Last Light by C. J. Lyons Page A

trying to get a handle on the administrative duties that came with the job. When Roscoe Blackwell suggested he run for office, Drew had agreed, eager to leave the boring life of a patrol deputy behind. After all, he knew the job, knew the people, knew the land. Blackwell County was a tight-knit community where the only strangers were the migrant workers and few crimes reached the level of felony offenses.
    Turned out, it was also a county where the money going out was far more than the money coming in. Going over the books, Drew wondered how the hell he’d make his payroll, much less budget for badly needed repairs to the station with its small cell block that served as the county jail. Or get the new equipment his men—and one woman—needed.
    He was spending his Saturday working the adding machine and highlighting an obscure statute he’d heard about from one of the old-timers over in Abilene. Forfeiture. Allowing his department seize any property used during a commission of a crime—including minor ones like traffic offenses. Even if the defendants were innocent or never went to trial. It was a potential game changer for his underfunded department.
    Given how many outsiders passed through the corner of Blackwell County where I-20 ran, many of them wealthy gas-and-oil types headed into Dallas, it might be the answer to their prayers. If he could wrap his head around the legal language. Last thing he needed with his first official act in office was to get them in trouble with the Feds.
    His phone rang. Velma in dispatch. “Call just came in. I think you’ll want to handle it, Sheriff.”
    Drew straightened, still unused to the thrill of being the top law enforcement officer in the county. “What is it?”
    “Carole Blackwell. Says there’s some kind of trouble out at the Martin place. Said her little boy was already there and her husband was heading over, told her to call you and EMS.”
    Not a lot of helpful info, but it was enough to get Drew’s adrenaline surging. Roscoe Blackwell handled most anything on that end of the county himself—after all, he owned everything out there except a few scattered homesteads and the strip of federal agriculture study land. Must be serious for him to be calling for help. “EMS rolling?”
    “Just sent the page and alerted the guys in the firehouse.” Blackwell County had a volunteer fire department that was as good as any you’d find in a city—they had to be, as it was their own land, families, and livelihoods they protected.
    “Send the nearest patrol unit—” He hesitated, grabbing his portable radio and clipping it to his belt. “No, cancel that. Send Ortiz, the others can cover her territory.” Ortiz was the only one of them, Drew included, who had completed the state’s crime scene course. “I’m on my way.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    A thrill ran through him as he left via his private door and headed to his patrol unit. What could it be? The Martins lived between the Blackwells and the federal land that Ronnie Powell, the county’s main drug dealer—a Vietnam vet who lived rough but never had been arrested for any violent offenses—squatted on. Maybe the Mexicans had finally decided to take over Powell’s tiny drug enterprise? Or an outlaw motorcycle gang? There were several in the area, although they’d never dared to cross into Blackwell County before.
    Maybe they were testing the new sheriff? If so, he was up to the task. Drew yanked open the door of his official Jeep Cherokee and climbed into the driver’s seat, automatically adjusting his weapon and radio. He had a pump-action Remington loaded with double-ought and slugs racked and ready, clipped below the dashboard beside him where he could reach it with one hand.
    He sped out of the lot, lights and sirens streaking through the empty street, hunched over the steering wheel, ready for a fight.
    Prescott, one of the deputies on duty, was already at the scene when Drew arrived. Barfing his brains out in