41. Cole
COLE
The wealthiest people are never satisfied. That’s the first rule of money.
The second is that everyone lies about the first.
The Bozeman Ranch Resort ballroom is full of people proving both.
I straighten my cuff and accept a glass of bourbon from a passing server. Top shelf. Naturally.
Success isn’t just about power. It’s about making sure everyone sees you have it, and I’m making sure everyone sees it tonight—donors, lobbyists, business owners, future cabinet appointments, and the media.
Tonight, this fundraiser for the campaign is as much a show of power and making alliances as it is emptying these people’s pockets.
Every person in this room is useful.
Which is exactly how I like it.
“Cole!”
I glance up as a woman in a sequined gown waves from across the ballroom. Margaret Wilson. Two hundred thousand dollars last quarter, three hundred if I play this right tonight.
I smile.
Showtime.
Heading toward her, I shake a few hands without slowing down. I want her to think I can’t wait to talk to her. When I reach her, I take her hand and chastely kiss her cheek. “Margaret, you look stunning.”
I mean it. Money buys a lot of things, and taste occasionally makes the list.
“Oh, stop.” She laughs, pleased. “I was just telling the Hendersons about your infrastructure plan. Brilliant, really. Montana needs someone who understands business.”
“That’s kind of you to say.” I take a sip of bourbon and turn to meet the Hendersons. I know who they are, of course. Mark Henderson is the largest construction contractor in Montana, and he’s not impressed with my business acumen—he’s imagining how much money he’ll make if I win.
So I give them exactly what they came for. Economic development. Job creation. Growth. The future. I’ve delivered the speech so many times I could do it in my sleep.
The funny thing about voters is they don’t actually want the truth. They want a story.
I happen to tell a very good one.
My phone vibrates.
Smiling apologetically, I take it out of my pocket and hold it up. “Campaign business.”
Everyone nods sympathetically. They always do.
I slip through the French doors onto the terrace and open my messages.
Unknown
Customer in Amarillo didn’t check in.
Found dead in motel room.
Throat cut. Clean.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
Well, this is annoying.
That’s three—three buyers dead in two months. All in Texas.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think Jake Callahan has something to do with this, but I know he and his team haven’t left Blackthorn Ranch since they moved in over two months ago. I’ve been watching them.
No, this reeks of Mandy Reed. That bitch has been causing me trouble since she and her sister were picked up thirteen years ago.
I delete the message.
Most victims spend the rest of their lives running. Mandy decided to turn around and bite. I almost respect it.
Almost.
The problem isn’t the bodies. The problem is uncertainty. Men like my customers aren’t afraid of violence. They’re afraid of becoming the target.
Fear spreads.
Fear costs money.
And Mandy Reed is becoming expensive.
I take a sip of bourbon, staring out into the night.
The Jenna Morales situation was already a disaster. Wrong girl, wrong target—wrong everything. My men grabbed her thinking she was Mandy. By the time I learned otherwise, the situation was already compromised.
The van, the cleanup, the dead ends—all of it unnecessary.
Sloppy work irritates me.
I resist the urge to throw the glass, despite my annoyance—and my annoyance is high. Mandy is still out there, still killing buyers—still costing me money. And the Reyes family is getting impatient.
The Circle H problem was supposed to be solved months ago.
Instead, Emma Hayes is still sitting on that land, pregnant and stubborn, while Jake Callahan turns Blackthorn Ranch into a private military compound.
I think about the call I got yesterday from that Reyes upstart. Friendly. Polite. Interested. But I heard the threat underneath the feigned camaraderie.
I need to secure the Circle H. I can’t complete the route I sold the Reyes on without it.
My phone vibrates again.
Unknown
Surveillance update.
Deputy’s vehicle spotted leaving Blackthorn Ranch. 0418.
I stop. This is interesting. I open the attached image.
It’s a hazy surveillance snapshot of Deputy Harper Garrett’s SUV turning out of the driveway from the Blackthorn Ranch. It’s dark out, but the face is unmistakable.
A slow smile curls across my face. Well. This changes things, doesn’t it?
Harper Garrett—the sheriff’s daughter and Iron Ridge’s golden girl—spending her nights at Blackthorn Ranch.
I wonder which one she’s sleeping with. Bennett probably, but who knows?
Callahan married Emma Hayes last week, but that doesn’t mean he’s not fucking someone on the side.
Or that Mason Rivera and Lily Carter aren’t sharing the fine deputy.
Who Harper Garrett is fucking hardly matters. What matters is the connection. Connections create vulnerabilities, and vulnerabilities create leverage.
I delete the string of texts and lean against the railing. Sheriff Dan Garrett has belonged to me for seven years—not because he’s weak, but because he’s a father.
There’s a difference.
The first time I threatened Harper, he folded immediately. “I’ll do whatever you want,” he’d blubbered. “Just leave my daughter alone.”
Pathetic.
Useful though.
And now Harper has attached herself to Blackthorn Ranch. Which means Garrett, Blackthorn, and the Circle H are no longer separate problems. They’re all connected.
For the first time all evening, I feel something resembling satisfaction.
Mandy Reed.
Emma Hayes.
Circle H.
Blackthorn Ranch.
For weeks I’ve been reacting, cleaning up messes. Tonight I finally found somewhere to apply pressure.
I finish the bourbon and head back inside.
The crowd parts easily. It always does.
“Richard,” I say, shaking another donor’s hand. “Good to see you.”
We discuss property values and tourism. His wife laughs at my jokes. He writes a check. Everyone leaves happy.
That’s the thing about power. Most people think it’s force and money and fear. Those things help, but real power is understanding what people love and knowing exactly how to use it against them.
I go back to work the room, shaking hands, accepting congratulations, thanking donors for their support. Margaret Wilson writes a check for four hundred thousand dollars. I thank her personally and promise to remember her generosity.
The silent auction closes. I win a weekend at a luxury cabin in Big Sky. I don't need it, but it looks good to participate.
By the time I step outside to the valet stand, I've raised a million dollars for the campaign. Not bad for three hours of shaking hands and lying to strangers.
When the valet brings around my Mercedes, I slide behind the wheel and head back to my mansion here in Bozeman. Tomorrow I’ll drive back to Iron Ridge. Since my men have been incompetent, it’s up to me to step in and take care of everything.
But I know how I’m going to do it, because now I have Harper Garrett.
I pull out my phone.
Increase surveillance on Deputy Garrett. Full schedule. Full contacts. Every visit to Blackthorn Ranch.
I pause, tapping my phone against the steering wheel. Then I add one final line.
And verify which one she’s sleeping with.
I hit send and toss my phone aside.
The game just changed, and I smile as the highway unwinds before me.