Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
He winks at me. “I appreciate it. I trust you have the paperwork ready?”
“It’s inside the house,” I say casually, walking past him so he can’t ask any more questions.
The men have parked the trucks right where Zane hoped they would and are lowering the backs. I pretend to help out by explaining the cows and which ones will cause trouble. Ralston watches, arms crossed, thinking he has struck gold.
Little does he know.
When he assists them in preparing the inside of the trucks, I take my chance to go and place the explosive under the wheel, like Zane instructed. I move quickly, leaning down and shoving the explosive in as far as I can get it, pushing it behind the wheel so it can’t be seen, then I straighten and flick Zane a message telling him it’s done.
It’s now or never.
I can’t let them get the cows out.
“Before you load the cows, let’s sign this paperwork,” I say to Ralston, casually kicking the dirt as if I’m bored. “Just in case they decide to break an arm or a leg, as I said, they’re not fans of dickheads.”
He chuckles. “I have quite the touch with cows.”
“We’ll see. I’ll go get the papers.”
He nods, smug.
He thinks he’s won.
He is about to find out just how wrong he is.
I WALK INTO THE HOUSE, rifling in the kitchen drawer for a pen I know isn’t there. I wait for Zane’s shape to flicker past the barn window, but it’s empty. No movement, no shadow. I slip the papers from a folder, sign my fake signature out of habit, and lean toward the sink. I count to thirty, expecting him to pop up, give the signal, anything. It stays dead-still out there.
I yank my phone out—no message. My chest contracts, each beat a hammer against my ribs. I fumble with the coffee machine, desperate for distraction, but it only fans the panic roaring up my throat, thick and sour. I stare at the clock, nails drumming an urgent tattoo on the counter. He was supposed to check in. I text, “Ready?” Nothing. I text, “Are you alive?”
Nothing.
My legs move before I can think. I slip through the back door, heel scraping concrete, heart slamming. I jog around the house, hands out to steady me as I cut low through the wet grass. At the barn door, I pause—oil, burning insulation, and damp hay crash into me like a wave. I clamp my mouth shut, then slip inside. Darkness swallows me; my eyes blink twice before they focus.
There he is: Zane, crouched by the relay box, body rigid as a statue. Two fingers pinched on a tiny, blinking object. His face is hollow—cheeks sunken, eyes wild. The lazy curve of his smile has vanished, ripped away by whatever horror he’s tethered to.
“Zane?” I whisper, voice cracking. I stumble forward, panic ricocheting off every wall. His eyes meet mine—wide, glassy, raw with fear. My stomach drops.
He doesn’t blink. “If I let go of this,” his voice is grated but somehow fills the space, “it all goes.”
It’s a punch to the gut. I choke out, “What?” as if the word can buy me more time.
He breathes out, slow and terrified. “I fucked up in the line somewhere. If this fuckin’ button slips, this whole place blows.”
I stare at him, disbelief burning in my veins. I force a laugh but it tears apart in my throat. I edge closer, hands shaking so hard I can barely form the question: “What do I do? Tell me how to fix it.”
He shakes his head. “No time. Ralston’s men are here. If this goes off, you’ll die in the blast. You’ve got to go, Callie. Right now.”
My world contracts to the space between us. A sob rips free. “No—I’m not leaving you. Tell me what to cut, to fix, to do. What do you need?”
He shakes his head, eyes never leaving that blinking fuse. “You need to go. Tell Wolfe...tell him I didn’t mean for this. Tell him I’m thankful for everything he’s done and that I love him, that I love all of them.”
I wrench out my phone again and dial Knox with numb fingers. Zane’s hand lashes out, slapping it away. It skitters across the dirt floor. “Don’t call him. If he comes, he dies too. Don’t do that to him—or any of them. They’ll be killed.”
“They’ll come up with a plan,” I gasp, tears streaking down, “they can kill them all, you know they can. I’ll go back out, tell Ralston the deal is off, and we can call in the bomb squad.”
His laugh is a bark of pain. “No. Because Ralston will get word of it, and then he will kill you and everyone you love for trying to double-cross him. If the club tries to come in for an attack, the cartel will hunt them down forever. I won’t burden them with that. There is no way out now, Callie. You need to get out. Now.”