Page 38 of Carnival’s Playground

"Half the road hands in Texas didn't get fired from Vesper Crow for sabotaging an aerial rig," I coldly counter, glaring down at the photos.

"Fair point," Petey concedes.

"What about the transportation?" Avery quickly asks, turning to Renn. "Did the highway cam catch anything on the access road?"

"We picked up a partial plate two minutes before this motion sensor tripped," Renn explains, pulling up a secondary still image. "Dark, older-model four-wheel-drive pickup. Mud splattered across the rear tailgate, covering the county numbers. I've got a priority trace running through the state database, but digging through twenty years of unregistered farm trucks takes time."

"Time is the one thing we don't have," Dutch angrily growls.

"Avery and I will sweep the south and west access roads right now," I volunteer, already stepping toward the door. "We'll look for fresh tire impressions, crushed brush, or fluid leaks."

"I'm right behind you," Avery adds, adjusting her heavy leather belt.

"You don't have to play bodyguard every second of the day, Carnival," Petey jokingly remarks.

"I'm not playing anything," I darkly reply, locking eyes with Petey until the younger guy looks down. "I'm watching her back. End of story."

"I can handle my own shit, Wyatt," Avery asserts, though the slight curve of her mouth tells me she's not mad about it.

"I know you can, spitfire," I say, reaching out to snag her fingers again. "I just prefer being there while you do it."

Dutch watches us with a mixture of raw exhaustion and quiet approval, then turns back to Deputy Renn. "What about reaching out to Vesper Crow management?" Dutch gruffly demands. "See if Rourke is still on their payroll or if anyone's spotted his ugly mug within fifty miles of Grimwood Crossing."

"I left three messages with their operations manager this morning," Renn answers. "They're an independent traveling outfit currently hauling trailers outside Lubbock. It takes time for their office to return calls."

"And what about the gate logs?" Petey nervously asks. "Did anyone sign into the yard under a fake name?"

"I'm going through last night's vendor sheets right now," Dutch gruffly says, grabbing his clipboard. "Frank is checking the midway delivery passes. If a single name doesn't match our verified roster, we track them down."

"Sounds like a solid plan," Renn concludes, snapping her laptop shut and packing it into her canvas bag. "I'm stationing two marked patrol units along the perimeter road tonight. High visibility. Let this bastard know the county is watching every inch of this dirt."

"Good," I roughly state. "Make him sweat."

Dutch pushes up from the desk chair, his jaw tight. "Petey, you're with me. We're hitting the south drainage ditch and the west access roads… anywhere that pickup could've come through." He grabs his heavy canvas jacket off the back of the chair. "Renn, you good coordinating with Caffey's units on the perimeter route?"

"Already on it," Renn says, her radio crackling as she steps toward the door. "I'll have them sweep the older farm roads and log any fresh tire tracks matching the footage." Petey nods, grabbing his jacket and following Dutch out. Their boots hit the wooden stairs hard, the sound fading into the cold night as they head toward the gate booths. Renn pauses at the threshold, hand on the doorframe. "You two stay sharp. Don't go wandering off alone." She doesn't wait for an answer, her radio crackling with dispatch codes as she heads toward her cruiser.

The trailer door swings shut behind them, leaving Avery and me standing in the sudden, heavy quiet. The fluorescent overhead light hums, casting a pale glow across the room. I can feel the weight of what we just heard settling into my bones, the confirmation that someone's been watching, planning, waiting.

"We need to move," Avery says, already reaching for her jacket. "Get our gear and head out to those access roads before Dutch and Petey clear everything."

"Already on it," I tell her, grabbing my own coat and the heavy flashlight from the corner. "We're not sitting this one out."

The wind howls against the window glass, carrying the sharp, dusty smell of dry Texas earth.

"You holding up?" I ask, stepping into her space and resting my hands on her hips.

"I'm furious, Wyatt," she honestly admits, leaning her forehead against the heavy leather of my cut. Her voice cracks slightly. "I'm sick of looking over my shoulder. I'm sick of wondering if every loose bolt is a mistake or a death trap. I want this psycho caught, and I want him locked in a cage."

"We'll catch him," I promise, sliding my hand up to cup the warm nape of her neck. "I swear to God, spitfire, he's running out of road."

She looks up at me, her green eyes sharp, fierce, and dead serious. "Can I ask you something?"

"Always," I tell her.

"I get that you're not taking off… we've cleared that up, and I believe you," she says, her fingers clutching tightly to my shirt. "It's the long haul I'm asking about. When the Halloween tour wraps up, Dutch gets the trucks packed, and Caffey takes this bastard off our hands... where do we go from there, Wyatt? Once the chaos dies down and the noise stops, what are we actually creating together?"

The question hits hard, right in the chest, but there isn't a single doubt in me. Just two hardheaded road dogs figuring out the map ahead. "We find a place with a little dirt out near Bellwether," I tell her, sliding my hand around the nape of her neck. "A garage big enough for my Harley and tools, a real bed where we can crash between runs, and you beside me every single night. When Dutch rolls the convoy for Cinderwood and the Valentine's circuit, we ride out together. Side by side. No half measures, spitfire. If we're doing this, I'm all in."