Chapter Fourteen
The canyon swallowed sound like a grave.
Shadow moved through the darkness, boots silent on sandstone, tracking Teague by the noise the big man couldn't help making.
Loose rocks skittering. Labored breathing echoing off walls.
The particular sounds of a man who'd spent twenty years burying bodies in this country but had never been the one running for his life.
That was about to change.
"Flanking north," Striker's voice crackled through the earpiece. "Cutting off the ridge exit."
"South draw is blocked," Rascal added. "He's got nowhere to go."
Shadow kept moving. The canyon narrowed ahead, walls pressing in, the sky shrinking to a sliver of stars. Teague had made a mistake coming here. He knew the land, but he didn't know what it felt like to be hunted by men who did this for a living.
The dry creek bed appeared below—a ribbon of pale sand between dark walls. Teague was there, pressed against the rock face, scanning the ridgelines with a pistol in his hand. His two backup men were dead, left bleeding in the dirt half a mile back.
Now it was just him.
Shadow descended into the creek bed without making a sound.
Teague spun at the last second, some animal instinct screaming danger. He fired wild, the muzzle flash blinding in the darkness. Shadow felt the round pass his ear—close, too close—and then he was inside Teague's guard.
The first punch shattered Teague's gun hand.
The big man screamed, dropping the pistol, stumbling backward against the canyon wall. Shadow followed, driving a knee into his gut, dropping him to the sand.
"You burned her barn," Shadow said. His voice was calm. Conversational. "Three months of whiskey. Years of work."
Teague tried to rise. Shadow kicked him back down.
"You poisoned her land. Salted the ground so nothing would grow. Destroyed her well."
Another kick. Something cracked in Teague's ribs.
"You've been burying bodies in these canyons for twenty years. How many families? How many people who just wanted to be left alone?"
Teague spat blood onto the sand. "Ellis will kill you for this. He'll burn your whole club to the ground."
"Ellis is next."
Movement in the darkness—Rascal appearing at the mouth of the creek bed, knife already in hand. Striker flanked from the opposite direction, cutting off any chance of escape.
Three against one. The predator finally caught.
Shadow grabbed Teague by the collar and hauled him to his feet, slamming him against the canyon wall. The big man's broken hand dangled uselessly, his ribs grinding with every breath.
"Any last words?"
Teague's eyes went to the knife in Rascal's hand. Understanding dawned—the particular clarity of a man who knew he was about to die.
"Go to hell."
"After you."
Shadow pinned him in place while Rascal stepped forward.
The knife went through Teague's throat in one smooth motion.
Blood sprayed across the sandstone, black in the starlight. Teague's eyes went wide, his mouth working soundlessly, hands clawing at his neck like he could hold the life inside. Shadow watched without flinching.
Teague had burned Ramona's aging barn. Had dropped a rattlesnake in her mash tank. Had poisoned her land with chemicals that would take years to clear. Every bit of suffering he'd caused was being repaid in these final seconds.
The light left Teague's eyes.
Shadow let the body drop.
"Three down," Striker said quietly.
"One to go."
Rascal cleaned his knife on Teague's shirt, methodical and unhurried. "Ellis will know by morning. Might already know."
"Good." Shadow looked down at the body—this man who'd made a career of terrorizing the weak, who'd buried secrets in these canyons for two decades. "Let him know. Let him understand what's coming."
His radio crackled. Ramona's voice, tight with worry.
"Shadow? Are you there?"
"I'm here. Teague's dead."
A pause. Then: "The cellar held. Twelve barrels survived. But the structure's unstable—I need hands before the damage spreads."
"On my way."
He turned away from the body and started climbing out of the creek bed. Behind him, Rascal and Striker were already discussing disposal—where to leave the corpse, how to make sure Ellis got the message.
Shadow didn't care about the details. He had somewhere else to be.
The drive back to Ramona's property felt longer than it should have.
Dawn was breaking by the time Shadow pulled his bike up the access road, the sky turning pink and gold behind the ruins of her distillery.
The fire had burned itself out, leaving nothing but charred beams and melted copper.
Smoke still rose from the wreckage, thin gray columns climbing toward the morning light.
Ramona was at the cellar entrance, covered in soot and sweat, loading a barrel onto a handcart.
She looked up when she heard his engine.
Something passed between them—relief, exhaustion, the particular intimacy of people who'd survived something together. She didn't run to him, didn't fall apart. Just waited while he parked the bike and walked toward her.
"You're okay," she said.
"I'm okay."
"Teague?"
"Dead."
She nodded once. No celebration. No horror. Just acknowledgment.
"Help me with these barrels?"
They worked in silence as the sun rose, carrying barrel after barrel up from the cellar to the truck bed. Twelve total—the only survivors of everything she'd built. Three years of aging, the foundation of her future, rescued from underground while everything above had burned.
The barrels were heavy. Shadow's arms ached by the fourth one, his back screaming by the eighth. But Ramona matched him, lift for lift, refusing to let him carry more than his share.
"Stubborn woman," he muttered as they maneuvered the tenth barrel into place.
"You keep saying that."
"Keeps being true."
She smiled—tired, genuine. The first real smile he'd seen since the phone call that had started this nightmare.
Two more barrels. Then they stood together in the truck bed, surrounded by everything she had left, watching the sun paint her ruined property in shades of gold.
"The ground's poisoned," she said quietly. "The well's contaminated. The buildings are gone."
"We can rebuild the buildings. Clean the well. The ground—" He shook his head. "That'll take time. But it's not permanent."
"No." She looked at him, and something fierce burned in her eyes. "It's not permanent. Nothing they did is permanent. I'll be back. I'll rebuild. And when I do, it'll be because we ended the family that tried to destroy mine."
Shadow pulled her against him, not caring about the soot or the sweat or the exhaustion weighing them both down. She fit perfectly—her head against his chest, her arms around his waist, her heartbeat steady against his.
"Ellis is the last one," he said. "After we deal with him, it's over."
"When?"
"Soon. Tornado's planning the assault on his ranch compound. We hit him before he has time to regroup."
Ramona pulled back, meeting his eyes. "I want to be there."
"I know."
"Not just watching. Not hiding in the back." Her jaw set in that stubborn way he'd come to love. "Ellis Crenshaw looked at my grandmother's land and saw something to steal. Looked at my family's legacy and saw weakness to exploit. I want to be there when he realizes he was wrong."
Shadow should have argued. Should have insisted she stay safe at the compound while the brothers handled the violence.
But she'd earned her place. On the garage roof with a rifle. In the canyon country following him into darkness. Here, now, carrying barrels that weighed half what she did because she refused to let anyone else carry her burdens.
"You'll be there," he said. "When we take down Ellis, you'll be at my side."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She kissed him—fierce and brief, a seal on the oath. Then she pulled away and jumped down from the truck bed.
"Let's get these barrels to the compound. I need to check them for heat damage before the wood cracks."
Always working. Always building. Always refusing to let the bastards win.
Shadow watched her climb into the cab of the truck, watched her adjust the mirrors with the casual competence of someone who'd been driving these roads her whole life.
This woman who'd lost everything and kept standing.
Who'd killed to protect herself and kept building.
Who'd followed him into a canyon full of killers because she refused to let him go alone.
His woman. His to protect. His to fight beside.
And tomorrow, they'd end this.
He kicked his bike to life and followed her truck back toward the compound, the sun warm on his back and the weight of three dead men riding light on his shoulders.
Ellis Crenshaw was the last one.
Soon, he'd be dead too.