Synopsis

Forced out of the DEA after twenty years, Hardin Steel, Stainless to his close friends, has managed to get himself elected Sheriff of Cameron County, Texas. Twice divorced, with a bit of a drinking problem, he’s now dating Rory Roughton, a fiery sixth-generation Texan who’s as rich as she is beautiful—and hell-bent on keeping Steel on the straight and narrow. But then his best friend, Wes Stoddard, is nearly shot down flying in a load of pot, Rory is kidnapped by a Russian mercenary working for the most dangerous cartel in Mexico, and the Cuban Mafia decides they’d like the former DEA agent—dead.

Steel is forced to take unsanctioned, unconventional—and mostly illegal—action in order to save himself and those closest to him . . .

Excerpt

Two days later, I put on some civvies, jumped in my Jeep Laredo, and headed for Matamoros.

Wes was supposedly in the produce transport business and kept an office and condo in Brownsville, but he was seldom there. He felt more comfortable south of the river. He’d bought a walled compound from a dead drug dealer’s wife in an upscale, or as upscale as one could find in a war zone, part of Matamoros. And he pretty much stayed put, except for his smuggling forays.

When I crossed the International Bridge into Matamoros, I was pretty sure I saw the late Rod Serling leaning against a lamppost, smoking a cigarette. As I passed by he smiled, took a deep drag, and flipped the butt into the Rio Grande. And then he was gone.

Wes was waiting for me on the other side of the bridge. He got out of his white Ford Explorer and waved. I pulled in and parked as near to the Mexican Immigration office as possible. I really liked my Jeep and hoped parking near Immigration would keep it safe.

As an extra precaution, I paid a kid five bucks to keep an eye on it. Then I walked over to Wes’s SUV.

Wes was about six feet tall with straight brown hair, piercing blue eyes, and a perpetual tan.

"Stainless," Wes said, extending his hand. "Welcome to Dodge City."

I smiled and looked around. "I don’t see many Yankees," I said, shaking hands

Wes frowned and looked at the nearly empty border crossing. "Yeah, things are a bit out of hand down here, I’m sorry to say."

"Ochoa?" I asked, keeping my voice low.

Wes nodded. "Yeah. FreddieO has definitely upped the ante," he said, opening the driver-side rear door of his Explorer. A large Mexican wearing khakis and a white Guayabera shirt was driving. A second, slightly smaller man, dressed in jeans and a crisp white shirt, was riding shotgun. Except he had an AK-47 across his lap.

I glanced over at Wes. "Expecting trouble?"

Wes shrugged. "Nowadays, you never know. How about a little lunch? I know a place with great cabrito, and only sporadic gunfire."

I nodded and rolled my eyes. "Sounds good."

Wes gave me a wink, leaned forward and spoke to the driver in Spanish. "Los Cuatros Amigos." He turned back to me. "Best damned grilled goat in town."

Wes was right. The cabrito was some of the best