Unraveled (Redford Ranch #3)

Prologue

SAM

The crunch of fractured bone under my fist feels really damn good.

The squelch of bloody flesh is barely audible over the roar of approval from the onlookers.

The crowd is already drunk, partly off of liquor they’ve been chugging from bottles wrapped in brown paper bags, but mostly from the high that always comes with placing a bet on something illegal, like a cage fight.

I jump back, ducking to miss the return swing from my opponent. Bruce is from out of town. He drove ten hours to fight me, and the odds were in his favor. He’s a disgraced pro wrestler, banned from the UFC for illegal strikes and failing a piss test for steroids.

In this ring, which is run by old cowboys with tobacco-stained teeth and nothing better to do, there are only two simple rules.

One, no dick shots.

And, two, no killing.

One guy did die a few years ago, but it wasn’t until six hours after the fight.

He went home, fell asleep—still covered in blood—and never woke up.

The autopsy revealed blunt force trauma to the head as the cause of death.

The cops chased the trail for a few months, but they were somehow “motivated” to let it go cold and stop the search.

Star City is a small town in central Texas.

It’s known for being a place where the rate of crimes solved is staggeringly low.

There was a prison about five hours west of here, near Midland, Texas, back in the 1970s.

They were severely understaffed due to the economic crisis going on nationwide, which led to a prison break.

One of the biggest in Texas history. It’s rumored that many of the prisoners who weren’t caught settled in Star City, the first quiet town with minimal police presence and a nice lake.

I raise my forearm to wipe the sweat off my brow. I survey my opponent, whose chest is rising and falling rapidly. He’s big—too big. Steroids might make them stronger, but the added muscle slows them down.

I bounce around him, still full of energy and adrenaline. The lights of the abandoned high-school gym, powered by generators, illuminate the spatters of blood on the free throw line. He spits a streak of red to add to the puddle of mystery liquid.

I roll my neck to the side, loosening the tendons. My best friend, Duke, yells above the noise from the others from the sidelines.

“Go for the left uppercut, Seymour! His ear is bleeding!”

I see it now—a slow trickle on the left side. I don’t hesitate, lunging forward with all my strength, my left fist surging through and punching the left side of his face. He tries to block it, but I manage to get in two solid hits before he rolls away from me.

I exhale, the sinking weight of hopelessness starting to creep in as the fight ends.

My grandfather had a heart attack and passed away tonight. Physical pain is the only way I know how to cope with the emotional trauma of losing the man who saved my life and raised me from the age of seven.

Bruce grits his teeth and wipes a hand over the side of his face as he rises to his feet again, clearly feeling a renewed sense of determination to beat my ass. I flash him a grin.

He charges like a bull, running straight into my gut. I grunt as he picks me up and slams me back against the mat. Stars swim above me, blackness coating the edge of my vision as I slowly drift out of consciousness.

Maybe I won’t wake up. Maybe this nightmare will be my last.