Chapter 11 #2
One of the older handlers answers this time, quicker than before. “Crew and overflow hands. We had a couple extras moving between chutes.”
“Names?”
He gives me two.
I don’t recognize them.
That doesn’t mean anything on its own. But paired with everything else…
It starts to.
Wade comes back to my side, wiping his hands on his jeans. “We’ve got three chutes that needed adjustment,” he says. “Two ropes swapped.”
“Same kind of wear?” I ask.
“Similar enough to make me think it’s not coincidence.”
Luke joins us, nodding once. “Spacing’s consistent too. Not every chute. Just enough to spread it out.”
Brooks looks between us, the conclusion already there. “So whoever did this wasn’t trying to stop the rodeo,” he says. “They were trying to control it.”
I glance down the line of chutes, then out toward the arena where the announcer is buying time, voice steady even as the delay stretches a little longer than planned.
“Control the outcome,” I say.
Wade’s expression hardens. “Or who gets caught in it, this could have hurt or killed someone.”
That sits between us, heavy and real.
Because if this was placed…then it wasn’t just about causing damage.
It was about deciding where that damage landed.
“Walk me through the timing again,” he says finally, voice low, controlled, like he’s already halfway to an answer and just needs the last piece to lock it in.
I nod toward the chute. “Latch delays the release. Bull doesn’t break clean. Rider’s late getting set. Rope slips because the tension hits wrong.”
“And the damage stays just under the line,” Luke adds, picking up on it. “Not enough to shut things down. Just enough to make it look like a bad ride.”
Brooks nods once. “Exactly. Which means whoever’s doing this isn’t guessing. They’re calibrating it.”
Wade crosses his arms, jaw still tight. “Calibrating it toward what?”
“That’s the part we’re narrowing,” Brooks says, his eyes shifting down the line of chutes again. “Because if this was random sabotage, we’d see inconsistency. Bigger failures. Missed timing. This…” He gestures toward the setup. “This is controlled. Repeated. Measured. Aimed at certain people.”
As he says it, my attention drifts past the chutes toward the outer edge of the grounds, past the lights where the parking lot starts to thin out into darker stretches. That’s when I see it again. That truck. Does that mysterious truck have something to do with all of this.
It’s not part of the crowd.
It’s watching it.
I file it without reacting, letting my gaze move on like it didn’t land, but the timing of it locks in with everything else we’re seeing.
I feel that settle in deeper, because he’s right. It’s not just what’s happening. It’s how consistent it is.
Luke leans in slightly. “So it’s not about shutting down the rodeo.”
“No,” Brooks says. “It’s about influencing it.”
Wade lets out a short breath. “That’s a hell of a risk for someone to take just to mess with rides.”
“Unless the rides aren’t the point,” Brooks replies.
That lands heavier than anything else he’s said.
I glance at him. “Say it.”
He meets my eyes. “If you wanted to hurt someone out here without drawing attention, this is how you’d do it. You don’t create a failure big enough to stop the event. You create one small enough to blend in.”
Wade’s expression hardens. “You’re saying someone’s got a target on their back?”
“I’m saying the setup allows for it,” Brooks answers carefully. “And the pattern suggests it’s not random who gets caught in it.”
Luke’s gaze shifts to me, just for a second.
He doesn’t have to say anything.
The implication is already there.
I let out a slow breath, my focus narrowing again as I look back at the chute. “Then the question isn’t if it’s happening,” I say. “It’s who it’s meant for.”
Brooks nods once. “And when.”
Wade pushes off the rail again, restless energy building. “We don’t wait around for that answer.”
“No,” Brooks agrees. “We don’t. But we also don’t guess and tip our hand.”
Luke gives a slight nod. “Chutes are cycling clean now. If it happens again, we’ll see it before it runs.”
That’s enough.
It has to be.
Because dragging this out any longer only gives whoever set this up more time to adjust, and I’m not interested in playing that game on their terms.
I push off the rail and step back, letting my attention shift with the flow of the arena again as the announcer’s voice picks up, smoothing over the delay like it never meant anything in the first place.
The crowd settles, riders move back into position, and the rodeo rolls forward the way it always does, fast and loud and unforgiving.
But I’m not watching it the same way anymore.
Now I’m watching the edges.
The spaces between movements.
The people who aren’t where they’re supposed to be.
“Temps,” Brooks says quietly, stepping back in with his phone lowered again. “I’ve got something.”
Wade turns toward him. “Yeah?”
“They didn’t just check in late,” Brooks says. “They were added through a list. Overflow crew.”
Luke frowns slightly. “That’s not unusual.”
“No,” Brooks agrees. “What is unusual is where that list came from.”
Something in his tone shifts just enough that it pulls all of us in tighter.
“Say it,” Wade says.
Brooks looks at me first, then back at the others. “It was circulated through Colt’s crew.”
The name lands hard, sharper than anything else we’ve said so far.
For a second, nobody moves.
Not because it doesn’t make sense. Because it makes too much.
I feel my focus narrow again, not on the chutes this time, but on the bigger picture that just snapped into place.
The access. The timing.
The way Colt’s been here all night without riding, without leaving, just… present.
Watching.
Wade’s jaw tightens. “You’re telling me this runs through him?”
“I’m telling you his name’s in the middle of it,” Brooks says, calm but certain. “Whether he’s directing it or someone’s using his network, he’s connected.”
Luke’s gaze shifts toward the far end of the pens. “Where is he now?”
I look too.
He’s not where he was before.
The space he’d been holding is empty, like he stepped out without anyone noticing when the attention shifted back to the arena.
That doesn’t feel like a coincidence either.
Wade mutters something under his breath. “Convenient.”
I don’t answer right away.
I just look out across the arena, the lights, the movement, the riders stepping up like this is just another night.
Because now we’ve got a name tied to the middle of it.
Not proof.
But enough to change the direction of everything that comes next.
“Colt,” Wade says again, quieter this time, like he’s testing how it sounds when it’s real.
I nod once.
“Yeah,” I answer. “Colt.”