Fuck, that’s definitely not something I want to deal with today. I draw my gun—a plain black Glock, nothing fancy like Wayne’s showpiece —and take aim.
“Martin. There’s nowhere to go. Turn around, and let’s end this the easy way.”
Surprisingly, he does, his movements sluggish now, his chest heaving. There’s blood on his hand. He must have cut himself in his mad dash.
“Please,” he whispers, and his voice seems to shrink as it echoes. “I’ll get the rest of the money. I’ll do anything. I swear on it.”
I level the gun at his chest, finger steady on the trigger.
The metal feels cold but familiar against my skin. “My father doesn’t accept partial payments.”
“I’ll work it off! I can work at the ranch—” His voice breaks, desperate hope flickering across his face like the last embers of a dying fire.
“We don’t need more hands.” The lie comes easily.
We always need more hands after all. Five thousand acres doesn’t tend itself, and good help is hard to find this far from town. But a man’s word has to mean something, and now I know Martin’s word doesn’t mean shit.
In the distance, I hear Wayne catching up. Always a step behind.
That’s why my father sends me. I don’t make mistakes.
“Please,” Martin begs. Sweat drips down his temple despite the cold. “Let me live, and I’ll pay double. Triple.”
A laugh catches in my throat.”With what money? You couldn’t even pay what you already owe. Don’t be writing checks you can’t cash, Martin.”
I should have anticipated it. A desperate man will make desperate moves, but that’s the thing. I don’t anticipate. I’m completely caught off guard when he lunges at me. The movement is telegraphed, clumsy with fear and desperation. I could sidestep it easily—years of wrestling steers and breaking broncs have given me reflexes most men can’t match—but I don’t.
Instead, I squeeze the trigger. The gunshot cracks through the forest, and Martin stumbles back, clutching his shoulder, shock etched into the creases of his face. Blood seeps between his fingers, black in the moonlight.
I didn’t shoot to kill.Not yet.
“Play stupid games, win stupid prizes,” I tell him as he sinks to his knees, the pine needles cushioning his fall.
His breath comes in short, pained gasps, forming small clouds in the cold air. He looks down at his hand, even more slick now with fresh blood, and something shifts in his eyes. The resignation is gone, replaced with wild desperation—the look of a cornered animal.
At that moment, Wayne joins us, and I risk a glance toward him.
That’s all the time it takes for Martin to gain his feet again, his movements quick for someone bleeding out since he’s already inside the tree line when I turn back.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, holstering my gun and taking off after him. How the hell is this bastard so fast? What the hell is wrong withme? Blood’s easy to track, even in the dark. It leaves a trail a blind man could follow, dark droplets catching in the moonlight where they fall on leaves and pine needles.
Wayne shouts from somewhere behind me, his voice echoing between the trees. By the time he catches up, Martin will be dead. I guarantee it. Martin’s wounded, terrified, and running blindly through unfamiliar territory. He won’t get far.
The forest thickens as the land slopes upward, and the ground becomes rockier.
The scent of pine intensifies, mixing with the metallic tang of blood.
Damn you, Martin.
I should’ve just killed him when I had the chance. Now I have to hunt him down. Stupid. There’s no more room for error, no more talking. I’m sure he thinks he’s escaped, but he hasn’t. If Martin gets away, I might as well shoot myself.
I won’t go home until the job is done.
Saint
I can hearAllie’s voice in my head right now.
Why are you baking when you could be out having fun?
