The road into Red Hollow should have been empty except for dust and sun-baked stone. It was a dead mining cut west of Alpine, Texas, a place where old mercury tunnels ran beneath red cliffs and scrub brush clawed at the wind. Nobody lived there anymore except rattlesnakes, jackrabbits, and the kind of men who preferred places with no witnesses.
Mason had driven into bad country before. He had spent sixteen years wearing a Texas Ranger badge, and he had learned early that certain silences meant trouble. A ranch road with no cattle. A barroom with laughter that cut off when you entered. A canyon where even the birds had gone quiet.
Red Hollow was too still.
Then the first shot cracked over the hood of the lead truck and blew out the front tire.
The vehicle lurched hard left, metal shrieking against stone, and Ranger Dana Shaw slammed a palm into the dashboard to brace herself. Mason yanked the wheel, trying to keep them upright as the truck fishtailed in a storm of dust.
“Ambush!” Eli Harper shouted from the back.
The second shot punched through the windshield and starred the glass inches from Mason’s face.
