Killer Amnesia. Sherri Shackelford

can wait; it’s time for an adventure.

      Contents

       Cover

       Back Cover Text

       About the Author

       Booklist

       Title Page

       Copyright

      Note to Readers

       Introduction

       Dear Reader

       Bible Verse

       Dedication

       ONE

       TWO

       THREE

       FOUR

       FIVE

       SIX

       SEVEN

       EIGHT

       NINE

       TEN

       ELEVEN

       TWELVE

       THIRTEEN

       FOURTEEN

       EPILOGUE

       Extract

       About the Publisher

       ONE

      Deputy Liam McCallister was a dead man.

      At least that’s what everyone back in Dallas thought. Until six months ago, he was working undercover in the Gang Unit of the Dallas Police Department. Now he was stuck in a small town directing traffic under the name Deputy McCourt. At least the US Marshals had assigned him a job in law enforcement while the district attorney wrapped up the case. They figured he was safe as long as he kept a low profile. No one from the Serpent Brotherhood would be caught dead in Redbird, Texas.

      The irony wasn’t lost on him.

      If the Serpent Brotherhood knew they’d been infiltrated, they’d shut down their operations. This was better. Except one month had turned into six without a break in the case, and the wait was starting to get to him.

      Fighting his way through the pelting downpour, Liam adjusted the flashing yellow barricades and ducked into his state-issue Chevy Tahoe. Heavy rains had washed out the road. There was no escaping Redbird, Texas, tonight.

      A shock of static sounded from his police radio, and a familiar voice filled the cab.

      “Unit 120,” Rose Johnson, the dispatcher, called.

      Soaking wind slapped against his windshield in pounding bursts. Lightning streaked across the black sky, temporarily illuminating a bank of angry clouds.

      Liam grasped the microphone and depressed the Call button. “Unit 120.”

      “Single car accident on Highway 214,” the dispatcher relayed. “Personal injury. Mile-marker 37. Just beyond Brown Cattle feeders. Unit 130 is on scene. Requesting assistance. Fire and rescue en route.”

      “Ten-four. Responding from County Road 12.”

      Exhaustion rippled through him. He was working a double shift that had started before six this morning. Only the county sheriff along with two deputies were assigned to this area, and the three of them were spread thin.

      He flipped on his flashing red lights and pulled a U-turn. A canine whimper sounded from the backseat, and Liam glanced over his shoulder. “Sorry, Duchess, looks like you’re stuck with me.”

      He’d discovered the animal earlier in the day wandering around the town square. The tag listed her name but no phone number. A nuisance call and a traffic stop had prevented him from reaching the county shelter before closing. Though bedraggled from being caught in the rain, the dog was well fed—too well fed. Someone must be worried about her.

      He handed over a bone-shaped biscuit from the box he’d purchased earlier. “Why are you complaining? You’ll be home before me at this rate.”

      Soon the flashing lights of Deputy Jim Bishop’s identical Chevy Tahoe appeared, and Liam eased his vehicle to the side of the road.

      His radio popped to life. “Unit 120.” Rose’s voice was solemn. “Deputy Bishop called in a code four.”

      A frisson went through him.

      All the years he’d been in law enforcement, he’d yet to overcome his latent dread of fatality calls. “Ten-four.”

      He adjusted the collar of his slicker, tugged his hat lower over his forehead and stepped into the pouring rain. Splashing through ankle-deep puddles, he jogged the distance to where Deputy Bishop stood vigil.

      Tall and gaunt with thinning sand-colored hair, Bishop was openly gunning for the sheriff’s job in the next election. Given what Liam had seen of the deputy’s job performance, the guy had a better chance of getting kicked by a snake.

      The man pointed a slender arm. “Down there. Got a brief look at her before the rising water drove me back.”

      A beige Fiat 500 rested upright in water from the culvert, rain streaming through the shattered sunroof. Liam recognized the car—the model was distinctive—but he didn’t know the driver.

      “Single fatality,” Deputy Bishop shouted over the storm. “Female.”

      Judging by the crumpled exterior, the car had rolled at least once before landing at the bottom of the ditch. The headlights cast a weak, shimmering beam through the rising water, and Liam caught a glimpse of the motionless driver.

      “Any identification?” Liam asked.