Page 77 of Fixed Asset

Cat leaned forward and stared out the windshield at the gateway sign.

“Downrange.” She noted the sign. “That’s . . . succinct.”

“I think it says what it needs to say.” I chuckled. “Pete’s got eighty acres. We come up here to train.”

“Where ya goin’, honey?” she started in a fake and horrible Texan twang. Then switched to an equally fake but much worse male version of her exaggerated Texan accent. “Headed downrange, darlin’.”

“You forgot the best part,” I noted.

“What’s that?”

“Headed downrange to blow shit up.”

Cat sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. “You left that part out. What else does Pete have up here?”

“A shoot house, two pistol ranges, a sniper field, and long-range lanes set up. There are three houses—he lives in the main house, Beck lives in one of them, the other is guest quarters. There’s three Quonset huts we use for storage for gear and several outbuildings.”

“Who’s Beck?”

“Beckett Yates. He’s former DEA. I met him when I was up in Idaho with Takeback. He was undercover in a motorcycle club.”

“The Horse Heads . . . or something like that?”

“The Horsemen,” I corrected. “He was with them for years. I got no problem with MCs. A lot of clubs are geared toward former military or law enforcement. A brotherhood with a shared passion. But there are some, like the Horsemen, who are rotten. There wasn’t a good man in that club. Drugs, prostitution, extortion. Beck lived and breathed depravity. That shit ended for him before Vegas, and he’s adjusting to life outside that filth.”

“Is he part of Pete’s crew?”

“Yes and no. He lives up here and takes care of the gear, keeps the shooting ranges maintained, and other upkeep besides. What he doesn’t do is go on ops with the guys. Neither does he go to the Dirty Plank to drink. If he makes the trek to IB, it’s to come by my place or Mason’s. The man doesn’t do bars or restaurants. And Pete has told the rest of us Beck does his grocery shopping at night when it’s less crowded.”

“PTSD?”

We were approaching the main house, so I slowed.

“Not the way you’re thinking, but yes. He lived so long with the stench of those assholes it seeped in. Part of that was submerging himself into the criminal lifestyle and living like one. He’s having a hard time shaking it off. I get what he’s going through, and I’m sure you do too. When you separate from the military, you lose a part of your identity. That transition is hard enough, but Beck’s got that twofold; he has to shed the criminal he became and law enforcement officer.”

Catarina was quiet for a moment.

“Duality,” she murmured. “The lawman and the felon. Who does he shed first?”

“Yup. And how does he reconcile the crimes he committed, the laws he broke, when he’d taken an oath to protect and serve? It’s easy to say he had to commit those crimes to keep his cover. It’s harder to believe that to be true.”

“Damn.”

Damn was right.

I parked next to Mason’s Ram and shut my Chevy down.

“If I told you to wait so I can come around to open your door, would you listen?”

When we’d stopped for lunch, she’d jumped out before I could get to her side of the truck.

“No, but if you ask, I’d consider it.”

“How’s this? Please keep your ass in the truck until I come around.”

Cat rolled her eyes.

“That’s not asking, that’s using the word please in a command, and I only listen to those when I’m naked and promised orgasms.”