Chapter 5 #2
"Someone's looking for us. Official-looking guy, asking questions." I start throwing our stuff into bags. "Could be circuit security. Could be Merrick's people. Either way, they know we're in Albuquerque, and it's only a matter of time before they find this motel."
Rainey closes her laptop, starts packing with quick, efficient movements. We're out the door in under five minutes, bags thrown in my truck bed, engine running before anyone can spot us leaving.
I don't head for the highway. Instead, I navigate through back roads, checking the rearview mirror every thirty seconds to see if we're being followed.
"Where are we going?" Rainey asks.
"Flint's ranch. He offered it as a safe house if we needed one."
"You trust him?"
"More than I trust anyone else right now. And he's got a contact at the FBI. Someone who's been waiting ten years for evidence like ours."
We're ten miles from the arena when I catch headlights behind us. Sedan, moving fast, closing the distance. Could be nothing. Could be someone in a hurry.
Or it could be them.
I take a sharp turn onto a dirt road. The sedan follows. No longer coincidence.
"Hold on," I tell Rainey.
I accelerate, truck bouncing over the uneven road, dust kicking up behind us. The sedan's still there, persistent as a bad dream. Rural New Mexico at night is all darkness and nothing, no streetlights or landmarks, just empty land and the occasional ranch house in the distance.
We're hitting sixty on a road that's not meant for more than thirty when I see it. A straightaway ahead, clear line of sight. The sedan accelerates, pulling alongside us.
The passenger window rolls down.
I see the gun the same moment I yank the steering wheel hard right, sending us careening off the road and into the scrubland. The shot goes wide, hitting where we would have been if I hadn't moved.
Rainey's gripping the dashboard, eyes wide, as I fight to keep the truck under control. Sagebrush scrapes the undercarriage, rocks pinging off metal, and we're still moving, still alive, still running.
The sedan tries to follow but doesn't have the clearance. It bottoms out on the rough terrain, slows, falls back.
I keep driving, cutting across open land until I find another dirt road heading northwest. The sedan's headlights disappear behind us, either stuck or giving up the chase.
"Are you okay?" I ask Rainey.
"Define okay." Her voice is shaking but steady. "Someone just shot at us."
"I noticed."
"They tried to kill us, Grant. Actually kill us."
"I know." My hands are tight on the steering wheel, adrenaline making everything sharp and clear. "I'm sorry. I should have seen this coming. Should have expected them to escalate."
"This isn't your fault."
"Isn't it? You came to me with those photos and I let you stay. Should have told you to take them to the cops and walk away. And now you're in a truck being chased by people with guns."
"I made my choice. Remember? Partners." She takes a shaky breath. "Where's Flint's ranch?"
I pull out the business card he gave me, punch the address into my phone's GPS. Forty minutes northwest, assuming we don't get intercepted again.
We drive in silence, both of us processing what just happened. Someone tried to kill us. Not warn us, not threaten us. Actually tried to put bullets through our bodies and make this go away permanently.
Tyler's warning echoes in my memory. 'They paid.'
Now I know what he was trying to tell me. Whoever's behind this has money, resources, and the willingness to murder anyone who gets too close to the truth.
And we just became their next targets.
Flint's ranch materializes out of the darkness, low-slung and solid against the empty land. Small main house, barn and outbuildings, all of it surrounded by miles of open land where nobody could approach without being seen.
Flint meets us at the door, takes one look at our faces, and nods. "Come in."
We're inside before I can even explain. He locks the door, checks the windows, then turns to face us.
"What happened?"
"Someone shot at us," Rainey says. "Chased us off the highway."
Flint's jaw tightens. "They're escalating faster than I expected. You two must have hit a nerve."
"We're getting close," I say. "Merrick. You were right about the connection. Rainey traced the corporate filings. It's all there."
"And in the meantime, you need to stay alive long enough to use it." Flint gestures toward the hallway. "Guest room's the second door on the right. Bathroom's stocked. You're safe here for tonight. Tomorrow, we figure out the next move."
I want to argue, to say we don't have time to hide, that every day we wait is another day the conspiracy stays buried. But Rainey looks exhausted and scared, and I'm running on adrenaline and rage, and Flint's right that we're no good to Tyler dead.
"Thank you," I tell him.
He nods. "Tyler was a good kid. Deserved better than what he got. If helping you gets him justice, then I'm doing what I should have done for my own son ten years ago." He pauses. "And when the time comes, I'll call Torres. She's been waiting for something solid. What you've got is solid."
The weight of that statement settles between us. All these deaths. All these accidents that weren't accidents. All these families left without answers because nobody wanted to ask the hard questions.
Not anymore. Not if I can help it.
Rainey and I retreat to the guest room. It's small but clean, with a double bed and windows that overlook the empty land beyond the ranch.
"We should talk about what just happened," she says.
"We almost died. That's what happened."
"I mean before that. Last night. Us."
Right. That. The complication neither of us knows how to address.
"It was a mistake," I say.
"Was it?"
"It had to be. Getting involved while we're looking into Tyler's murder is the worst possible timing."
"Maybe." She sits on the edge of the bed. "Or maybe it's the best timing. Maybe we're both so focused on dying for the right reasons that we forgot about living for any reason at all."
She's not wrong. I've spent weeks chasing death, throwing myself at bulls and danger like I'm trying to earn my way into Tyler's grave. Last night was the first time I felt anything other than guilt.
"I don't have room in my life for this," I tell her. "For whatever this is between us."
"Then make room."
"It's not that simple."
"Why not?"
Because I can't protect her if I'm distracted. Because caring about her makes me vulnerable in ways I can't afford. Because if I lose her the way I lost Tyler, I won't survive it.
But I don't say any of that. Just stand there looking at her and wishing things were different.
"Get some sleep," I say finally. "Tomorrow we figure out the next move."
She doesn't argue. Just curls up on the bed, still fully dressed, and closes her eyes.
I should join her. Should rest while I have the chance. But I can't shake the feeling that we're running out of time. That whoever's after us is planning their next move right now, and we're sitting here doing nothing.
Tyler's warning: 'They paid.'
Dale Thornton: Circuit official with access and opportunity.
Hayes Merrick: The man behind Thornton, behind the shell companies, behind all of it.
The shooter tonight: Proof they're willing to kill to protect their secret.
And now Flint's FBI contact, an agent named Torres who's been waiting ten years for evidence that a pattern exists. We're about to give her that evidence.
I look at Rainey, asleep on the bed with her boots still on and her laptop clutched against her chest like armor.
Merrick's going to fall. I'll make sure of it. The only question left is whether I'll be standing when he does.