34. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
35. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
36. CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
37. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
38. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
39. CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
40. CHAPTER FORTY
41. CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
42. CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
43. CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
44. CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
45. CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
46. CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
47. CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
48. CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
49. CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
50. CHAPTER FIFTY
51. CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
52. CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
53. CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
54. CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
55. CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
56. CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
DEADLY CONNECTIONS: A SARAH SPILLMAN POLICE PROCEDURAL
AUTHOR'S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
RENÉE’S BOOKSHELF
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
Afew minutes before all hell broke loose, Jo Gunning walked toward the National Bank in downtown Dallas. The April morning sun felt good on her back, and no one was paying any attention to her—just the way she wanted it. This particular bank branch was on the smaller end, located on the ground floor of a tall high-rise several blocks from her hotel.
She pushed through a set of revolving doors into the building’s spacious lobby, then strolled into the bank. At a high counter with four teller windows across the room, a young man with long brown hair pulled into a ponytail was helping an elderly woman with a transaction. Jo couldn’t make out their conversation, but she could hear the tenor of the woman’s voice, high and shaky. Another teller—plump and middle-aged—waited at the next window. Behind the counter, a large wall-mounted TV displayed graphs of financial information, then shifted to a news story about the murder of a local journalist. A woman in a skirt and heels stood at a high table in the center of the lobby. She finished writing and started toward the waiting teller.
Jo approached the high table, and as she looked for a form to complete her transaction, her gaze roamed the room, taking in the rest. A few desks sat across from the teller counter, each occupied. A Hispanic man at one, typing on his keyboard. His desk phone rang, and he answered it, frowning and speaking in a low tone as he glanced around. A woman with long black hair sat at another; she finished a transaction with a younger couple, and they got up to leave. A stern-looking man in a suit occupied the third desk, his hair flecked with gray, bifocals perched on his nose. He was checking a file and scratching his head.
The room was cool, even though the Texas day outside was in the low seventies. Jo—ex-Army and Civil Affairs—took in the information quickly. It was second-nature to her. Being observant had saved her life many times, most recently in Prescott, Arizona, when she’d run afoul of human traffickers. Her experience and a little luck had saved her life. She’d stayed in Prescott while an investigation had been conducted, and then she’d wandered east. She would soon need to travel to Alabama, where she was expected at the trial for Rance Pollack, a dangerous man who’d been involved in the drug trade. But for now, she didn’t need to be anywhere, and as she found the correct banking form, the soft elevator music playing in the background seemed to confirm it.
Everything seemed ordinary, until it wasn’t.
Jo was reaching for a pen when she saw movement out of the corner of her eye—three men entering the bank through the glass door. All wore dark clothes and masks that fully covered their faces. She couldn’t even see their eyes. As she turned for a better look, they were reaching into their coats for weapons.
“This is a robbery!” one of them barked. Tall, with broad shoulders and big hands, he was built like a quarterback and carried a large black duffel bag. His pistol swept the room. “Do as we say and no one gets hurt!”
He moved toward the desks, while another stalked toward Jo and the teller counter. Behind him, the third robber pulled something from his pocket. He was tall, and he reached up and fiddled with the locks on the door. Jo couldn’t tell what else he did as the second one moved toward the tellers, pistol raised. A Beretta, common but deadly. Easily concealed, but solid firepower.
“Back away from the counter and raise your arms!” he snarled at the two tellers.
They did as he said. Jo knew there had to be some kind of silent alarm button that one of the employees could’ve pushed, but had they? And even if the police were going to respond, the robbers were moving quickly.
“Anyone else back there?” the second one said. He had a way of talking in grunts, as if there were sandpaper in his throat.
