“You gone deaf ? Show your hands.”

Rivers obliged, back still turned, holding his arms out to either side. “I hear you, Sheriff,” he said.

“Good. Now get your ass out here.”

“I’m coming.” The figure began to rise—and then, suddenly, the hands disappeared and he whirled around, .357 Magnum gripped in both hands, aiming dead-on.

Watts yanked out a Colt just as Rivers’s .357 went off with the boom of a cannon.

3

WHEN SPECIAL AGENT Swanson exited the bathroom, the two junior agents in the hallway fell silent just a little too quickly. She passed by them, not making eye contact, and headed back to her cubicle in the Albuquerque Field Office on Luecking Park Avenue Northeast. She took her seat and pulled the file she’d been working on closer to her. She was in the dimmest corner of the room, farthest from the windows. It was where the rookies were traditionally parked, and as they rose in the ranks they also moved closer to the wall of glass that had a panoramic view of the mountains. But Corrie was glad not to have to look out the window at the eleven-thousand-foot-high Sandia Crest, dusted with the season’s first snowfall, because all it did was remind her of her failure. It was a bitter irony: up until two weeks ago, the sight of mountains had been a reminder of her biggest success as a young agent. Now she wondered if she would ever be able to look at that mountain again without feeling overwhelmed by shame and regret.

After the shooting, there had been an inquiry—expected and routine. Corrie hadn’t received a reprimand or disciplinary action. She had even been verbally commended for saving the life of the hostage at the risk of her own. And thankfully—blessedly—the girl had only been grazed by the shot. A few stitches, and she’d been sent home to her grandparents the next morning, along with an armada of grief counselors. All the blood that had so terrified Corrie belonged to the poor girl’s mother, who’d been lying dead on the floor of the camper.

Even so, Corrie couldn’t forgive herself. She should have nailed that head shot—even at ten yards. She had a bead on him, she was focused. Her gun wasn’t sighted wrong; she had established that at the range later. She had simply missed: missed at a critical moment. Even though she wasn’t the best shot in her peer group, she wasn’t the worst: forty-nine out of sixty on a QIT-99 was one point above the minimum score required, which wasn’t great, but a quarter of her peers hadn’t even passed. She should have made that shot—and then she would have saved the day, emerged with a commendation, elevated her profile further, cemented herself as an up-and-coming agent. Instead: ambiguity, sideways looks, and a single whispered Nice shootin’, Tex.

She had fucked up, and everyone knew it. One senior female agent had taken her aside and told her it was wrong—Corrie had been unavoidably put in a spot where, basically, she shouldn’t normally have been. But her fellow rookies were looking pretty smug, and it reminded her of that brutal saying, It’s not enough to succeed; others must fail. Worst of all, Morwood was unexpectedly quiet on the subject, beyond making a passing suggestion that she put in more hours at the range. He didn’t bawl her out, but he didn’t praise her, either. Though it might be her imagination, he seemed to have become a little distant. And that stack of files from yet another cold case he had left on her desk sure felt like a punishment.

In the two weeks since the shooting, she’d been putting in an hour a day at the range after work. On her last go-around she’d scored fifty-one out of sixty: about average, and she believed that with hard work, she could push that up to fifty-two or even fifty-three. But when she told Morwood, he hadn’t seemed impressed. “Anyone can score at the range,” he said. “Put them in an active-shooter situation—that’s where the rubber meets the road.” The comment felt like another slap in the face. She had almost blurted out, asking him point-blank if he was referring to her performance at Cedro Peak, but then swallowed the comment and merely said, “Yes, sir.”

“Corrie?”

It was Morwood, leaning in the doorway of her cubicle, his ID dangling. She noticed that the hair on his thinning crown was growing long. His smile looked a little forced. She was certain he was still disappointed in her.

“A moment?”

“Yes, sir.”

She stood up and followed him out of the cubicle and down the hall to his small office, which also looked out over the Sandias.

“Have a seat.”

Corrie sat, trying not to glance out the window.

“Well, well,” said Morwood, folding his hands on the desk. “I’ve got a case for you. Right up your alley, in fact.”

“Yes, sir,” said Corrie. She was suspicious of his tone, which seemed a little too jaunty. If this were a good case, he sure as hell wouldn’t be giving it to her. What was more likely to happen was that he’d put her “on the beach,” in FBI lingo, starting the process with some meaningless case she couldn’t fuck up and, even if she did, no one would notice or care.

“The sheriff of Socorro surprised a relic hunter yesterday, digging up some bones in the middle of nowhere. Human remains. BLM jurisdiction. There was a gunfight from which the relic hunter, a guy named Rivers, emerged the loser. He winged the sheriff and got his own kneecap shattered for his trouble. He’s in the hospital, guarded around the clock and charged with the attempted murder of a law enforcement officer. The locals aren’t too happy about it, and he’s probably under guard as much for his own safety as to prevent an escape.”