There’s a long pause. Then he lets out a rough exhale. “Okay, but I’m helpin’ you. This is my mess, and my sister. Where would they take her?”
I steady myself and tell Fisher—who’s still patting thehorses—to head to Mama’s. He gives a quick nod and takes off.
I run a hand down my face, thinking hard. Then it clicks. “That barn they think we don’t know about. Meet me there. I’m gettin’ in the truck.”
I hang up, shove the phone in my pocket, and yank open the glove box. My gun gleams back at me. I thumb the clip, check the chamber—loaded. Ready. No hesitation.
By the time I pull up near the barn, I cut the headlights and ease my truck into the tree line, where nobody’s gonna see it. Boots hit dirt before the engine even dies down.
Some idiot is posted out front, trying to look tough. I step into the open, slowly. “You the one standin’ guard?” I ask, voice low, calm.
“Nah,” he says, leaning back like he ain’t worried. “Out here for a smoke break.”
I grit my teeth. “Might wanna take that break somewhere else and step aside.”
He smirks, squinting at me. “You pretty boys think everyone’s intimidated by you, huh? You wanna know what I think of you?”
Before I can respond, he spits right in my face. Big mistake.
I don’t even flinch. My hand drops to my holster, and in one smooth motion, I draw my gun, pressing the barrel against his forehead before he can draw his. His eyes widen, pulse hammering—but he doesn’t break.
“Don’t you know they call me Trouble… should tell you somethin’ about me.”
My finger hovers near the trigger, but I know better. If Sawyer’s not inside, I need him alive. I need answers. With a swift punch to the jaw, I send him sprawling to the dirt. He hits hard, out cold before he even has time to respond.
I shake out my hand, lean down just enough to mutter, “Tell your boys Trouble’s here.” Then I step over him without a second thought. My knuckles sting, but I don’t care. All that matters is Sawyer. And I’ll tear through every last one of these bastards if that’s what it takes to get her back.
thirty-three
Sawyer
After I don’t know how many hours, somewhere outside a coyote yips. I tuck my chin into my chest, breathing slow. I stare at the lines of moonlight now painting the barn floor. My feet hurt. My hands are stiff, but I keep working the knot, praying for a weak thread. My throat is so raw I don’t even try to scream anymore.
I might have drifted to sleep, eyes half-shut, when I hear it—my name. I freeze. It sounds like a hallucination, a voice I want so badly I almost think I’ve invented it.
“Sawyer.”
I blink, breathe, wait. Then, again:
“SAWYER.”
I hear it closer. Louder. It’s Trouble’s voice, but urgent, stripped to its core.
He’s here. Really here.
He’s pointing a gun to the ground, glancing around. He moves fast, not making a sound, until he’s next to me. He sees the rope and his face changes—soft for a second, then back to steel.
“Did they touch you?” he says, so low I barely catch it.
I shake my head.
He lets out a breath, pulls out a knife then unties me with hands that don’t shake, not even a little. The rope falls and I push up to stand, every muscle screaming in relief. I grab him, relieved that I’m finally in his arms.
“How did you?—?”
“Cut the lock out back. They think we don’t know about this barn. Figured it had to be here.”
He glances around, then at me, and his voice drops. “We don’t have much time.”
