Five
Brock Gunner had been running the massive ranch for more than fifteen years. At over 520,000 acres, it was the third biggest in Texas. But he’d been working for the family for more than twenty-five years. That’s what everyone in West Texas called them— the family—because they were such a powerful force in these parts. He’d started with them as a sixteen-year-old high school dropout ranch hand and worked his ass off sunup to sundown, gaining the respect and trust of most everyone around. But it took him killing a man who’d betrayed the family in a bad oil deal for the patriarch to bring him into his inner circle. Brock was twenty-two when he’d pulled that first trigger, burying the body where no one would ever find it. That’s when his status really grew. He soon became an enforcer for the family. At six foot two and built like a linebacker, he was damn good at it. When the family had an issue, Brock would step in and resolve it. That usually meant breaking bones or such to get their point across. But there had been other times when more drastic action was required.
He knew this was one of those times.
Brock was sitting in his black Ford F-450 Super Duty truck with a digital tablet in his hands. There was nothing but blackness outside all around him. No light from a house or another vehicle for miles. He could see every star in the sky. There was nothing quite like it. He’d lived in Odessa proper for a few years but always hated it. Couldn’t see the sky like out here on the ranch. But right now his face was glued to the bright tablet screen, which cast a glow over his thick beard. An encrypted file had just been emailed to him. He typed in the necessary password, and the file opened. There were numerous digital photos inside, along with a document that contained names, addresses, and other pertinent information.
Brock picked up his phone, texted: I’m inside the file.
He received an immediate response: Good. The plane should be there any minute.
He studied the photographs. A man probably slightly older than him with a woman and a teenage girl.
He texted: All of them are targets?
Brock had killed a kid once before. But that was a drug-dealing teenage boy who had tried to carjack him outside a bar late at night. He’d had no choice. That skinny kid had a jittery trigger finger. This was different. But protecting the family at all costs was his life’s purpose. If it weren’t for the family, he’d probably be in prison right now—or in the grave. He stared back down at a close-up image of the girl. It was hard to believe she was the one who’d indirectly started this whole mess thirteen years ago. Although Brock had never met the people in the photographs, he shared a deep and dark connection with them. After all, he was the reason they’d been running and hiding all these years.
Brock sent another text: How much time will I have?
Not much. Feds are already in route. You’ll probably arrive just before them. Get in and out without anyone noticing.
They have people already on the ground?
Just one. You’ll have to somehow deal with him.
What about cops?
They haven’t brought in the police yet.
Good.
Brock, everything is on the line for us right now. Take care of this.
I understand. He looked up through his windshield and spotted lights approaching in the sky at a distance. He texted: Plane is here.
All right, keep me updated every step of the way.
Copy that.
Brock put his phone away and grabbed a small duffel bag of clothes he’d quickly thrown together when he first got the call fifteen minutes earlier. Hopefully he wouldn’t need a change of attire. If everything went as planned, he’d be back at the ranch sometime after midnight. But the bag also contained a small arsenal. He would certainly need that. He also grabbed a long black rifle bag. After getting out of the truck, he circled to the front bumper. He wore blue jeans, cowboy boots, a white T-shirt, and a brown, wool-lined, waxed trucker jacket. Rows of bright lights suddenly appeared on the ground beside him, revealing a long airstrip. He watched as a private plane slowly descended. The airstrip was something the family had built many years ago. The plane touched down, hit the brakes, then eased to a stop right in front of his truck. The jet engines stayed running. It was a beautiful Gulfstream G600. Brock knew nothing about private planes, but he’d searched it up when he found out the family had spent more than $50 million. Brock had been on it several times already when the family had wanted him to travel with them for security reasons. He always felt out of place amid the luxury of it all. He’d usually tried to at least clean the cow crap off his boots on previous trips. But he didn’t have time for that tonight.
The door opened and the stairs popped out. A pilot stood at the top.
Brock trotted over, bounded up the stairs.
“Hey, Justin,” he said to the pilot. “How you doing?”
“Been better. Was at my kid’s baseball game when I got the call.”
“Sorry about that.”
“It’s the job, man. Why the hell are we going to Granby, Colorado?” The pilot glanced down at the rifle bag. “You going hunting?”
Brock smirked, thinking about how he might be using the gun.
“Something like that.”