbines and prairie dogs.

  He has three magazines, each loaded with ten rounds of .223 Remington cartridges.

  Sniper bullets.

  Jack, Harry, along with another man and woman, are walking through the grass, apparently searching for something. With them is an absolutely gigantic dog, which takes off, bounding up the road.

  In the man’s direction.

  Can that dog scent me from this far away?

  He stares through the scope, watching the beast break into a run.

  Then McGlade lets out a shrill whistle, and the dog returns to him.

  The threat averted, the man hunkers behind the side of the car, and pulls on the forestock of the weapon, releasing the integrated bipod. He gets on the ground, scopes in on Jack, and wonders how she’d react if she knew he was there.

  The thought brings a smile to his lips.

  JACK

  Heckle and Jeckle lugged out the gear and began to shoot the gigantic tire tracks as we all gathered around. Then they focused on McGlade, who had taken a knee next to the tracks, his expression grim as he stared into the camera.

  “What kind of vehicle could make tracks this large? I can think of only one. At one time, it brought joy to children and inebriated blue collar workers from red states. But now, a beloved symbol of American ingenuity has shown its dark side. I speak, of course, of the irrepressible… monster truck.”

  I rubbed my eyes, feeling a McGlade-sized headache coming on.

  “Could the Cowboy be roaming the Great Plains in a fleet of 4x4 monsters?” he babbled on. “Sheriff, have you spotted any monster truck evidence?”

  “Like what?” Wyatt asked.

  “Like… a trail of crushed cars?”

  That went straight to the top of the dumbest things Harry ever said.

  “Can’t say that I have,” answered Wyatt. Props to him for keeping a straight face.

  McGlade tried to stand up, and it took a lot of effort because; fat.

  “Maybe it’s monster trucks. Maybe it’s a ghost train. Maybe ghost monster trucks, or a train with monster truck wheels. Or maybe, like crop circles, it’s ancient aliens, returning to earth to claim the abandoned souls of the pharaohs. The possibilities are double infinite. Whatever it could be, we’re going to get to the bottom of this bizarre, possibly ghostly, possibly alien, possibly even alien ghostly, torture slash murder mystery. Be sure to check out our previous episodes, and click below to subscribe. And tune in for our next episode of Private Dick Live and Streaming In Your Face. I’m Harry McGlade. Keep your lights on and your doors locked.”

  “Aliens?” I said when the cameras stopped rolling.

  “You missed the ancient alien episode?” McGlade frowned. “That was one of my favorites. Why does the Cowboy wear a bandana on his face? Could it be to cover his weird, alien-shaped head? Heckle, show her the artist’s interpretation.”

  Heckle took a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it, revealing a poorly done pen sketch. It looked like ET in a balaclava.

  “I drew it myself,” McGlade said.

  I turned away from all the stupid, and walked over to Wyatt, who was studying the tire impressions. “Can you follow these tracks?”

  He nodded.

  “When can you start?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “How about now?”

  He shook his head. “Gotta pack my camping gear. Food. Water. Get my horse ready. Plus, I need to go up to Mulford, for supplies. Best to start first thing in the morning. I assume you folks want to come along?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why don’t we invite our new friends to stay the night?” Annie said. “There are plenty of rooms. You can entertain, and I’ll go to Mulford.”

  “I can go,” Wyatt said.

  “It’s a fifty mile drive,” said Annie. “And I wouldn’t trust you to drive a lawnmower right now.”

  I watched them stare each other down, and assumed Wyatt’s alcoholism was a point of contention in their household.

  “Fine,” Wyatt said. “I can use another drink anyway. Harry, you got any beer on board?”

  “I should have a six pack of Zombie Dust in the pantry. It’s warm, though.”

  “No problem. I’d drink hot piss if it was over five percent alcohol.”

  “Good to know next time I’m out shopping.”

  We lined up to pile back into the Crimebago Deux, and McGlade came over and whispered, “I got this.”

  “Got what?”

  “I know how to follow the tire tracks. We don’t need Wyatt.”

  “Why are we whispering?” I whispered.

  “Because I’ve warmed up to your over-bloated, crazy paranoia. I think something is going on with Wyatt and Annie. I’ll tell you when we’re alone.”

  He left me that nugget and walked on ahead, followed by Heckle and Jeckle, who were giggling.

  As they climbed into the motorhome, I stopped and stared out over the plains.

  Inexplicably, I felt a chill.

  I hugged myself.

  “Cold?” Wyatt asked, taking the opportunity to sidle up and put an arm around my waist. “Gets nippy out here this time of year.”

  I gently disengaged. “I’m fine.”

  But I wasn’t fine. Though it was cool out, that wasn’t the reason I shuddered.

  Being outside, surrounded by all the turbines, made me feel spooked.

  Like we were being watched.

  YURI

  We have the Americans,” Dmitri announced over the intercom.

  “Bring them to the Punishment Room,” Yuri ordered. “How long before we’re able to move?”

  “Two hours. Three. Bank 6 battery working fine now.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “Bank 5.”

  These delays were unacceptable. “I want to be in Wyoming for the launch on Saturday.”

  “Da. We make it.”

  “See that we do.”

  Yuri drummed his fingers on his desk, reviewing the timeline in his head for the hundredth time.

  Make the promised weight.

  Deliver the opium.

  Get to the launch pad.

  Pay the outstanding balance.

  Load the tungsten rods onto the satellite.

  Launch.

  Rain hell.

  There were still many things that could go wrong. If they didn’t deliver their promised weight, Solntsevskaya Bratva—the Russian mafia—would not be pleased. Even if they met their quota, drug deals were always risky, especially with tens of millions of dollars at stake. There were also launch contingencies. The permits were all in place (And why shouldn’t they be? What Yuri was doing was perfectly legal) but shooting a rocket into low earth orbit always came with risks. If it exploded, the payload could be recovered; the high melting point of the rods would ensure their safety. But another satellite would need to be built, and Yuri’s funds were stretched to the max.

  Unless…

  The Cowboy was buying the LeTourneau, and Yuri was giving him a deal. But maybe there was a way to extract more money.

  It would be delicate. Yuri had noticed the rising tension between the two of them, especially in the last few days. The Cowboy was wise enough to not want Yuri as an enemy. But Yuri was wise enough not to push his fear enforcer too hard.

  Somewhere, in the middle, there might be some room to renegotiate their deal. The prisoner escape, and the Americans, were the key.

  Yuri would have to tread carefully.

  After another quick hit of the opium pipe, Yuri was climbing into Car #4. The Americans were kneeling side-by-side, their ankles and wrists chained to bolts in the floor. They wore guard uniforms, taken from the men they’d killed, and Yuri bit back a flare of rage.

  “How did you escape?” he asked.

  Neither answered. The short one looked barely alive.

  Yuri squatted next to them, taking the short one’s face in his massive hand.

  “I know it was you. The Cowboy turned off the cameras when you were in here. Tell me what was said.”

  The man’s eyelids fluttered. “You’re a big man,” he softly said.

  “Yes. Yes I am.”

  “I’ve killed bigger.”

  Yuri slapped him, knocking him over. Then he stood and went to the tool board, his eyes locking onto a cordless drill.

  Out of the many tortures Yuri had endured at the hands of his former comrades, the drill into the femur was one of the worst.

  He picked it up, and placed the long, rusty bit against the short man’s thigh.

  “I want to know what was said.”

  “It wasn’t him,” the other man blurted out. “It was me. I stole a pair of wire clippers.”

  Yuri ignored him. He grabbed the short man by the hair and peered into his droopy eyes.

  “You seem a bit sleepy. Let me wake you up.”

  “No!” screamed his companion.

  Yuri pressed the trigger on the drill.

  Nothing happened.

  He looked over at the nearest guard. “Why isn’t the battery charged?” he barked.

  The guard shrugged.

  Yuri stood, going back to the wall to look for something that didn’t require eighteen volts. He picked up a small, butane-fueled blowtorch. Rather than embarrass himself again, he pulled the trigger to make sure it worked.

  It didn’t. Out of fluid.

  “Seriously?” He threw the torch onto the floor. “Who’s job is it to keep this room stocked?”