{"product_id":"mission-road-isbn-9780553583267","title":"Mission Road","description":"\u003cb\u003eRick Riordan, triple-crown winner of mystery’s most prestigious awards—the Edgar, the Anthony, and the Shamus—returns with a hotter-than-Texas-chili Tres Navarre crime drama. This time Navarre reopens a cold case to catch a killer getting away with murder . . . again.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Riordan has a knack for showing readers a crazy good time.”—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eP.I. Tres Navarre is used to working the razor’s edge between legal and life sentence. But when an old friend appears at his door, blood-spattered and wanted for homicide, Tres jumps both feet into a no-man’s-land. Eighteen years ago an unsolved murder on notorious Mission Road threw the San Antonio underworld into bloody chaos. Now, armed and dangerous, the target of a citywide manhunt, Tres is on a collision course with the past. For on Mission Road waits a secret that will tear his life apart.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eMission Road\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Riordan is a master.”\u003cb\u003e—Harlan Coben\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Anyone looking for a new Dave Robicheaux or Stephanie Plum mystery can add Riordan to his to-be-read list. He’s one of the real artists in the world of neo-noir.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eMilwaukee Journal Sentinel\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In Rick Riordan’s case, believe the hype. He really is that good.”\u003cb\u003e—Dennis Lehane\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“One of the best PI series being written today.”\u003cb\u003e—Crimespree  \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDon’t miss any of these hotter-than-Texas-chili Tres Navarre novels:\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBIG RED TEQUILA • THE WIDOWER’S TWO-STEP • THE LAST KING OF TEXAS • THE DEVIL WENT DOWN TO AUSTIN • SOUTHTOWN • MISSION ROAD • REBEL ISLAND\"A satisfying exploration of passion's dark powers.... What had seemed to be merely an entertaining crime novel reveals itself as a clever mystery, too.\"—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Riordan's Texas p.i. with a degree in Medieval Lit is up to his anomolous old tricks, this time trying to crack a cold case while being chased by hot cops.\"—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews \u003c\/i\u003eRick Riordan is the author of six previous Tres Navarre novels—\u003cb\u003eBig Red Tequila\u003c\/b\u003e, winner of the Shamus and Anthony Awards; \u003cb\u003eThe Widower’s Two-Step\u003c\/b\u003e, winner of the Edgar Award; \u003cb\u003eThe Last King of Texas\u003c\/b\u003e; \u003cb\u003eThe Devil Went Down to Austin; Southtown; and Mission Road\u003c\/b\u003e. He is also the author of the acclaimed thriller \u003cb\u003eCold Springs\u003c\/b\u003e and the young adult novel \u003ci\u003eThe Lightning Thief\u003c\/i\u003e. Rick Riordan lives with his family in San Antonio, Texas.CHAPTER 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eANA HAD TO GET THE BABY OUT OF THE HOUSE. Things were about to get ugly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe called Ralph's sister, told her one of them would drop off Lucia in ten minutes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe packed a bag of diapers, bottles, extra clothes, Lucia's favorite blanket and stuffed beagle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the kitchen high chair, Lucia was finger-painting her tray with yams, her meaty little hands coated with orange goo. She'd managed to get some in the black tufts of her hair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAna stared at the mess on her daughter's bib and realized she was thinking about blood-splatter patterns.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLooking at her own daughter, and thinking about the homicide case.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAna had to end this. Tonight, before she lost her nerve.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe zipped the travel bag, unlocked the high chair tray and immediately got yams on the sleeve of her blazer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Damn it,\" she muttered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe hadn't bothered changing from work. She'd only taken time to empty her shoulder holster and lock the service-issue Glock in the hallway closet where it always went the moment she got home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe was trying to figure out how to get the baby cleaned up without ruining her clothes when Ralph stormed into the kitchen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe'd showered and put on his old traveling outfit--black jeans, steel-tipped boots, crisp white linen guayabera, black leather jacket. His newly braided ponytail curled over one shoulder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe clunked a Magnum clip next to the baby's tippy-cup and started loading his .357.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What are you doing?\" Ana demanded.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe gave her that high-voltage look which had been bothering her for weeks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSince laser surgery, Ralph had set aside his thick round glasses for contact lenses. There was no longer any shield between his ferocity and the rest of the world. His stare reminded her too much of the people she worked with--cops and killers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe wasn't afraid of him. She'd never been afraid of him. But tension from their earlier argument hung in the air like the smell of burnt fuses.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe finished loading the gun, hooked it inside his pants--a makeshift holster rigged from a coat hanger. \"Johnny Shoes has a lead for me. I'll drop Lucia on the way.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eJohnny Zapata.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat's how desperate they'd become: begging for help from a drug lord who literally cut his enemies to pieces.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Ralph, the last time you saw Zapata--\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'll be fine.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"He tried to kill you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You want to give me a better lead?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe must've known she was holding back. She'd asked for time alone tonight. She only did that when she needed to make an important decision. And this time, their lives hung in the balance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I can't,\" Ana told him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You know who killed Frankie, don't you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I've already told you more than I should.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe considered that, his eyes boring into her. \"Yeah. Maybe you did.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Ah-ba.\" Lucia held up her gooey hands to her father. \"Ah-ba.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRalph unfastened the seat strap and lifted the baby out of the yam disaster area. Her fingers made streaks of orange on his white guayabera, but Ralph didn't seem to care. He kissed the baby's messy cheek, put her over his shoulder. Lucia made a high-pitched squeal of delight and kicked her bunny feet against Daddy's belly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAna's heart felt sore.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLucia never acted so happy when Ana picked her up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCareer necessity. Lieutenant Hernandez hadn't put his butt on the line recommending her for sergeant so she could take six months off to change diapers. Still, the first year of Lucia's life, mother and daughter had spent most of their time telling each other goodbye.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hey, Sergeant.\" Ralph held out his hand, his tone so fierce he might've been issuing a challenge. \"It'll be okay. \u003ci\u003eTu eres mi amor por vida.\u003c\/i\u003e\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe wanted to cry, she loved him so much.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo years ago at their wedding, her police friends had given her horrible looks. Hernandez had pulled her aside, eyes flooded with concern, fingers like talons on her forearm: \u003ci\u003eAna, how can you love this guy? He's a goddamn killer\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut they didn't know Ralph. He loved her the way he did everything else--with absolute intensity. Since the day he'd decided he wanted Ana, she never stood a chance. He had boiled over her like a wildfire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe laced her fingers with his.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe couldn't let anything happen to him. She should never have opened that cold case file.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Zapata will have proof,\" Ralph promised. \"Anybody does, it's him. And he's going to give it to me. Believe that, okay?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe knew what Ralph was capable of. Which was exactly why she didn't dare tell him everything she knew.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe gave her hand a squeeze, kissed her lightly. His whiskers were rough. He smelled of patchouli.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRalph cradled the baby against one shoulder and slung the travel bag over the other. He stuffed an extra clip of ammunition in his pocket.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe kitchen door swung shut behind him, winter air gusting into the kitchen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAna listened to his footsteps crunch down the gravel walkway. He was calling Lucia his little \u003ci\u003enina\u003c\/i\u003e, singing her a Spanish carol, \"Los Animales,\" as he strapped her into the car seat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis headlights swept across the kitchen, illuminating the Christmas \u003ci\u003eristra\u003c\/i\u003e and the empty high chair, then disappeared down Ruiz Street.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eANA SAT IN THE LIVING ROOM, trying to formulate a plan.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe would be here in fifteen minutes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere had to be a way--something to make him come clean. Their earlier conversation gave her little hope he would listen to reason, but she had to try. She owed him that much.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn the coffee table, a photograph of her mother stared back at her--Lucia DeLeon, senior, twenty-nine years old, in dress uniform, 1975, the day she received the Medal of Valor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer mother's face was patchwork of yellow bruises, her arm in a sling, but her posture radiated quiet confidence, black eyebrows knit as if she didn't quite understand all the fuss. She'd saved three officers' lives, become the first female cop in SAPD history to use deadly force. What was the big deal?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAna liked to remember her mother that way--self-assured, indomitable, always firm and fair. But over the years, the photograph had lost some of its magic. It could no longer quite exorcise that other memory--her mother fifteen years older, slumped in bed with the drapes drawn, a glass of wine at her lips, skin sickly blue in the light of an afternoon soap opera.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eCome back when you don't feel like preaching\u003c\/i\u003e, mijita.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAna put her face in her hands. A sob was building in her chest, but she couldn't give in to that. She had to think.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf her mother--the Lucia DeLeon of 1975--had been handed Ana's problem, what would she have done?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAna pulled her laptop out of her briefcase. She booted it up, typed in her password. She reviewed her case notes, the crime scene photos. Poor-quality scans of pre-digital black-and-whites, but Ana could still get the feel. She'd been to the scene many times.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAna imagined herself as the killer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was a little before 10:00 p.m., midsummer, on the rural South Side. She was standing on the shoulder of Mission Road, arguing with the young man she was about to murder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA warm rain had just pushed through, leaving the air like steam engine smoke, scented with wild garlic. In the woods, cicadas chirred.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAna and the young man had both pulled over their cars--possibly a prearranged rendezvous, though why the young man would've agreed to it, Ana didn't know. There was nothing for miles except barbed wire fence, railroad tracks and old mission lands overgrown with cactus and chinaberry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe road was an ancient trail connecting the five Spanish missions of San Antonio. It was also a popular dumping ground for corpses--isolated and dark, yet easy to get to. Homicide department trivia: The first recorded murder along Mission Road had been in 1732. According to the diary of a Franciscan friar, a Coahuiltecan Indian girl was found strangled in the fields of maize. Not much had changed over the centuries.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn the night Ana was thinking about, the victim was a young Anglo, six-one, thick-set, dressed in khakis and a white linen shirt. He wore a platinum Rolex that would still be on his wrist when the police found his body. He had shoulder-length blond hair, parted in the middle, feathered in that unfortunate Eighties style. He was handsome enough, the way a young bull groomed for auction is handsome, but his expression was arrogant--a natural disdain that came from being born rich, well-connected, absolutely untouchable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe and the victim argued. There was probably name-calling. Some pushing. At some point--and this was critical--he grabbed her arm. When she yanked away, his fingernails drew blood. He turned away, probably thinking the fight was over. He started back to his car--a silver Mercedes convertible just a few yards away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut the fight was not over for her. She grasped the murder weapon--a blunt object, shorter than a baseball bat. She imagined herself striking from behind, cracking the side of the young man's skull. He went down, crumpling before her, but she wasn't satisfied. Rage took over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfterward, she left him there--she made no attempt to hide his body or move his car. She would've known damn well who the victim's father was, what kind of hell would break loose when the body was found. She knew what would happen to her if she was ever discovered. She simply drove away, and her secret had stayed hidden for eighteen years.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAna could slip into the killer's skin so easily it frightened her. But then, she knew him well. His size, his strength, his motive, the way he would've lost control. Everything fit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut how could she make an arrest?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLight flooded the living room windows.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA car pulled into the drive--familiar headlights, ten minutes early.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAna wasn't ready. She glanced at the hallway closet, where her gun was locked, but he was already coming up the front steps.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDon't panic\u003c\/i\u003e, she told herself. \u003ci\u003eIt won't come to that\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe doorbell rang.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAna had a sudden desire to bolt out the back, run to the neighbors.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut no. She was in control. She'd asked for this meeting. She had faced down desperate men before.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe walked to the front door to greet him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHE HAD BEEN IDLING A FEW blocks away in a \u003ci\u003etaqueria \u003c\/i\u003eparking lot, getting up his nerve, replaying the argument with Ana over and over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe was so goddamn stubborn. He'd put the obvious answer right in front of her, given her overwhelming evidence, and still she refused to believe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe tried to think of an alternative to what he was about to do.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere wasn't one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe loaded the .357 Magnum, put the car into drive. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe wasn't worried about neighbors. Ana DeLeon's house fronted Rosedale Park. On either side were vacant lease properties--not unusual for the West Side. The only neighbors were the ones in back, an elderly couple across the alley.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf things went right, it wouldn't matter if he was seen. Her husband, Ralph Arguello, was a reliably volatile son-of-a-bitch. Ralph would start the fight. If things went wrong . . . no. He wouldn't let things go wrong.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe pulled into the driveway. He could see Ana through the living room window.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe walked toward the porch, the cold air stinging his eyes. The butt of the unfamiliar gun chafed against his hipbone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe met him at the door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs always, the sight of her stirred an unpleasant mix of feelings--resentment, longing, grief. She was the closest thing he had to family. She was also his deepest war wound--a scar that wouldn't heal.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer short black hair was disheveled; there was a long smear of baby food on her sleeve. The top button of her blouse was undone. Her collarbone made a smooth shadow against her skin. A beautiful woman, but she had interrogator's eyes--dark as magnets.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Well?\" she asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I have an answer for you.\" His voice sounded strangely dry, even to him. \"May I come in?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eONCE HE WAS INSIDE, SHE DID a good job acting calm, but he knew her too well. Her shoulders were tense. Her fingertips tapped against her thumbs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Make yourself comfortable,\" she called from the kitchen. \"You want a soda?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stared at the photograph of Lucia on the living room table. He was always amazed how strongly Ana resembled her mother.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNext to the photo was Ana's laptop--crime scene images frozen on the screen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Where's Ralph?\" he asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Out. Was that a no on the soda?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Out?\" He tried to keep his voice level. \"You were supposed to keep him here. This is a conversation about him.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"We got Sprite, Diet Coke--\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Ana, goddamn it. You're out of time.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe popped a can of Sprite. \"This conversation isn't about Ralph. It's about you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Me?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe leaned against the kitchen doorway. \"I can't let you skate.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe could feel the situation unraveling. This was not the way it was supposed to happen. Ralph was the enemy. Ana had to realize that. Ralph was supposed to be here, to be provoked into showing how violent he was, how capable of murder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCarefully, he said, \"You're not serious.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You left a trail.\" Ana's voice was heavy with anger, as if he had let her down. \"You were sloppy. How could you think I wouldn't find you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer expression stirred bad memories--memories he couldn't tolerate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You have any idea what you're saying?\" he asked. \"\u003ci\u003eMe\u003c\/i\u003e, for Christ's sake?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe nodded to the computer. \"Read my notes.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe glanced at the morgue photo on the screen. He touched the keyboard, brought up a minimized document--Ana's draft report on the investigation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt didn't take long to see that she'd done her homework. Every mistake he'd made, then and now--neatly documented.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe felt claustrophobic, dizzy, like he was waking up inside a coffin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe irony was horrible. Yet she'd done good detective work, maybe even enough to convict.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Ralph Arguello is poison,\" he managed. \"You don't know who your friends are anymore.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm telling you first because a confession would be easier. We can get you some kind of deal. Protection. Otherwise, once word gets out, you're a dead man.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis jaw tightened. She wasn't going to change her mind. She would risk a confrontation, her career, everything, rather than see something happen to that goddamn criminal she'd married.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe put his hand at his waist, felt the butt of the .357 under his coat. \"You're right.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Give me a statement, then.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm a dead man.\" He brought out the gun. \"If word gets out.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer face paled. \"You won't shoot me. I'm going to call now. We'll get you a lawyer.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe walked to the hallway phone--tension still in her shoulders, but damn, she was keeping it together well.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe thing was: She might be right. He wasn't sure he could hurt her. Her, of all people.","brand":"Bantam","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302392582373,"sku":"NP9780553583267","price":9.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780553583267.jpg?v=1767732812","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/mission-road-isbn-9780553583267","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}