Chapter 5 #2
“This the one you want me to ride?” Breakneck asked, keeping his voice casual.
He stood easy, weight balanced, hands loose, the way he’d stood around horses his whole damn life.
Summers on his uncle’s ranch in British Columbia had carved that into him early, long before the Navy, long before he learned how to kill with precision.
That was where he’d learned to ride, to rope, to sweat under the sun with calloused hands, where the older hands had spoken French and English in the same breath without thinking.
His father had left Canada, but the family he’d stayed connected to never had, and Breakneck had grown up straddling both worlds without realizing how rare that was.
It made him look like he belonged here. Hell, it made him belong here more than the men running the place.
Ryker rested his arms on the top rail, the hint of a smirk curving his mouth. “Boss wants to see what you can do.”
Breakneck lifted his chin slightly, but inside his stomach went cold. A test. Another one. They were stacking them now. Getting bolder. Good one step closer to the inner circle.
He watched as two men brought out a saddle, rough leather worn shiny in places and stiff in others. Breakneck noted the loose cinch, the way the girth strap had been threaded wrong. A setup meant to throw someone fast.
“You ride?” Ryker asked.
“Enough,” Breakneck said.
He felt the eyes of the ranch hands settle on him as he opened the gate and stepped inside the pen. The horse pinned its ears and snorted, shifting sideways in agitation.
Breakneck approached slow, steady, breath even, posture loose. Inhale four. Exhale six. Sniper breathing. Steadying the mind first, the body second, the situation last.
“You aren’t gonna die,” Breakneck murmured, his voice low, pitched for the animal, not the men watching him. “Not today, at least.”
The horse flicked an ear. Not calm but listening. He stepped forward, caught the girth strap, and checked it with a casual tug, tightening it without comment, hands moving with practiced ease. Ryker watched him.
Breakneck moved to the stirrup, swung himself up in one clean, fluid motion.
For half a second, everything went still.
Then the world exploded.
The horse shot straight up, back arched, hind legs snapping off the dirt as it bucked with a violence that would have thrown most men in the first three seconds.
Breakneck’s thighs clamped instinctively, his core locking down like he was bracing for recoil.
His hands stayed light on the reins, not pulling, not fighting, letting the animal burn through its fury.
The horse twisted hard left, and Breakneck countered right. It lunged forward and kicked, but he rode the movement like a wave. Dust spun around them in a choking cloud, the rails shaking under the rhythmic pounding of hooves.
“Damn,” someone muttered at the gate.
Breakneck didn’t know who or care. He heard only the animal’s breath, wild and ragged, the thud of hooves, the hiss of dust, and his own slow, measured inhale. Focus. Anchor. Center. Control.
The horse reared again, front legs slashing the air, trying to send him flying. Breakneck leaned forward, hand sliding up the neck, steady pressure, a dominant gesture without force. The horse came down hard, shaking, sweat flinging from his body, sides heaving.
“Come on,” Breakneck whispered, breath brushing the animal’s ear. “I’m right here.”
Another buck, but weaker. Then another twist. Then the shuddering beginning of surrender.
Breakneck felt the moment the horse’s energy broke, not snapped, not crushed, but bent, reshaped by calm, not violence. The stallion slowed to a hard, blowing jog, then a trot, then finally stopped, trembling under him.
Breakneck stroked the neck once.
“Good,” he murmured. “You did good.”
When he swung down, the ranch hands stared at him like he’d performed witchcraft. Ryker’s expression wasn’t admiration. It was calculation laced with something darker.
“You didn’t mention you were a horse whisperer,” Ryker drawled.
Breakneck shrugged, dusting dirt from his jeans. “Didn’t mention I wasn’t.”
Ryker studied him, that thin smile never reaching his eyes. “Boss’ll be pleased.”
Breakneck met his gaze without blinking. “You testing me again?”
Ryker stepped closer, voice dropping to a near whisper. “Everyone gets tested, Cross. Only question is whether you pass or die in the process.”
Breakneck held his stare, not moving even an inch. “Maybe test someone else next time. I’m getting bored.”
Ryker’s smile faded, replaced by a flicker of something Breakneck recognized instantly.
Respect, and fear.
A volatile combination.
“Looks like we have ourselves a real live cowboy here, boys.”
Breakneck turned to find a man that always seemed to be in the distance watching. Ryker might be threatening, but this guy called the shots, his hard, dark gaze not assessing at all. It was locked on Breakneck with dangerous intent. “Dylan Cross, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” Break said, going for respect when he felt anything but.
“Walk with me.”
Break walked to the fence and vaulted it like a pommel horse, landing next to the man who could only be the boss.
Ryker moved and the man sliced him a look. “Just him.”
Ryker’s eyes narrowed and he shrugged like he was okay with it.
He held out his hand. “Carlos Ramos,” he said. “It’s my understanding that you speak fluent Canadian French.”
“I do.”
“I’ve got a job for you that will add a nice bonus to your bank account. He named a sum, and Break allowed his eyes to widen.
“That’s some serious cash. Who do you want me to kill?”
Carlos chuckled. “Funny guy. No one…yet. There’s a border guard who is in some financial trouble. We need his cooperation tomorrow night. You get it, and the cash is yours.”
“With more to follow?”
“Let’s see how you do on this job first.”
The next day, Breakneck tightened the cinch on the gelding he’d been assigned, the animal patient and bored in the yard.
Bright light stretched shadows across gravel and copper-dusted hills beyond.
He didn’t like leaving the main barn when the operation felt this active, but the brass insisted on a three-day check-in window.
If he didn’t show, they’d start to get nervous.
Ice’s voice lingered in the back of his mind. Stay sharp.
He swung into the saddle and turned toward the far pasture trail when the rumble hit the ground like distant thunder. A grain truck, big and battered, rolled through the gate and jerked to a stop near the barn.
Ranch hands rushed it. One climbed onto the flatbed and tugged at a stack of barrels strapped down with worn tie lines. He pulled too hard. The strap slipped. A metal barrel toppled, slammed into the gravel, bounced once, and rolled to a stop a few feet from Breakneck’s horse.
The sound was sharp. Metallic.
Ryker burst from the barn. “Watch the goddamn barrels!” He shoved the nearest hand, his reaction bigger than the mistake. “If one of those ruptures, you’ll be digging holes for a week.”
The man scrambled, righting the barrel. Breakneck let his gaze skim the load. Standard grain drums, blue plastic inserts inside metal frames, dust packed into the grooves, labels half torn.
He nudged the horse forward. “You need help, Ryker?”
“No. You’re mending fences today. Get to it.”
“Got it.”
Ryker was already barking orders, demanding every strap be checked twice.
Breakneck took the trail toward the fence line, pulse steady, breath even. He rode long enough to make it look real, then dismounted at the compromised section. Pliers out. Wire twisted. He crouched and worked loose the segment hiding the satellite-linked burner.
He keyed in the number and hit send.
Static. Then Carver.
“Cross. Your window’s short.”
“I’m in,” Breakneck said. “Ramos pulled me aside. Border guard in debt. Wants him leaning their way by tomorrow night.”
“Fast,” Carver replied. “Did he name a number?”
“A good number.”
Silence. Then, “That’s leverage. Stay close.”
“Still no clue how they’re moving precursors,” Breakneck said quietly. “Whatever it is, it’s not inside the buildings.”
“We’ll take care of the guard,” Carver said. “Name?”
“Jacques Marques.”
“We’ve got it.”
Breakneck frowned slightly. “Anything else?”
“Stay on Ramos. Don’t lose momentum.”
The line went dead.
He slid the phone back into its hiding place, fixed the fence properly, and mounted.
The gelding shifted beneath him, uncomplicated and steady. His gut tightened. The border guard. The joke about killing someone. That wasn’t a line he crossed. Not for cartel scum. Not for the United States government. Snipers killed to protect. This would be murder.
No one expected him to pull the trigger. But the implication alone sat heavy.
He drew a slow breath, cold air burning his lungs. The fact that the thought sickened him meant something. It meant he wasn’t empty. It meant he wasn’t built wrong.
The realization flickered like something fragile. Hope. He tamped it down immediately. He was walking on personal and professional eggshells now. Any lapse in focus was reckless.
Stay sharp.
Breakneck tightened his grip on the reins and turned back toward Stone Creek.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “No shit.”
The border guard situation went smoothly, too smooth, which told Breakneck everything.
The DEA had greased the wheels ahead of time, and laid quiet groundwork that made the guard cooperative before Break even opened his mouth.
Nothing about the meet pointed toward a real operation.
It was a test, one more layer in the gauntlet Ramos kept throwing at him.
He walked away with the guard’s agreement, but no shipment got tagged and no new information surfaced.
It was frustrating as hell. They were still circling him, still poking at his edges, still deciding whether he was worth the risk.