Gun. Knife. Swizzle stick. He chuckled at the idea. Of course, he could do the job with anything. He was that good. The swizzle stick he chewed on, however, would retain his DNA and he’d never be that stupid.
The perfect set of gloves sat on the seat next to him along with the rest of his tools. Some killers went so far as to shave their bodies so as not to drop a single hair. For him, the diving suit worked just as well. He’d changed a few minutes ago before continuing down Texas 349 to find just the right abandoned spot.
There were no witnesses on this stretch of deserted road. No cameras. No recording devices of any type. Rarely a car or driver that would think twice about seeing his ordinary vehicle. He’d deliberately left the burner phone at the Kerrville hotel. An automatic text message would be sent to indicate he was hundreds of miles away on Interstate 10. Not that anyone would call, but it was there in any case. No one in the nearby town would notice a plain blue rental car that looked black on this moonless night.
No one ever noticed. As he’d said many times—at least to himself—he was very good at his job.
He didn’t tire at becoming better, striving for more. He was a professional, after all. Thomas Rosco kicked his seat.
“Stop that. What do you hope to accomplish by annoying me?”
“I want you to see reason. Let me go.”
“Mr. Rosco, don’t you know who I am?”
“I haven’t seen your face. You could leave me here and I’d never be able to identify you.”
Pulling onto a dirt road leading under an old faded gate, the single windmill made him feel lonesome. That was ridiculous. He was completely at ease in this desolate country and never tired of his work. The fun was just about to begin.
“I’m hurt that you thought Tenoreno would hire anyone other than myself.”
“You...you...you’re Snake Eyes?”
“It seems an appropriate name.” He turned around to stare directly at his prey. “Don’t you think?”
He knew what the crime boss saw. Almost glowing eyes, slanted and the color of a reptile’s. The contacts added a dimension to his persona that made his victims quake. He laughed, the sound deliberately sinister. It normally put fear in his victims’ eyes.
Rosco wasn’t any different than the other men. A sad example of a tough guy. Tough men bled just like the rest. Their bodies rotted under the sun just like that of a man with a good soul.
The gloves slid over his hands, and then he helped Rosco stand from the car. No rough stuff was necessary.
The man was about to die. The fear rushed through Rosco’s veins. The poor fellow might get a burst of adrenaline. Might make a run for it. Whatever. It didn’t matter.
“You should make peace with your God, if you have one. Maybe ask forgiveness for all the men and women you’re responsible for killing.”
“Do you tell that to all the people you’re about to murder?”
“Let’s get moving.”
The answer was yes. It was his thing. He believed in a higher power and that he’d be punished accordingly. But he had a calling to be the best at his work as he could.
They walked into the field. The knee-high tobosa grass crackled under their feet as they shuffled through. Near the dried-out gully was the perfect place to leave a body. He doubted anyone would find Rosco for months. Not until the hunters returned for wild turkey or deer in the fall.
“No wailing? No more pleading?” he asked, curious.
“I know you get the job done. That’s why we employed your services so often. I... There is nothing I can say?” Rosco sank to his knees near some mesquite scrub. “Nothing you’ll accept in payment over what Tenoreno is paying you?”
“No. This is a waste. I wish I had time to play, but sometimes work comes first.”
With one stroke he pulled his knife and sliced left to right across the windpipe before him. Rosco’s eyes widened as he realized he couldn’t take a breath. The gurgling sound of him choking wasn’t unpleasant. It was satisfying to Snake Eyes that he’d completed the job. Rosco fell forward, hands secured behind him, twitching as his lifeblood soaked the parched earth.
Slicing easily through the plastic handcuffs, he gathered the remnants and shoved them inside the diver’s bag at his side.
Now the fun really began.
He flipped Rosco to his back, not bothering to wait for the body to grow cold. He methodically removed the lifeless eyes in Rosco’s face. He wouldn’t keep them. He wasn’t sentimental and didn’t need a souvenir, just a way to identify himself as the killer.
He’d studied serial killers, read up on them. If it had been possible, he could have shared his checklists of how to get away without a trace. But then...if everyone knew his methods, he wouldn’t be in such high demand.
Laughing, he withdrew the artificial snakelike eyes, using a cleaning solution and a polishing cloth to make them shine. Then he meticulously placed the stones in Rosco’s face, leaving him staring at the heavens.
The eyes would be anonymously shipped to his employer. Proof of the completion of his task. He popped them into the jewelry case he carried in his bag.
Many of his victims had never been found. Some never would. But those who were...the eyes were an eerie sight when his handiwork was discovered. As a calling card, they were unique and rarely reported to the press.
But they knew. He was precise and unique. He methodically went through his mental list. Then he opened the notebook and verified he’d performed everything on the list again. He would not get sloppy and make a mistake.
Or bored.
Admitting that he was bored was why he took on the next challenge. Keeping a captive alive long enough to extract information. A definite challenge that needed a new notebook of lists. He flipped the pocket spiral closed, satisfied that he’d covered everything.
Now it was time to discover the details of his next victim. How she lived her mundane life. What drove her to make a mistake. He had a short time to get to know Avery Travis. His new commission would be a test case. Careful planning would be the key to a successful kill.
Two weeks later, Company F, Waco, Texas
“Thomas Rosco is dead. His throat was slit by the Snake Eyes Killer.”
Texas Ranger Lieutenant Jesse Ryder had to replay the words in his mind to verify that he’d heard the major correctly. There really wasn’t another interpretation of Thomas Rosco is dead. Everyone in the room quieted, probably replaying the same words.
Rosco was a crime boss, rumored to have been partnered with Paul Tenoreno—brought to justice earlier that year. The Rangers received the credit, but the man mainly responsible had been his best friend, Garrison Travis, and his witness, Kenderly Tyler, a beautician. They’d witnessed a double homicide orchestrated by Tenoreno. Her courage, along with detailed files left by the murder victims, provided the prosecution with an excellent case.
Then they’d turned Rosco to testify against his partner, but he’d been missing for the past week. Tenoreno had one play left...eliminating the witnesses. Rosco was just the first. He’d be after Garrison and Kenderly next.
Major Josh Parker stood at his office door to make the announcement. If he expected a response, there wasn’t one. It looked as though the other rangers in the room were just as dumbfounded.
Tenoreno had hired an assassin who