James Patterson - Texas Outlaw (Rory Yates)

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Copyright 2020 by James Patterson

Cover design by Anthony Morais
Cover photographs Laura Kate Bradley / Arcangel Images (man), Getty Images (sunset)
Author photograph by David Burnett
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First ebook edition: March 2020

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ISBN 978-0-316-42818-7

E3-20200220-DA-NF-ORI

For Ben and Aubrey

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SUSAN SNYDER PRESSES her foot down on the gas pedal and zooms around a curve, the headlights of her Mustang convertible cutting through the darkness and the stereo blasting the Foo Fighters into the cool June Texas air. She has the top down, and her hair whips around in the wind as goose bumps rise on her arms. Maybe from the chill. Maybe from excitement.

She knows she should slow down. She should be careful. But she cant help herself. Shes giddy. She cant wait for tomorrow to come. She should probably feel more scared. Thats the smart way to feelscared and careful. But caution has never been a word in her vocabulary. At thirty-seven years old, shes single and successful, and she doesnt take shit from anyone.

She rounds another curve, the tires squealing against the blacktop. Up ahead, her ranch house is nestled among the sagebrush-covered hills. She races into her gravel driveway and skids to a halt, sending a cloud of dust up into her headlight beams. She takes a deep breath and sits in the car for a minute, trying to let her heart rate slow down.

It wont. Shes just too excited.

She was on a dinner date tonight. At least thats what it would have looked like to the other customers at the only halfway decent restaurant in town. A man. A woman. White wine. Filet mignon for him. Crab legs for her. A shared dessert of strawberry cheesecake topped with vanilla bean ice cream.

But it wasnt a date. It was a strategy session.

Come tomorrow, the little West Texas town of Rio Lobo wont know what hit it.

Susan presses the button to raise the convertible roof. On her way up her front walk, she looks up at the moonless sky. The view is breathtaking, and she never tires of country still so untouched by light pollution that the stars look like droplets of paint sprinkled over a vast black canvas.

One of the reasons she lives here is the solitude. The simple country life. She works as a freelance web designer and makes a comfortable living. In a town like Rio Lobo, where Susan serves as one of five elected members of the town council, she might even be considered borderline rich. But her income wouldnt go nearly as far in a big city like Houston or Dallas, let alone New York or Los Angeles, where a lot of her clients are based. Besides, the town of Rio Lobo is about the perfect size for her. It has exactly two stoplights.

Susan takes her eyes off the sky for a moment and notices something on her front porch. On the rocking chair next to her door sits an object enfolded in clear plastic wrap, with a handwritten note attached. Made some cookies for you. Theyre safe. The note is unsigned, but when she sees the two snickerdoodlesher favorite cookieshe knows who left them for her.

Inside, shes already unwrapping the cookies as she kicks off her shoes. She eats the first one and takes a drink of milk straight from the gallon. She considers saving the second one for tomorrow, but shes in an indulgent mood. She eats it and tosses the cellophane and note onto her kitchen table. She leaves her purse there next to the wrapper and heads down the hall to her bedroom.

She steps out of her dress and pulls on a pair of Victorias Secret sweatpants and a Dallas Cowboys jersey that she sleeps in.

When she picks up her toothbrush, her fingers feel tingly, as if theyve fallen asleep. She puts the toothbrush into her mouth and notices the swelling of her lips. She squints at herself in the mirrornot only does it look like someone punched her in the mouth but also her whole face appears to be swelling, as if shes suddenly gained twenty pounds.

Worse than her appearance, her breathing has become labored.

Susan tells herself not to panic. She has a known peanut allergy, and any hint of peanut oil could trigger this reaction. Her friend who left the cookies knows about the allergyand labeled them Theyre safebut must have accidentally baked in some trace of peanuts.

Moving slowly, trying to keep her breathing under control, Susan opens the medicine cabinet and, with fingers swollen like sausages, grabs her EpiPen. Tearing open the package, she walks over to her bed, sits on the edge, and then, without hesitation, jams the needle into her leg, right through her sweatpants.

She waits.

She knows that she needs to call 911. But her cell phone is in her purse back in the kitchen, on the other side of the house. She decides to wait a minute and let the shot of adrenaline do its job. She concentrates on her breathing. Air wheezes through her throat, like wind whistling through a desert canyon.

Her vision blurs. Her heart wont stop pounding. A wave of dizziness nearly topples her off the bed. She needs to get to her phone.

The shot isnt working.

She rises and takes a step forward, but the floor seems to tilt under her feet. She makes it to the hallway and collapses. She tries to stand, but all her muscles are cramping, shooting lightning bolts of pain throughout her body.

Over the pounding of her own heart, she hears somethingfootsteps.

Thank God, she thinks.

Help, Susan tries to say, but no words come out. Her lungs have stopped inflating. Her vision darkens.

There are no stars in this blackness.

I PULL MY Ford F-150 into the small parking lot at the Rio Grande Bank and Trust in Waco. A big Dodge pickup, even bigger than mine, is taking up two handicapped spaces right in front. I drive around to the shady side and find an opening far from the door.

Its my lunch break, and I need to deposit a check for my girlfriend.

Tell me again, Rory, my lieutenant and new boss says from the passenger seat, why your girlfriend doesnt get a bank account in Tennessee.