Chapter 5 #3
Two nights later, when the ranch went quiet, Breakneck slipped from the bunkhouse and moved toward the main house.
The moon cut pale light across the yard, enough for him to pick his way around the loose gravel without making a sound.
He crouched beneath the front window, the living room a warm rectangle of light against the dark, the television flickering across Ramos’s face.
Ryker sat beside him, both men with beer bottles sweating in their hands.
“What’re your thoughts about that kid?” Ramos asked. “You think he’s got potential?”
Ryker shrugged, gaze fixed on the screen. “I can’t put my finger on it, but he’s…too put together. Competent. Almost too competent.”
Ramos chuckled. “You don’t like him because he’d make a damn good second.”
Ryker’s jaw flexed, the subtle crack of tension, Breakneck had seen before. “That’s funny, boss,” he muttered, but he took a quick sip of beer and looked away.
The phone rang, sharp in the quiet. Ramos grabbed it, listening as his expression shifted from annoyance to mild interest.
“The guard was just to see how the kid reacted,” he said. “Why are you getting your panties in a twist?” A beat of silence. “DEA? They pulled the guard’s record. Why?”
Breakneck’s breath stilled.
Ramos nodded slowly, chin lifting. “I know what I’m doing. Make sure you keep the RCMP off our asses. That’s what we pay you for.” He hung up.
Ryker straightened. “What’s going on? Our contact is getting antsy. Let the DEA sniff around. They don’t have shit on us.”
Ramos leaned back, eyes narrowing. “They were asking about Marques. That worries me.” He took a long drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You think we have a rat infestation?”
Ryker’s fingers tapped the bottle, a nervous, twitchy rhythm. “Could be.”
Ramos nodded. “Yeah. The only good rat is a dead rat.”
Breakneck eased away from the window, keeping low, moving one silent step at a time until the dark swallowed him. He didn’t breathe freely until he reached the bunkhouse and slipped inside.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck.
He wasn’t spooked. He wasn’t even close. But he would have to be cautious going forward. Someone, somewhere, was being sloppy, and sloppy got people killed. They had doubts, and with Ramos, doubts could get a man buried on the wrong side of the border.
Breakneck ran a hand through his hair, forcing the adrenaline down.
He could sell ice to someone living in the Arctic, and making a cartel believe he was just a good old boy hungry for fast cash wasn’t hard.
But one misstep and the whole house of cards went up in flames.
He wasn’t going to fuck up this op, not while he drew breath.
Ice would probably tell him that he didn’t need to prove anything to anyone.
But it wasn’t anyone he cared about. It was Ice.
It was the team. It was the brotherhood.
The DEA’s choice in him was sound. He needed it to be sound.
He needed to believe he wasn’t the fucked-up product of a man he despised.
He rolled his shoulders back, grounding himself, letting that cold edge he trusted settle into place.
He needed to double down, slide deeper, get close enough to Ramos to make himself indispensable.
He was more than halfway in. Ramos was almost ready to offer him a slot, almost tipped over the edge about grooming him.
Piece of cake.
All he had to do was discredit Ryker, unsettle the man’s grip on the boss, and snag himself the number two slot before Ryker realized Breakneck’s real threat wasn’t ambition. It was competence.
The blow landed before Breakneck even surfaced from sleep, a hard, cracking burst of white behind his eyes that ripped him straight out of the bunk and into the floorboards.
He didn’t have the breath to curse. A boot slammed into his ribs, rolling him onto his back.
Hands seized his arms, rough and unforgiving, hauling him upright as the bunkhouse spun in a dizzying rush of darkness.
He tried to plant his feet, but another fist crashed into the side of his jaw, snapping his head sideways and turning the world into a smear of noise and shadow. He felt the sting of cold night air as they dragged him outside, boots scraping gravel, someone cursing at him to move faster.
Breakneck fought to clear his head, but the blows had come fast and without hesitation, the kind meant to stun before a man could orient himself, the kind he had delivered to enemies in quieter, deadlier places.
His thoughts were a sluggish crawl, refusing to lock into place.
He caught the shape of a truck. The glint of metal. Ryker’s voice somewhere behind him.
A final hit caught him at the base of his skull. The world snapped out.
He came back in pieces.
Pain arrived first, a thick, suffocating pulse that radiated down his arms and across his chest. His wrists burned, stretched above his head, the pressure grinding into his shoulders. The air was cold against his skin, and it took him a moment to realize why.
He was naked.
Chains rattled softly overhead as he lifted his head. His arms were pulled taut, secured to a heavy beam above him, ankles barely touching the ground. His pulse pounded in his ears, each beat anchoring him further into the moment, dragging him out of the fog of unconsciousness.
Footsteps crunched across the dirt floor.
Breakneck forced his eyes open, vision sharp in increments, until the dim light resolved into Ryker standing directly in front of him. Ryker’s face was a mask of triumph and fury, the kind of look men wore when they believed they had finally cornered the thing they feared most.
“Looks like we found our rat,” Ryker said, voice low, almost gleeful.
Breakneck didn’t respond. He let his breathing even out, slow and steady, a sniper’s instinct even while chained naked to a fucking beam.
He rolled his shoulders a fraction, testing the tension, cataloging pain, location, strength required, distance to the floor, stretch angle of his wrists.
He didn’t have many options. He’d make some.
Ryker stepped closer, breath thick with beer and arrogance. “You’ve been real busy, haven’t you? Riding like a pro. Working like you own the place. Asking questions between the lines. Real slick.” He tilted his head. “Too slick.”
Breakneck let a faint, humorless smile pull at the corner of his mouth. “If you’re gonna monologue, can you do it without breathing on me? Your beer’s turning.”
Ryker’s eyes went flat. He hit Breakneck hard across the face, the kind of blow intended to break teeth and shatter resolve.
Breakneck took it, head snapping sideways, blood flooding his mouth from where his teeth cut into his cheek. His wrists pulled tighter against the chains, but he didn’t give Ryker the satisfaction of a sound.
Ryker circled him once, slow and deliberate, boots scraping across the packed dirt. “You want to tell me who you’re working for? DEA? RCMP? Somebody paying you more than we are?”
Breakneck lifted his head again, eyes steady, jaw tight. “Thought I was working for you.”
Ryker slammed a fist into his ribs. “Don’t play stupid.”
Breakneck’s breath left him in a hard rush, but he drew another in, slow, controlled, dragging discipline through the chaos. He needed to stay conscious. He needed to survive long enough to understand how deep this went.
Ryker leaned in, voice nearly a whisper. “You had a good run. Almost fooled me.”
Breakneck smiled again, small and dangerous. “Almost.”
Ryker’s jaw clenched.
Somewhere behind Ryker, Breakneck heard another step. He didn’t know if it was Ramos. He didn’t know if this was the end.
But he knew one thing with absolute clarity, even through the pain.
Ice had been right.
Something smelled wrong.
Breakneck was about to walk through the doorway into whatever hell waited on the other side.