The Missing arrives next week. I hope you are as excited as I am about this next chapter in the DSA series. Be sure to snag your copy during the $0.99 launch deal, which ends on March 16th. Enjoy a preview of the book below!
Exclusive preview chapter of The Missing
The US-Mexico border after sunset was a wasteland. Nothing but open sky and rough terrain marked the separation between the two countries. It was a harsh landscape, filled with terrors both natural and manufactured.
Crossings occurred frequently. There was no denying it. Whether there was a wall, fence, or armed detail, people continued to travel into the deserts of New Mexico with reckless abandon. They fled violence and political strife, or because they simply needed a change.
None of it was safe. People died on the journey. Even the survivors fared no better in some regards. Their lives did not always stay their own. Too many interested parties profited off the trafficking from country to country.
Lizzy Doyle wasn’t one of them. Out of the dozen shadows that flitted through the truck depot west of the Santa Teresa crossing, she was the only one trying to do something to help people.
It was no surprise to find several trucks at the depot. The closest town along the route near the border was over sixty miles away, and even then, there were few places to settle in for the night. The depot made sure truckers rested for a bit before heading to their next destination.
Some weren’t traveling with commercial goods. They bore a product of a different sort. Few spoke out against the lack of regulations in the area. This was a free zone, the last true remnant of the Wild West as American’s always envisioned. They rejected all government interference. They fought against anything that sought to upset their lifestyles.
That resistance led to quite a few troubling situations. It also opened the door for those willing to take advantage of their hospitality to keep the “big brothers of the border” out of their hair.
Lizzy kept low to the ground. Her camera hung from her neck, dangling in the air before her as she made her way across the crowded depot. Most of the truckers had already called it a night. One crew, however, remained on high alert. Sweeps ran along the fringes of the depot and around the gas station in the center. They moved in opposite directions, yet stayed close to the same pair of trucks at the back of the complex.
The trucks weren’t registered to a company. Neither were they listed with the depot or contained a detailed manifest. The only clue to their purpose lay in the firearms at the disposal of the sentries circling the property.
Lizzy had caught wind of their arrival two days earlier. Word had come through an email from a friend down south, one she hadn’t seen in years yet remembered from a brief stint in the trenches for an assignment. Her friend had barely survived an encounter with a grenade in their path, and only then, thanks to the timely intervention of Lizzy.
That had been how Lizzy made most of her contacts: through circumstances of violence and devastation. It didn’t matter the danger, Lizzy had been in the thick of a number of dangerous situations to snap the relevant photo to share with the world. The friendships that developed from those moments had been merely a bonus in her eyes—but a handy one.
Lizzy left the safety of the truck on her right. She tucked tight to the front end, then shifted into the deeper shadows near the rear. The passing guards cared more for their cigarettes than any potential trouble. Lizzy was thankful for that much.
With the back of the depot cleared of personnel for the moment, Lizzy raced for the shipping container. Even through the thick steel of the chassis, voices erupted from inside. Sobs and curses sounded alike, muted by the container.
“Ayuda!” cried a young woman’s voice. “Ayuda! Por favor!”
All hesitation left Lizzy. She reached the back of the container. The gate was locked; a thick padlock tied to some chains barred any entry. Lizzy shifted her camera around to her back. With her hands free, she pulled loose the hairpin she never used properly. It was more useful as a tool than a simple decoration. Lizzy jammed the pin into the lock. Sweat pooled against her palms. Mentally ticking off the seconds between patrols, Lizzy sighed in relief when the padlock fell open and the chains slipped to the ground.
She lifted the gate to see the occupants inside. The metal squeaked from the strain, and a soft prayer slipped from her lips that the guards would not hear the movement. Dozens of men, women, and children filled the space. They were gaunt from malnourishment. Bruises decorated their arms and legs in various shades. Some hid their eyes from her, no longer used to any light, even the dim moonlight of the desert.
Lizzy held out her hand. “Estoy aqui para ayudarte.”
None moved for her. She waved them on, her efforts interrupted by twin beams of light.
Company arrived in the form of a dozen men. Most remained in shadow, while the light from the flashlights almost blinded Lizzy. One stood taller than the rest. He wore a black bandanna, and snake tattoos adorned his arms that trailed down to his fingertips.
She recognized him from her research: Manny Guerra. He was well known in trafficking circles to be as slippery as the creatures who decorated his flesh. There were quite a few outstanding warrants for the man’s arrest. Finding him, though, was the tricky part. He called nowhere home and held no human possessions. His work was all that mattered to him. In that regard, Lizzy understood the man.
“Looking for help?” Manny asked. His eyes were pinpricks in the dark, yet they appeared ravenous. “We’d be happy to lend you a hand.”
A light dropped. The man holding the flashlight reached out for Lizzy. With his arm extended, Lizzy grabbed the man’s wrist and snapped it back. He cried out in pain, but she held tight. Leaning forward with her left fist, Lizzy punched the bastard against the bridge of his nose. At the moment of impact, she let go of the man’s wrist, and he fell to the dirt.
“My, oh my,” Manny said. “We have a fighter here. I like that.”
More hands shot out. Lizzy swatted at them, backpedaling to stay out of their reach. One leaped at her. His arms shot out, and his palms slammed into her chest. Lizzy twisted to her side as she fell. Rock dug into her arm from the impact. It was the least of her worries. She spun her camera away from the ground and held it tight.
As she stood, Manny stepped forward. His boys understood the gesture and retreated behind their leader. Manny reached out for her. She batted the hand away. His other hand shot out. When she moved to intercept, Manny grabbed her wrist and pulled her close.
“See? Two can play at that game,” he said. She could smell the onions on his breath, and feel the heat rising from his chest. His yellow, twisted smile filled her view. “What do you say, boys? Should I add her to my collection?”
They cheered as one. They held no human decency and felt nothing for their fellow man. All that mattered to them was the promise of cold, hard cash to gamble or piss away on booze. This was their life. There was no desire for a future. They weren’t building for their retirement. There was just the hope for a big payday at the expense of the innocent.
The cheers faded at the rise of another sound. All threw a questioning look at Manny, who mirrored their reaction. They were confused by the sound of laughter coming from Lizzy.
“What?” Manny shook at the girl in his grasp. “What’s so funny?”
“‘Add her to my collection?’” Lizzy asked. “I was going to say the same thing.”
With her free hand, Lizzy lifted her camera in front of Manny’s eyes. She snapped a photo. He reeled at the bright light, the flash temporarily blinding him. The moment his grip slackened along her wrist, Lizzy pulled free. She shoved Manny and raced for her freedom.
“Grab her!” Manny shouted.
The men gave chase. Shots rang out. They split the air around Lizzy. She cut sharply along the front of the trucks to the far side of the complex.
Cocking her head for a quick peek at her pursuers, she noticed Manny in the middle of the pack. Every last one had joined the chase. Her smile grew, and her pace quickened.
At the gas station, Lizzy ducked between the pumps. No more shots followed. The shouts of Manny and the others silenced their weapons. From the safety of the pumps, she proceeded to another group of trucks on the opposite side. Hands closed in on her. Her pursuers were everywhere. They moved faster, and more desperately, with each passing moment.
Lizzy fought ahead. Rounding the back of the trucks, she slid into the dirt. Manny and his crew scurried in pursuit. Each skidded to a halt at the sight before them.
Dozens of officers took aim at the criminals. In the center, wearing a wide-brim hat, was Sheriff Hector Ortega.
“Lower your weapons!” the sheriff yelled. “Then put your hands in the air!”
Manny shifted forward. He reached for Lizzy, who backed away for the line of cops. A single shot split the silence of the night. Manny glanced up to see a wisp of smoke rising from the barrel of Hector’s gun.
“Not. Another. Step.”
Manny grimaced, his balled-up fists slowly opening. He raised his hands into the air to surrender.
Lizzy lifted her camera to snap another photo.
Hector threw her an ice pack. Lizzy caught it with her left hand, then placed the pack along her right arm. Relief immediately spread in waves throughout her body.
She knew the pain would last a few days. She didn’t care. Just the sight of Manny in the back of a police cruiser, and the dozens rescued from the twin trucks, was enough to make her forget about her injuries. Her actions saved lives, not that Hector would ever agree.
“You’re an idiot, Doyle,” he said. He joined her near the front entrance of the complex.
“Is that any way to thank me?”
Hector’s hands fell on his hips. He was a cop through and through. There was no getting him to play a different tune—especially with her. “You’re lucky I can talk to you, let alone thank you. They would have killed you, probably done worse for what you did to their leader.”
“He had it coming.”
“I told you we would handle this,” Hector said. He always said the same thing. When she’d received the message from her contact about the transfer, Lizzy had passed it along to Hector. Sure, she should have done that the second it came into her inbox and not two hours before she’d infiltrated the truck depot, but where was the fun in that?
Lizzy lifted her camera and took a picture of Hector’s grimace. It was not appreciated. “You got your collar, Hector.”
“And you got to appease your death wish for the day,” Hector snapped back at her. “What about tomorrow, Lizzy?”
She rolled her eyes at the accusation. Coming home was a common practice for her. She tried to make the trip at least once every other month. There were bills to pay, and plants that needed to be replaced due to neglect.
It wasn’t her fault work always crept up during her visits.
“Can we skip the speech this time?”
“Not a chance,” he said. She turned from him. His hand settled on hers to hold her back. “Until you actually listen, I’m going to say it again and again. What you did here? It doesn’t change what happened.”
“It might, and you know it.”
Frustration filled the sheriff’s face. “Patrick’s gone. He wouldn’t have wanted this life for you.”
Lizzy ripped her hand away from him. “Yeah, well, I’ll be sure to ask him when I find him.”
She made a beeline across the dirt road. Patrol cars exited the complex, causing her to stop and wait for the road to clear before she crossed. Hector followed close, but she refused to look in his direction. Instead, she focused on the shadow looming on the other side of the well-worn path.
The passenger van carried more rust than paint in certain areas. The blacked-out windows kept the contents within safe from any onlookers, and the vanity plates that read PHOTO1 always brought a smile to her face. It was her home, the piece of herself she always carried wherever she went. Unfortunately, it was another part of her life Hector failed to understand.
“How is this thing still running?”
“Duct tape and prayer,” Lizzy replied. She headed for the driver’s-side door. It creaked under her hand; the hinges threatened to snap loose from the body of the van. “I get your concern, Hector. I do, but—”
Her phone chirped in her pocket. Without a glance at her colleague, Lizzy dropped her camera into the van and pulled out the phone.
“Every time I hear that thing go off, I worry I won’t see you again.”
She read the name listed on the incoming notification, then tucked the device away. “I have to go.”
Hector reached for her once more as she climbed inside the van. “Who is it this time? Who do you have to find?”
Lizzy tossed him the ice pack. Settling into her seat, she tried to get comfortable, though the padding had long since been worn out. The key turned in the ignition, and the engine struggled to turn over before roaring to life.
“A woman,” she called out to her friend. “Someone named Emily Wright.”
