"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.
