Chapter 5
Flint Masterson has been supplying bulls to the Southwest Circuit since before I was born, and if he's dirty, the whole damn sport is rotten to the core.
I find him at the Albuquerque event that afternoon, checking bulls in the holding pens behind the arena. Flint's in his late sixties, weathered and solid as the fence posts he's leaning against, watching a young bull test the rails with his horns.
"That one's going to be trouble," Flint says without turning around.
"They're all trouble. That's why we ride them."
He glances at me, takes in the split eyebrow from the last ride, the careful way I'm moving because my ribs still hurt like hell. "Heard you took on Satan's Gambit. How'd that work out for you?"
"About as well as expected."
"So poorly." He spits tobacco juice into the dirt. "Also heard you've been asking questions about Tyler Brennan. Questions people don't want asked."
Word travels fast on the circuit. I should have known better than to think I could ask questions without someone noticing.
"You here to tell me to back off?" I ask.
"I'm here to tell you to be careful. There's a difference." Flint turns to face me, and his expression is serious in a way I've rarely seen. "Tyler was a good kid. What happened to him wasn't right. But poking at this particular hornet's nest is going to get you stung."
"I'll take my chances."
"It's not just your chances you're risking." He nods toward where Rainey's photographing the bulls from a safe distance. "That photographer you're running with. She's got a target on her back now."
"She knows the risk."
"And you're okay with that?"
Am I? Rainey walked into this on her own, but I didn't exactly send her away. I let her stay. Let her get close. Last night I took her to bed knowing that whoever's after us won't distinguish between partners and targets.
"She made her choice," I say.
"So did Tyler. Look how that turned out."
The words hit harder than Flint intended. I clench my jaw, force myself to stay calm. "You know something about what happened to Tyler?"
"I know Thornton Livestock has been getting preferential treatment for six months.
Best time slots, highest-profile events, biggest prize purses.
And I know their bulls have been involved in more injuries than any other stock contractor on the circuit.
" He crosses his arms. "Ask Zane Crowe. He's been losing contracts to Thornton for months.
Good stock, fair prices, decades of reputation, and he keeps getting passed over for a company that didn't exist two years ago.
Zane's too proud to complain about it publicly, but he sees what I see. "
"Thornton Livestock. Who owns them?"
“Shell company out of Nevada. But the manager is Dale Thornton's brother and Dale is the Southwest Circuit's head of operations."
Circuit officials. Of course. Who better to rig matches and cover up evidence than the people running the show?
"And Dale Thornton doesn't run anything on his own," Flint continues.
"He answers to Hayes Merrick. Merrick's investment group is behind the shell company that owns Thornton Livestock.
His name's buried under three layers of corporate filings, but everyone in the stock contracting business has heard the rumors. "
"Hayes Merrick. The circuit commissioner?"
"The same. He's been consolidating power on the Southwest Circuit for ten years.
Controls the officials, the stock contracts, the sponsor deals.
If someone's running a fraud operation through this circuit, it doesn't happen without Merrick knowing about it.
And if Merrick knows about it, he's profiting from it. "
I process this. Merrick. The man at the top of the food chain. Not some mid-level stock contractor skimming money, but the president of the entire professional rodeo operation.
"You have proof?"
"Nothing that would hold up in court. Just observations from someone who's been in this business long enough to recognize when the game is fixed." Flint studies me. "What are you planning to do with this information?"
"Find out if you're right. Make sure they pay for what happened to Tyler."
"And if the people pulling the strings have the power to make you disappear? What then?"
"Then I disappear fighting."
Flint shakes his head. "You're just like your old man. Stubborn as hell and twice as stupid when it comes to knowing when to walk away."
My father. We haven't spoken in three years, not since I chose rodeo over taking over the family ranch. Last I heard, he's still disappointed I didn't turn out the way he wanted.
"If you're trying to talk me out of this, you're wasting your time," I tell Flint.
"I'm not trying to talk you out of anything.
I'm trying to keep you alive long enough to actually accomplish something.
" He pulls a business card from his pocket, and hands it to me.
"This is my ranch. Forty miles northwest of here, off the main highway.
You need somewhere safe to lie low, you come there. No questions asked."
I pocket the card. "Why are you helping me?"
"Because Tyler Brennan deserved better than what he got.
And because I've known you since you were seventeen years old, riding practice bulls and thinking you were invincible.
" His expression softens. "You remind me of my son.
He died in a rodeo accident ten years ago.
Trampled after a bad ride. Officials called it bad luck, closed the case.
" Flint's voice goes flat. "I didn't accept it.
Spent three years making noise, writing letters, calling anyone who'd listen.
Eventually an agent at the FBI field office in Albuquerque heard me out.
Woman named Torres. She couldn't do anything then.
One death, no pattern, no evidence of foul play beyond a father's gut feeling.
But she told me if I ever had something solid, something that showed a system, to bring it to her. "
"You kept her number."
"Kept everything. Because I knew, even if I couldn't prove it, that my son's death wasn't bad luck.
" He straightens, turns back to the bulls.
"And now you're showing me the proof I never found.
Be careful, Grant. These people don't play fair, and they don't leave loose ends.
You've already lost one friend. Don't let them get you. "
He walks away before I can respond, leaving me standing in the dust with more information than I had before and the weight of another warning I'm probably going to ignore.
Rainey and I drive back to the motel after the event, and she has her laptop open before I've even locked the door. She's been cross-referencing during every spare minute at the arena, downloading her shots between events and running them against what she already had in the cloud.
"Thornton Livestock supplied bulls for nearly every event where Vic shows up in the backgrounds," she says, turning the screen toward me. "And in most of those, top-ranked riders sustained injuries that knocked them out of competition for at least one event."
I sit beside her on the bed; studying the spreadsheet she's built. Names, dates, injuries, prize money. The pattern is undeniable once you're looking for it.
"Flint confirmed Thornton Livestock is connected to Dale Thornton. He's the circuit's head of operations. Controls schedules, approves stock contractors, has access to everything." I pause. "And he gave me a name. The man Thornton answers to. Hayes Merrick."
Rainey's head snaps up. "Merrick. The circuit commissioner?"
"Flint says Merrick's investment group is behind the shell company that owns Thornton Livestock. Says everyone in the stock contracting business knows it."
"Everyone in the stock contracting business isn't a courtroom." She pulls up another browser tab. "But corporate filings might be."
She pulls up her laptop, cross-legged on the bed, face lit blue in the dim room.
Auburn hair loose around her shoulders, fingers moving across the keyboard with the same precision she uses on a camera shutter.
I catch myself watching her hands instead of the screen, tracking the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's concentrating.
Focus. Tyler's dead and I'm cataloging a woman's hands.
She digs through Nevada Secretary of State filings, corporate registrations, and holding company structures. Twenty minutes of silence broken only by her typing and the wind outside the motel windows.
Then she leans back.
"He's right." Her voice is tight. "Merrick's investment group is the registered agent for the Nevada shell company that owns Thornton Livestock.
It's buried under two holding companies, but it's there.
" She turns the laptop toward me, and our shoulders press together as I lean in to read the screen.
Neither of us moves away. "Hayes Merrick controls Thornton Livestock.
Thornton Livestock supplies the bulls Vic drugs.
Dale Thornton manages the events where the injuries happen. It's all one operation."
"And Merrick sits at the top."
"Pulling every string."
She looks at me, and in the laptop light her eyes are all gold and shadow. "That's who we're really after."
"That's who killed Tyler."
Now we just have to prove it before he kills us too.
My phone rings. Colt's name.
"Yeah?"
"Where are you?"
"Motel. Why?"
"Because someone's asking about you at the arena. Suit and tie, official-looking, wanted to know where you're staying and who you've been talking to."
Ice settles behind my ribs. "When?"
"Twenty minutes ago. I told him I didn't know. He didn't believe me, but he left." Colt's voice is tight with worry. "Grant, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?"
"Can't talk about it now. I'll call you later."
"Grant—"
I hang up, turn to Rainey. "We need to leave. Now."
"What happened?"