Chapter 15
SIENNA
The papers on my kitchen table looked like they’d been through a war—printouts of falsified lab results scattered everywhere, red flags screaming at me from every column.
Dr. Harlan had been tweaking the numbers again.
Air samples that should’ve lit up like Christmas trees for volatile organic compounds were suddenly “within normal limits.” Soil pH readings doctored to hide heavy-metal spikes.
Water samples from three different monitoring wells scrubbed clean.
My stomach had been in knots for days, but this morning it felt like a live wire.
I couldn’t unsee it. Couldn’t pretend the aquifer wasn’t being poisoned while some suit in a country-club tie signed the checks.
I needed to see it for myself. One more round. No more hiding behind spreadsheets.
I grabbed the keys to the ugly beige county work truck they issued me for field days, loaded the back with fresh vials, the sat phone, my binoculars, and the cheap pocket knife I’d bought at the hardware store last week because “better safe than sorry” had stopped sounding paranoid.
I laced up my hiking boots, slapped on extra sunscreen, tugged a faded ball cap low, and drove out to the north transect before the sun got mean.
The desert heat already shimmered off the blacktop like a warning.
Halfway up the access road I saw the tire tracks—fresh, wide, nothing like the county’s beat-up work trucks.
Deep treads pressed into the soft dirt where no official vehicle had any business being.
My pulse kicked up. I killed the engine, wrestled the truck off the road into a thick stand of creosote, and spent ten sweaty minutes hacking brush with the knife to cover it completely.
Then I grabbed what I needed and took the long way up the ridge, staying low, boots silent on the loose rock.
At the crest I dropped to my belly, pulled out the binoculars, and scanned.
Below, in the dry wash, two vehicles were parked nose-to-nose.
One sleek black SUV. One unmarked panel van.
A guy in a crisp suit stood beside the SUV like he owned the desert—expensive watch catching the light, hair perfectly combed.
Next to him were four men I didn’t recognize.
Leather cuts, but not Royal Bastards. Not any club I’d seen around Santa Fe.
Tattoos snaked up their necks, faces hard, postures coiled.
Cartel? Maybe. The meet looked tense, voices low and sharp even from this distance.
Then the suit said something. One of the bikers shook his head. Guns came out—fast, matte-black, no bullshit. A shot cracked across the wash like thunder.
The man standing next to the suit jerked backward, red blooming across his white shirt. He crumpled.
I gasped—loud, stupid, involuntary—and dropped the binoculars. They clattered against the rock. Heads snapped up. Eyes scanned the ridge. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
I scrambled down the backside of the hill on pure adrenaline, boots sliding, heart hammering so hard I tasted metal.
Branches whipped my arms. I hit the bottom running, yanked the brush off the work truck, and threw myself behind the wheel.
In my panic I dropped two sample vials—they rolled under the seat, serial numbers from the county supervisor’s office glinting like evidence I couldn’t afford to leave.
I didn’t notice until I was halfway back to the main road, but by then it was too late to turn around.
I’d go back tomorrow. Play dumb. It was my job to be out here.
No one would connect me to today. I was never here.
A lone biker roared past on the highway, black cut flapping, no patch I recognized. I ducked low behind the dash until he disappeared, then floored it to Station 19, the safest monitoring point I could reach before my hands stopped shaking.
Pretend to be normal. Pretend to be normal. Pretend to be normal.
I pulled up, killed the engine, and forced myself through the routine—checking air quality, pulling the water sampler, logging fake notes on my tablet like today was any other Tuesday. The desert wind whistled through the scrub. My pulse still hadn’t slowed.
I turned around to grab the next vial and nearly dropped it.
A man was leaning against the hood of the work truck, arms crossed, watching me with a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. Mid-forties, expensive boots, sunglasses pushed up into dark hair. Not a face I knew. Not friendly.
My stomach flipped, but I forced a polite, professional smile. “Can I help you?”
“Just wondering what you’re doing out here,” he said, voice smooth as oil.
I shrugged like it was nothing. “I work for the county. Boss has a GPS on the truck and timestamps everything. If I’m not out here pulling samples on schedule, I get written up. You know how it is with bosses.”
He smiled again. Still no warmth. “I don’t think I’ve met you.”
“Oh, I’m just a nobody. Hourly city worker. They send me out to get them what they need.” I kept my tone light, bored even. “You know—bullshit air and water samples. Check-the-box stuff so the reports look pretty.”
“They send you out here all by yourself?” His head tilted, assessing.
I lifted my chin, irritation cutting through the fear. “Why should I be afraid?”
He chuckled, low and fake. “Oh, I didn’t mean to scare you, little lady.”
Little lady. The words grated like sand in my boots. My hand closed around the sat phone in my pocket; the other stayed on the truck keys. I circled wide around the opposite side of the truck, never turning my back, and slid behind the wheel. The door locks clicked down with a solid thunk.
He watched me the whole time, that empty smile never slipping. He knew. I knew he knew.
I didn’t wait. As soon as he stepped back, I fired up the engine and pulled away, gravel spitting under the tires. My hands shook so bad I could barely type, but I managed a quick text to Regan before the signal dropped.
Running out of time. I’m in trouble. I’m a witness in need of protection now. 911 energy but can’t call. Who knows who else is in on this?
I hit send, then gripped the wheel tighter and drove like the desert itself was chasing me.
The thought of calling the police flickered through my mind for half a second—then died just as fast. If the last scientist who worked this job had walked away without a trace, if my own boss was falsifying data, who the hell could I trust in a town this small?
Cops could be on the take too. Everyone could be dirty.
I wasn’t about to hand myself over to the same system that was probably protecting the Oakleys.
The vials I’d dropped were still rolling around on the floorboard like tiny ticking bombs. The shot I’d witnessed echoed in my ears. And somewhere behind me, a man in expensive boots was already wondering exactly who the “nobody” county girl really was.
I didn’t have long before they figured it out.
And when they did, I wasn’t sure the Royal Bastards—or Mason—could get to me fast enough.
The desert was swallowing the last of the daylight when my phone buzzed again.
I kept one eye on the rearview and one hand on the wheel, gravel spitting under the county work truck’s tires as I pushed it harder than the old beast had any right to go.
Regan’s reply lit up the screen in the cupholder.
Stay low. Do NOT go home. Coordinates for the old line shack coming through now. Head north off the service road. Lock yourself in if you make it. We’re mobilizing. Mason’s already out that way—hang on, Sienna.
Mason. The name hit like a punch I wasn’t ready for. I didn’t have time to unpack why the thought of him out here somewhere made my chest ache in the middle of all this. I just gripped the wheel tighter and followed the GPS arrow blinking on my cracked screen.
Headlights flared behind me again—two sets this time, closing fast. No plates.
No mercy. The black SUV that had rammed me earlier was back, riding my bumper like it wanted to climb inside the truck with me.
I swerved left onto the narrow washboard road that cut deeper into the scrub, the one that would eventually spit me out near Regan’s coordinates.
Dust boiled up in a choking cloud. My heart slammed so hard I could feel it in my teeth.
They rammed me once. The truck lurched forward, my head snapping against the seat.
I bit back a scream and floored it. Another hit—harder.
The tailgate bucked. A shot cracked through the open window, punching a hole in the passenger door with a metallic thwack.
I screamed then, low and raw, ducking as low as I could while still seeing the road.
The second vehicle—a panel van—pulled wide, trying to flank me.
I knew this desert better than they did.
I’d spent weeks out here pulling samples, memorizing every dry wash, every hidden two-track.
I yanked the wheel hard right at the next unmarked turn, sending the truck bouncing down a steep embankment into a narrow arroyo.
The suspension bottomed out with a sickening crunch, but it held.
Behind me, one of the SUVs overshot the turn and had to brake hard, tires howling.
I gained maybe thirty seconds. Thirty precious seconds.
The arroyo narrowed, walls of rock and brush closing in.
I pushed the truck until the engine screamed, tires spitting rocks.
Another shot pinged off the roof. Glass shattered somewhere behind me.
I didn’t look. Couldn’t. My hands were white-knuckled on the wheel, knuckles bleeding where I’d scraped them on the dash during the last hit.
Sweat poured down my back, mixing with the dust that coated everything.