Page 6 of Backtrack

“I can open the lock without breaking the seal,” Goddard said. “Easy peasy. Fact is, I’ve already picked it twice.”

“What!?” Watts barked like a drill sergeant. “You—”

“Relax,” Goddard said. “I didn’t break the seal. I just like to practice.”

“That’s a good way to practice going to prison,” Foster said.

“I locked it back. Nobody will ever know unless we tell ’em.” Goddard shrugged off the advice. “I read inNat Geowhere some guy in India found a big old diamond stored in the toe of his dead father’s slipper. The fifth-largest diamond in the world or something like that.”

“My grandma says too much money makes you go batty,” Foster said.

Goddard scoffed. “Wouldn’t mind finding out—”

Foster glanced at the side mirror. A blue Crown Victoria was camped out in the right lane. A copper-colored LeSabre moved up, looming large. Something about the vehicles made him think they were on a mission. Foster had no official training in bad-guy identification, but the older guards were always warning him to keep an eye on the mirrors. It made sense.

“Asshole in a copper Buick coming in hot at six o’clock,” he said,hoping it didn’t sound too dramatic. “There’s a blue Crown Vic back there, too. I’m thinking they might be together.”

“Probably just a couple of rich kids racing with Daddy’s wheels,” Watts said. He gripped the wheel and started shifting in his seat again.

Foster snapped the safety on and off his shotgun. “No rich kid’s gonna be up at six thirty on a Sunday morning.”

Bruce Goddard adjusted his position in the slot, trying futilely to get a look at the side mirrors. “What are you talking about … cars coming up fast?”

“Probably nothing,” Foster said.

Goddard backed off enough that Foster could see his whole freckled face through the sliding hatch. He had a new baby at home, which made him extra jumpy. “You sure it’s nothing?”

“Pretty sure,” Foster said, trying to convince himself. He glanced across the seat at Watts, trying to see what the old guy was thinking. The man’s uniform shirt was one giant sweat stain. “Speed up and see what they do.”

Behind them, the copper Buick flashed its lights off and on.

Watts let out a deep groan. His eyes locked straight ahead. “I’m really sorry, boys,” he said. “I never intended for it to go down like this.” He stomped the brake.

In the back, Goddard began to pound on the wall. “You bastard!” he screamed. “Foster! Don’t let them blow me up!”

Watts slid the heavy truck to an abrupt stop on the side of the interstate, throwing everyone forward.

Shotgun in hand, Foster braced himself against the dash.

The pounding in the back fell off and Goddard’s eye appeared in the hatch again. “Foster! Listen to me, man! Listen! Please—”

CHAPTER 2

Eight miles east of the TexSafe Armored truck, Parker County Sheriff’s investigator D Wayne Cutter glanced up from his window booth at the Wayside Truckstop. It was early and the café smelled of fresh coffee and Windex. The waitress approached at a hustling run—like she’d just remembered anyone was sitting there. Her white nursing shoes squeaked against the waxed tile floor. The tag on her brown polyester uniform said her name was Karlene.

Coffeepot in hand, Karlene stifled a hacking cough in the crook of her elbow and then smiled down at Cutter and the DPS trooper sitting across from him.

The tall, drum-chested state trooper stopped his story about a fatality accident he’d worked the day before and gave a sleepy smile to the waitress. A creased red patch on the shoulder of his olivegreen short-sleeved shirt indicated he was Texas Department of Public Safety Highway Patrol—never to be confused with Weights and Measures or Driver’s License troopers. His Stetson hat—straw for summer wear and dyed a muddy gray-green to match his uniform—rested on the seat beside him, brim up.

Cutter was shorter than the highway patrolman by a good six inches, with a weathered, rawboned face and calloused hands that looked just a bit too large for his forearms. His white, pearl-snap dress shirt was freshly starched and ironed, and just tight enough to suggest strong shoulders. A five-pointed Parker County Deputy Sheriff’s star hung over his left breast pocket. He, too, had a hat on the seat beside him, though his was plain straw, blond like hisshort-cropped hair and slightly stained with sweat around the band from constant wear in the brutal Texas heat.

Both men had spent time in Vietnam. Where Teague had seen significant action with the 173rd Airborne Brigade, Cutter spent the bulk of his career officially stationed in Bad Tölz, Germany, with 10th Special Forces. He’d rotated into Southeast Asia periodically to augment other SF groups, but the bulk of his time was spent in Berlin. The highway patrolman dished out a considerable amount of good-natured ribbing about how he was tromping through rice paddies during Cutter’s cushy European vacation.

If he’d only known.

Karlene batted naturally long lashes and moved in with the coffeepot. “Teague,” she said. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

The trooper put his hand over the empty coffee cup. “A Dr Pepper when you get a chance.” He glanced across the table. “This here is Wayne Cutter. He’s an investigator with the SO.”