Hollow Point Read online

  I know where I’m headed because I’ve walked this street before in the middle of the night, a gun in my hand.

  Gabriela’s house is now only two blocks away. The fearless Gabriela. Her parents died at the hands of the cartel, and so she decided to take it upon herself to stand up to the cartel. Reporting on their crimes when the national and local media refused. She had known what she was doing put her life at risk but she did it anyway, and so it was probably no surprise to her when, in the end, the narcos came for her.

  Soon I’m standing on the street outside Gabriela’s house. It looks exactly like it did the last time I saw it.

  The garage door is closed, but the gate has been forced open.

  Before, I knew it may be a trap—that narcos may be waiting for me inside—but now I have no hesitation in pushing open the gate and stepping into the yard.

  Despite the cloudless night sky, the darkness is thick. I slip a penlight from my pocket, just as I did that night, and shine it at the door.

  The door, too, has been forced open, the lock smashed apart. The door has been pushed closed, though, so that anybody passing by on the street would think nothing of it.

  I cross my wrists—the penlight in my left hand, the gun in my right hand—and kick the door open and charge inside.

  Like that night a year ago, the living room is empty.

  Except it’s not.

  Instead of Gabriela’s grandmother, Leila Simmons is propped up in the chair in the corner. Her face tilted to the side, her dead eyes open. Her throat has been sliced, and dried blood covers much of her shirt.

  In real life, Gabriela’s grandmother didn’t have anything on her lap, so I’m surprised to see something there now.

  I train the penlight’s beam at Leila Simmons’s lap. A duffel bag sits there.

  Part of me wants to rush forward, tear the bag from her lap, look inside. The only way I’ll know if Star’s in there is by moving forward and opening the bag.

  I don’t rush forward. I shift the penlight’s beam away from Leila Simmons and the duffel bag in her lap. Neither is the reason I’m here now. They’re mere window dressing for whatever my subconscious wants to me to see.

  Because I’ve done this already—have gone through the house clearing the rooms one by one—I know better than to waste my time.

  The penlight in one hand, the gun in the other, I head toward the door that leads into the garage.

  I turn off the penlight as I open the door and flip the switch just inside. The single bulb in the ceiling blinks to life.

  The cinderblock wall is the same as I remember it, as are the tools spread out around the place where Juana’s dead body lies in pieces. Like Gabriela, it looks like they took their time with her.

  My focus is trained so heavily on what’s left of Juana that at first I’m not aware of the man in the cowboy hat standing in the corner. The badge on his belt glints in the light. A gun in his left hand, he reaches up with his right hand to tip back his hat.

  “Evenin’, pretty lady.”

  He says the words, but since this is a world of silence, I don’t really hear them except inside my head.

  Just as I hear his partner’s words as he noiselessly steps up behind me.

  “What took you so long?”

  The silent voice echoing in my ears as the man presses the barrel of his gun against the back of my head and pulls the trigger.

  Twelve

  I wake with a start, breathing heavily, my body covered in sweat. I reach for the gun under my pillow when I realize that it’s not there, that I haven’t slept with a gun under my pillow in months.

  The room is dark, though the streetlamp standing outside the apartment building is just bright enough to push past the curtain and provide a scintilla of light. As my eyes adjust, I spot the P320 on the nightstand where I’d left it when I climbed into bed what must have been hours ago.

  I sit up and take a deep breath, trying to slow my heartbeat and breathing. I can’t remember the last time I had a dream so vivid.

  Deciding to leave the gun where it is on the nightstand, I stand up from the bed and head toward the door. I left the light on out in the main living room, so it’s easy to see the time on the clock hanging on the wall.

  Almost 9:30. Which means I’ve only gotten about six hours of sleep.

  I stand in the middle of my empty apartment, not sure what I should do next. Take a shower, definitely. But then what? Get something to eat, I guess, though I don’t have much in the apartment, and I don’t want to venture out to one of the few food joints in town because word might get back to Reggie that his all-star bartender isn’t really sick. The same with calling to have food delivered. Word might get back to Reggie, too. Which means I’m stuck in my apartment for the time being. Unless I decide to get dressed and head to work. Tell Reggie it turns out it was a false alarm, I don’t have the shits after all.

  I mutter, “Who the hell am I kidding.”

  I don’t bother making it a question, so maybe that’s why I don’t feel the need to answer myself. I can stand here for another five minutes, another ten minutes, another half hour, making excuses and plans and reasons not to go through with those plans, but in the end it won’t matter what I decide to do, because I know exactly what’s going to happen next. I’ve known since earlier today, standing in that rest area with Leila Simmons while the tractor-trailers and pickup trucks roared past us.

  One of the girls I met with recently. I heard that she was taken.

  The disposable still sits on the kitchen table. The disposable that I should have disposed of earlier in the day after I’d watched Leila Simmons drive away with Star. Stripped the battery from the back, dropped it in one trashcan, dismantled the rest of the phone and left pieces of them all over town. Not that I expected anything would come of it had I kept the phone—which I had, after all—but that was my mindset.

  Wait, no. That wasn’t my mindset, not really. Not for Jen Young, the new person I’ve become. That would have been Holly Lin’s mindset. And Holly Lin doesn’t exist anymore.

  I shake my head, mutter a curse, and cross over to the kitchen table. Pick up the phone and key in Leila Simmons’s number and hit the green button to complete the call.

  It rings three times before she answers, her voice hesitant, hushed.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Jen. From earlier today.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Is everything okay? You sound quiet.”

  “I’m at home. My husband is in the other room. What can I help you with, Jen?”

  “I wanted to ask what happened to Star.”

  “Star?”

  “Juana’s baby.”

  “Yes, of course. Everything went well. I found an emergency foster parent to look after her tonight, and we’re working on getting things situated so that she can be adopted.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Yes, it is. Thank you again for reaching out to me.”

  I say nothing, suddenly unsure of what more I should say. While I of course wanted to learn what had become of Star, that’s not the reason I called. And maybe she senses it on her end, probably standing in another room of her house, keeping her voice lowered so her husband doesn’t hear. Not that she should be afraid of hiding the conversation from her husband, but in her line of work privacy is vital, and so it’s probably second nature to immediately find a quiet space to answer a call.

  Leila Simmons says, “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “Actually, there is. When we spoke earlier, you mentioned one of the girls you met with recently having been taken by those men.”

  Her voice, already quiet, somehow becomes quieter.

  “Yes, I did. I apologize. I shouldn’t have said what I said. Please forgive me.”

  “No, it’s not that. I think I might be able to help you.”

  A beat of hesitation on her end as she mulls this over.

  “What do you mean?”
>
  “I know a cop. A Colton County sheriff’s deputy. He’s a good man. He can be trusted. If you tell me where you think this girl was taken, he’ll be able to help.”

  The silence on her end lengthens. I picture her biting her lip, looking back over her shoulder at her husband in the next room as she weighs the pros and cons. She doesn’t need to know the truth—that I have no intention of telling Erik anything—but the fact that I’m presenting it as the selling point should help.

  Finally she says, “I don’t even know for sure she’s there. Even if she was there before, she might not be there now.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Either way, wouldn’t it ease your conscience knowing for sure?”

  She doesn’t answer, and in my head I picture her finally sitting down, leaning forward, staring off into space as she continues to try to make up her mind.

  “Leila, I understand your hesitation. But believe me, this is for the best. Either she’s there or she isn’t. Don’t you want to know for sure?”

  “But what … what if she is there?”

  “If she is there, it’s vital that she’s rescued as soon as possible, don’t you think?”

  Keeping the phone to my ear, I move from the kitchen and into the bedroom. I flick on the light and crouch down in front of the dresser. Pull the bottom drawer out and dig down beneath the sweatshirts and sweatpants and bring up my other gun.

  It’s a SIG Sauer TACOPS 1911. A bit heftier than the P320 but this one has a five-inch barrel with an eight-round mag already loaded with .45 Autos.

  Also buried under the clothes is a SOG Strat Ops automatic folding knife. It has a 3.5-inch steel blade that’s spring-loaded to release at the touch of a button.

  I toss the 1911 and the SOG on the bed as I stand back up and realize the silence has gone on much too long.

  “Are you still there?”

  Leila Simmons issues a hesitant whisper.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t want to pressure you, but I don’t think there’s anything to debate. You said yourself these men are dangerous. Hell, I saw one of them kill Juana last night. We don’t want that to happen to this other girl, do we?”

  Saying we makes it seem more like she and I are a team, and that she can trust me. I don’t want to say you and make it sound like I’m accusing her of anything. Right now I need her on my side if I’m going to save this girl.

  When Leila Simmons speaks next, her voice has lost the hesitation.

  “No, we don’t.”

  “We want to save her, don’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then tell me, Leila. Tell me where to find her.”

  Thirteen

  Like in my dream, the night sky is dark and cloudless, but there’s no distant shimmer of lights from a city sitting a few miles away. And while there’s silence, it’s a true silence, the night alive with insects making quiet noises in the blue grama and buffalo grass. A light breeze blows through the night, skimming loose dirt across the ground and making the creosote bushes shiver.

  Leila said an oil refinery, but that’s not quite true. It’s an oil field, but it’s an abandoned one. At least, it doesn’t appear as if the dozen or so oil derricks are in operation anymore. They stand frozen across the landscape, looking like giant metal beasts in the dark.

  I move past one of the motionless derricks toward the shed.

  I’m dressed in dark jeans and a black T-shirt and sneakers. Not my preferred tactical wardrobe for a mission, but it’s not like I have many other options. I especially don’t like wearing my sneakers; the tread is distinct and could be matched to my shoes later if things ever got to that point, which means I’ll need to dispose of them and get a new pair, which means an hour drive to the closest Walmart.

  The SOG is clipped to my belt. The P320 is pressed against the small of my back, while the 1911 rests easily in my hand.

  I haven’t held a gun in my hand this long in almost a year. There’s a familiarity to squeezing the grip—a sense of homecoming—that I’m not yet ready to accept.

  The shed is larger than I’d pictured it would be. It looks to be a story and a half tall, like it could hold a truck or two or three. A large barn-style door in the front, a regular-sized door on the side. No windows.

  I surveil the shed for a good fifteen minutes—crouched behind a bush—before I decide to make my move. So far I haven’t seen or heard anything that’s raised an alarm. If the girl’s inside the shed, she hasn’t moved or made any noise. Which means either she’s not there or she’s dead or asleep or she’s been tied up to the point where she can’t move.

  According to Leila Simmons, the girl’s name is Eleanora. She’s no more than seventeen years old. She’s pregnant, Leila said, or at least she was the last time Leila saw her. Which was just a few days ago. Before Eleanora disappeared. Before Leila got word that Eleanora may have been abducted by those two ICE agents, and had been taken to this shed planted here in the middle of a dead oil field.

  Leila started crying when she told me this, as if the realization of how she’d failed the girl finally hit her. She told me how she was sorry that she hadn’t done more, but that she was scared, and at one point I heard her husband’s voice in the background, asking her what was wrong, and Leila had quickly composed herself—I pictured her wiping at her eyes as she blew her nose with a tissue—and told her husband she would be off the phone soon.

  The 1911 in hand, I start toward the shed. I walk slowly, quietly, but my sneakers crunching the dirt sounds like gunshots in the silence.

  I circle the shed. The only thing I find is a rusting generator on the other side, though it’s doubtful the thing even works.

  The door on the side is closed, its wood weathered, just like the rest of the shed. Like it was built fifty years ago and hasn’t been repainted since.

  There’s a padlock on the large door, but there isn’t one on the side door. There is a latch, where a lock would hold the door in place, but it’s empty.

  I push the door open and immediately step to the side, aiming the 1911 at the darkness within.

  Nothing happens.

  Nobody wearing a cowboy hat or blue polo steps out of the dark with a gun raised.

  I pause a beat, listening to the silence inside, and soon I hear it.

  A muffled noise. Like somebody trying to cry out. Only they can’t because something’s over their mouth.

  I slip the penlight from my pocket and flick it on. Shine the beam through the doorway.

  A green compact tractor sits inside, a large mower deck hooked to its back, but that’s it.

  That muffled noise continues, more frantic now.

  I move forward, hesitantly, and sweep the penlight’s beam as I step inside.

  Besides the tractor, there’s other equipment that means nothing to me—steel barrels and other supplies, the place rank of oil and gasoline—but then the penlight’s beam focuses on the source of the muffled noise.

  The girl sits on a wooden chair near the back of the shed. An entire roll of duct tape looks to have been used to hold her in place. Duct tape around her ankles and around her legs and around her middle and her shoulders, as well as over her mouth.

  I make my way toward her, not hurrying but moving at a steady speed as I sweep the penlight around the rest of the shed to ensure there are no other surprises.

  When I reach her, I sweep the penlight back and see that she’s most definitely pregnant. Looks to be almost eight months along.

  “Eleanora?”

  The girl momentarily falters from trying to shout past the duct tape. There’s surprise in her dark eyes, like she didn’t expect me to know her name. Then she nods, eagerly, and tries to speak through the duct tape again.

  “Leila Simmons sent me. My name’s Jen.”

  I stick the end of the penlight between my teeth to keep the beam on Eleanora’s face while I use my free hand to peel the tape from her mouth.

  The girl releases a half sob, tears now fleein
g her eyes.

  “Gracias. Gracias. Gracias.”

  Her voice is too loud, and I take the penlight from my mouth and tell her in Spanish to be quiet.

  The girl says in Spanish, “Please untie me—please!”

  I intend to—I even bite down on the penlight again to use my free hand to unclip the SOG from my belt—but before I press the button to release the blade I pause again. Go very still. Hold my breath.

  Eleanora says, “What are you doing?”

  I jerk my head back and forth, the penlight’s beam going left to right across her face, but the girl doesn’t seem to get my meaning.

  She sucks in air to ask the question again, but by then I’ve pressed the duct tape back over her mouth.

  Her eyes go wide, and she tries to shout again through the tape.

  I clip the SOG back on my belt, take the penlight from between my teeth, and lean in close to the girl to whisper.

  “Quiet.”

  The girl goes silent, confused, and I whisper again as I flick off the penlight, shrouding us in darkness.

  “Can’t you hear that?”

  The girl’s still silent, making it even more possible to hear the approaching sound of an engine and tires crunching dirt outside.

  “Somebody’s coming.”

  Fourteen

  The vehicle stops. Its engine shuts off. Two doors open.

  I don’t see the men step out—not from where I am in the shed, having shut the side door so we’re enveloped in darkness—but I imagine it’s the two from last night. The driver has on the same cowboy hat, the badge still displayed proudly on his belt.

  A murmur of voices outside—the men conferring—and then the sound of boots scuffing the dirt as they approach the shed.

  It could be the police or FBI, following up on Leila’s call, but it’s doubtful. It could be a nearby rancher, or the person who owns this oil field, come to check the equipment. I didn’t notice any alarm system, but maybe something got tripped. Still doubtful. It seems Occam’s razor applies best here—whatever is the simplest explanation is probably the right one, hence the men outside are the same ones who killed Juana last night.