He shakes his head. "I stopped counting."
I should let him go. Should take this information to the authorities and let them handle it. Should be the bigger man and walk away before I do something I regret.
Instead, I hit him.
Not hard. Just enough to split his lip and make the point that I'm done being patient. He drops to his knees, hand pressed to his mouth, blood seeping between his fingers.
"You killed Tyler," I say quietly. "Maybe you didn't mean to. Maybe you thought it was just going to make the ride more exciting. But you put that drug in Hellfire's Revenge, and Tyler died because of it."
"I'm sorry." He's crying now, pathetic and broken. "I'm sorry, Grant. I needed the money. I didn't think. I didn't know."
"Where do the envelopes come from?"
"Different places. Different events. Sometimes my truck. Sometimes my locker. I never see who delivers them."
Dead end. Whoever's running this operation is smart enough to stay anonymous.
"You're going to do exactly what you've been doing," I tell him. "Take the money. Drug the bulls. Act like nothing'schanged. But from now on, you report to me. Every envelope. Every instruction. Every dollar. You understand?"
He nods, still holding his bleeding mouth.
"And Vic? If you warn whoever's paying you that I'm looking into this, I'll make sure that photo of you with the syringe ends up with every news outlet in Texas. Your career will be over before the story even breaks." I crouch down to his level. "Are we clear?"
"Clear," he whispers.
I stand, step back, let him get to his feet. He stumbles away without looking back, one hand pressed to his split lip, the other fumbling for his truck keys. I watch him go, feeling the adrenaline start to wear off and the weight of what I just did settle in.
I just assaulted a man behind a bar. Beat a confession out of him. Threatened him into cooperation. And worse than any of that, I told him to keep drugging bulls. Every rider who draws one of Vic's animals between now and whenever this ends is climbing onto a ticking bomb because I decided finding Tyler's killer matters more than their safety. That sits in my gut like swallowed glass, and it should. Because it means I'm making the same calculation the people who killed Tyler make every day. Deciding some riders' safety is an acceptable cost for the bigger picture.
The difference between me and them is that I'm doing it to stop them.
I hope to hell that's enough of a difference.
Colt's voice echoes in my head.'Don't go looking for conspiracies where there's just bad luck.'
But this isn't a conspiracy theory anymore. It's real. Tyler was murdered. Vic knows it. I know it. And someone with enough money and power to stay anonymous is behind it.
My phone buzzes. Text from Rainey.
Did you find him?
I type back:
Yeah. Got confirmation. Bull was drugged.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
What now?
Good question. I've got proof. I've got a confession. And I've got a target painted on my back the second whoever's running this operation figures out I'm digging.
Now we find out who's paying Vic. And we make sure they pay for what happened to Tyler.
Her response comes immediately:
Count me in.
I pocket my phone, head back to my truck. The smart thing would be to go to the authorities. Turn over the evidence. Let the professionals handle it.
