Chapter One
Rhett
One Year Later
I glance in the rearview mirror at the scumbag with his hands tied behind his back. I should stuff a rag in his mouth and duct-tape the bastard so I don’t have to listen to his complaining. But somehow, that feels like taking the easy way out.
I need to face what I’m doing. Face the man I’ve become.
The night closes in all around us. There are lots of roads out in Gunnison Peaks, lots of mountains, lots of places to hide.
The man in the backseat has been recruiting girls and women into his business.
“How long do you think I’ll get?” he says, running his tongue over chapped lips. He’s in his mid-thirties, but you wouldn't be able to tell by his raggedy mop of greasy hair, faded tattoos covering his hands, arms, and neck, just about visible under layers of dirt.
I say nothing, just take another turn. Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel as the urge to bust his mouth wide open grips me.
“They picked me up before, you know, big man,” he goes on. “So, you can spare me the wannabe strong-silent crap. Because it ain’t going to mean a damn thing when this is all said and done. You’re not the hero in this story.”
I almost laugh. He’s not wrong there. There are no heroes in this story.
I stopped believing in knights in shining armor when I left the police force. When I realized that the law wasn’t going to handle what needed to be handled, how it needed to be handled.
“What’s the score, eh? You angry because I didn’t offer you some? I’ve got any type of girl, man. Anything you want.”
My teeth hurt from grinding. That’s just one of the prices I pay for living this new life. Doing what I do. Taking out the trash, so to speak.
He’s quiet for a while. Shuddering as he rests his face against the window and stares out at the total darkness.
“Didn’t know there was a police station all the way out here,” he mutters.
“There isn’t,” I grunt.
He lets out a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Some kind of scare tactic, eh? You said you were a bounty hunter.”
I am a bounty hunter. It was a traditional trajectory. Military-cop-bounty hunter. Except along the way, I learned some problems require non-traditional solutions.
“I won’t do it again, man,” he blubbers when he realizes I wasn’t kidding.
We’re at the begging stage, then. They all get there eventually.
“I swear,” he goes on. “Jesus Christ. I made a mistake.”
A mistake. It never ceases to amaze me. What men will do, the evil acts they’ll commit, then try to chalk it up to a mistake.
Another turn. More darkness. He knows what’s coming now.
He strains against the bindings fixing him to the seat. Spits into the front of the car. His entire face turns red.
“You’ve got no idea who you’re fucking with!”
I let him have his moment. Let him believe he can rage and whine his way out of this. But there’s no escape. Not for him and not for me. We’re both locked onto this path, bound by our dark deeds. The difference is that mine has a purpose.
That doesn’t make sleeping at night any easier, though. That doesn’t stop the demons from chasing me.
The sun is bleeding through the trees when I toss the shovel into the back of my pickup and climb into the driver’s seat. My muscles are aching. It’s an unavoidable aspect of my line of work.
Marshall calls me as I drive back toward the town proper. Gunnison Peaks is tucked away in the near wilds of Colorado, enough mountain to make me feel isolated.
“Morning,” I say.
“Notice you left out the good,” he replies, in his usual jovial voice.
I say nothing. He leaves a pause, then sighs. I think he misses the old version of Rhett. The version who bantered and joked, before it all became too damn much.
“We were thinking of taking a trip up to the Peaks soon,” he goes on. “Wanted to know if you’d want to come by for some food? Catch up? It’s been too long.”
That’s true. Marshall and I used to see each other every day when we worked in the same police department.
I inject some good humor into my voice. He’s my best friend, after all. “That would be great,” I tell him.
He laughs darkly. “That was almost convincing.”
“No, I mean it. I’d love to see you all.”
I should see more of him, but I’ve isolated myself. Tell myself it makes me powerful. Makes me bulletproof. He’s only a two-hour drive away. But I keep making excuses.
“How’s work?” he asks.
“Fine,” I reply. No need for details. He doesn’t ask and I don’t share.
“I wish you’d come back—”
“We’ve been over this,” I cut in.
“It was one case.”
“Lucian fucking Conti killed an innocent couple. Knocked out their oldest daughter cold. Left their baby girl shivering, terrified, and traumatized for the rest of her life. And he got what—a slap on the wrist?”
“The Conti Family is powerful,” Marshall mutters. “That doesn’t mean we can’t make a difference.”
“Let’s just agree to disagree,” I snap.
“You weren’t even the lead investigator on the case, Rhett.”
“I’m aware of the extent of my involvement.”
“This is the game. This is the law. It’s just how things go sometimes. I’m not saying it’s good, but we can’t quit when it gets tough.”
“I’m not fucking quitting. Leave it.”
A pause. I’ve gone too far. I’ve spent too much time alone. It’s made me uncivilized.
“Anyway, let me know when you’re coming up,” I go on. “I’m looking forward to it. I mean that, man. Really.”
After the phone call, I drive through the winding roads, pine trees rising on both sides. Locking me in. Trapping me on this path, this mission.
Maybe Marshall is right. I should’ve tried to work from inside the police. But I can’t shake that case. If the name of the game was justice, Lucian Conti would have a bullet in his head.
The last curve that takes me home leads past a cabin that’s been vacant ever since I moved in. I slow down when I spot a car parked out front. New neighbors could mean unfamiliar problems, and I like my privacy.
A girl kneels at the edge of the road, picking flowers. She suddenly stops and pops upright as if she’s seen a ghost when she sees me looking.
Behind her, a young woman struggles to drag a couch from her driveway toward the cabin. There are piles of stuff outside the cabin. Furniture and boxes, and the detritus of life.
I bring the car to a stop. Study her. She’s wearing denim overalls over a thick shirt.
Her body is curvy, no way to avoid that observation as her beauty strains against her clothes.
Her auburn hair is tied up in a wild bun.
She grits her teeth and leans back. Her hold slips on the couch, and she falls, kicking up dust.
What sort of man would I be if I didn’t help her?
Stepping from the car, I take a breath. There’s something about this woman… I need a moment to clear my head. Remind myself who I am. What I am. I’m not the kind of person any young, beautiful woman needs in her life.
That doesn’t mean I’m going to let her break her back moving into her new home.