Chapter 9
Flint's truck pulls into the Desert Rose parking lot at dawn, and Rainey doesn't cry, which is worse than if she did.
She's been awake for an hour, sitting on the edge of the motel bed with her camera bag packed and the backpack that holds copies of everything we've gathered zipped tight against her knees.
I called Flint last night, told him the plan, and the old man drove three hours south without a single complaint. Just said he'd be there by sunrise.
Rainey walks out to meet him, and I follow.
The desert sky is going from black to grey, the air still cool enough to raise goosebumps.
She stands in the parking lot with dust on her boots and shadows under her eyes, looking at me like she's developing a photograph in her mind. Fixing the image. Burning it permanent.
"Call me when it's done," she says.
"First thing."
"I mean it, Grant. The second you're off that bull and breathing, you call me."
"I will."
She nods once. Steps back. Flint's standing by his truck, coffee in hand, and gives me a look that says everything his mouth won't. “Be careful. Come back. Don't make me explain to your sister why I let you do this.”
Rainey climbs into Flint's truck without looking back. The door shuts. Flint tips his hat at me, gets behind the wheel, and pulls out of the lot heading north.
I watch the taillights until they disappear, then get in my truck and head south.
The drive to Las Cruces takes three hours. I spend the first hour running the plan in my head. The second hour calling Colt, who picks up on the first ring.
"Where are you?" No greeting. No small talk. That's Colt.
"Heading to Las Cruces."
"So am I. We need to talk about Merrick."
That stops me. "How do you know about Merrick?"
"Because I'm not stupid, Grant. You think you're the only one who noticed Tyler asking questions before he died?
You think I didn't see the way the circuit officials shut everything down before his body was cold?
" His voice is hard, controlled, the voice of a man who's been thinking about this longer than he's been letting on.
"I've been watching you dig and figured you'd come to me when you were ready.
You weren't, so I started pulling threads on my own. "
"What kind of threads?"
"The kind that tell me Merrick's been skimming prize money through shell companies and using Thornton Livestock as a front. The kind where riders who ask too many questions end up in the dirt." A beat. "I'm not sitting this one out."
"Colt, listen to me. Merrick's going to make a move during my ride. Drug the bull, pay off the bullfighters. I need you away from this."
"The hell you do."
"I need you alive after. If this goes sideways, Rainey and Flint have everything.
Photos, money trail, Vic's confession. Your job is to make sure none of it gets buried.
You're the top-ranked bull rider on this circuit.
When you talk, people listen. I need that voice loud and public if I'm not around to use mine. "
Silence. I can hear the highway under his tires. He's already driving.
"You're asking me to let you walk into a setup alone."
"I'm asking you to be the one who finishes this if I can't."
"That's not the same thing and you know it."
"It's what I need."
More silence. Then Colt's voice comes back, low and dangerous. "I'll stay out of Las Cruces. But I'm going to be close. And when this is over, if Merrick's still breathing, I'm coming for him myself. Not for you. For Tyler."
"Fair enough."
"And Grant? Don't you dare die in that arena. Because if you do, I'll drag your ass out of the ground just to kill you again for being this stupid."
He hangs up before I can respond. That's Colt too. Says what needs saying, then cuts the line like the conversation was already over before it started.
The third hour of the drive, I don't think about anything.
Just watch the desert slide past, mesa and scrubland and the occasional cluster of buildings that passes for a town out here.
The landscape is beautiful in the harsh, unforgiving way that New Mexico specializes in.
Nothing survives here without earning it.
I arrive at the Las Cruces fairgrounds by noon. The event starts at seven, and the grounds are already buzzing with stock haulers and setup crews and riders pulling in with their rigs. I park, check in at the rider registration, and collect my draw sheet.
Tombstone's Revenge.
I stare at the name. Tombstone's Revenge is a Thornton Livestock bull. One of Merrick's animals.
Vic was right. They've set the draw.
I find a quiet spot behind the livestock pens and call Flint.
"Thornton bull," I say. "Tombstone's Revenge."
"I know that animal. Mean bastard on a normal day. If they juice him, he'll be unrideable."
"That's the point."
"Grant, the plan was to ride out whatever they throw at you. If that bull is drugged, there's no riding him. You won't make two seconds."
"Then I make it two seconds and bail. The important thing is getting the wreck on camera so people see what's happening."
"Rainey's here with me. Who's running the camera?"
I've thought about this. Spent most of the night thinking about it while Rainey slept against my chest.
"I need you to call the circuit media coordinator.
Get a camera crew positioned behind the chutes, close angle on my ride.
Tell them you're doing a documentary segment on stock genetics, whatever it takes.
I need an independent camera on that bull from the moment they load him until the ride is over. "
"And if the footage shows a normal ride that goes wrong?"
"It won't be normal. Drugged bulls don't move like healthy bulls. Anyone who knows livestock will see it. And Vic's recorded statement backs up everything."
Flint is quiet. I hear him set down his coffee cup, hear the creak of his porch chair.
"Your daddy was a hardheaded man," he says. "But even he knew when to walk away from a bad draw."
"My daddy wanted me to stay home and run cattle. I walked away from that. From him. I'm not walking away from this too."
"That's not the same thing and you know it."
"Maybe not. But I owe Tyler more than I ever owed a cattle ranch."
Flint sighs. "I'll make the calls. Media crew behind the chutes. I'll have one of my guys in the stands with a phone recording too. Belt and suspenders."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Come back alive. That's how you thank me."
I spend the afternoon preparing like I would for any ride.
Stretch, tape my knee, work rosin into my glove.
Walk the stock pens, study Tombstone's Revenge through the rails.
The bull is calm right now, chewing cud, massive head swinging lazily.
Two thousand pounds of animal that's about to become a weapon.
At five o'clock, I send Rainey a text.
Drew Tombstone's Revenge. Thornton bull. Plan's in motion.
She responds immediately.
Be careful. I love you.
I type back:
I love you. See you on the other side.
Then I put my phone in my locker, pull on my vest, and go to work.
The arena fills. The lights come up. The crowd roars for the first ride of the evening. I stand behind the chutes, watching the bulls load, watching the handlers work, watching for the moment when someone slips something into Tombstone's Revenge.
It happens at six forty-five. A handler I don't recognize approaches the bull's pen with a syringe concealed in his palm. Quick, practiced, efficient. Jab in the neck, plunger down, gone. The whole thing takes three seconds.
But I see it. And the camera crew Flint positioned behind the chutes sees it.
I check my phone one last time. Message from Flint:
Camera's rolling. Torres has the package. She's making calls.
I plan to survive this. The ride is the evidence.
The camera catches the drugged bull's behavior, Torres moves on the case, and I walk out of the arena to call Rainey myself.
That's the plan. But plans and two-thousand-pound drugged animals don't always coexist peacefully, and I've been around long enough to know the difference between confidence and delusion.
I text back:
If something goes wrong, tell Rainey I wasn't wrong about her.
Then I pull on my glove, grab my rope, and head for the chutes.
The walk from the locker area to chute four takes maybe thirty seconds.
Long enough to hear the crowd noise swell as the previous rider gets thrown at six seconds.
Long enough to smell the dust and manure and fried food and sweat that is the specific perfume of every rodeo I've ever competed in.
Long enough to feel the rosin on my glove go tacky against my palm as I work my fingers, loosening the joints, getting the blood moving.
Tombstone's Revenge is already loaded when I reach the chute, and the first thing I notice is wrong.
The bull beneath me is trembling, and bulls don't tremble.
Whatever they pumped into his bloodstream forty minutes ago is taking effect.
His muscles are twitching under his hide, involuntary spasms that ripple from shoulder to flank.
His breathing is wrong, too fast, too shallow, nostrils flaring with each exhale.
The whites of his eyes are showing, and when I settle onto his back, I can feel the difference in his body temperature. He's running hot. Dangerously hot.
A healthy bull in the chute is aggressive and contained. Controlled power, directed fury. This bull is a bomb with a lit fuse, and the moment that gate opens, he's going to detonate.
I wrap my hand into the rope. Once around, twice, pound the wrap flat. The rosin grips, tacky and secure. My left hand finds the rail, balances my weight. Tombstone's Revenge slams against the chute panels, and the metal screams.
The chute worker looks at me. "You sure about this one, Corbin? He's fired up."
"Open the gate."
"Grant—"
"Open the goddamn gate."
He does.