Ryker’s eyes narrowed and he shrugged like he was okay with it.
He held out his hand. “Carlos Ramos,” he said. “It’s my understanding that you speak fluent Canadian French.”
“I do.”
“I’ve got a job for you that will add a nice bonus to your bank account. He named a sum, and Break allowed his eyes to widen.
“That’s some serious cash. Who do you want me to kill?”
Carlos chuckled. “Funny guy. No one…yet. There’s a border guard who is in some financial trouble. We need his cooperation tomorrow night. You get it, and the cash is yours.”
“With more to follow?”
“Let’s see how you do on this job first.”
The next day, Breakneck tightened the cinch on the gelding he’d been assigned, the animal patient and bored in the yard. Bright light stretched shadows across gravel and copper-dusted hills beyond. He didn’t like leaving the main barn when the operation felt this active, but the brass insisted on a three-day check-in window. If he didn’t show, they’d start to get nervous.
Ice’s voice lingered in the back of his mind. Stay sharp.
He swung into the saddle and turned toward the far pasture trail when the rumble hit the ground like distant thunder. A grain truck, big and battered, rolled through the gate and jerked to a stop near the barn.
Ranch hands rushed it. One climbed onto the flatbed and tugged at a stack of barrels strapped down with worn tie lines. He pulled too hard. The strap slipped. A metal barrel toppled, slammed into the gravel, bounced once, and rolled to a stop a few feet from Breakneck’s horse.
The sound was sharp. Metallic.
Ryker burst from the barn. “Watch the goddamn barrels!” He shoved the nearest hand, his reaction bigger than the mistake. “If one of those ruptures, you’ll be digging holes for a week.”
The man scrambled, righting the barrel. Breakneck let his gaze skim the load. Standard grain drums, blue plastic inserts inside metal frames, dust packed into the grooves, labels half torn.
He nudged the horse forward. “You need help, Ryker?”
“No. You’re mending fences today. Get to it.”
“Got it.”
Ryker was already barking orders, demanding every strap be checked twice.
Breakneck took the trail toward the fence line, pulse steady, breath even. He rode long enough to make it look real, then dismounted at the compromised section. Pliers out. Wire twisted. He crouched and worked loose the segment hiding the satellite-linked burner.
He keyed in the number and hit send.
Static. Then Carver.
“Cross. Your window’s short.”
“I’m in,” Breakneck said. “Ramos pulled me aside. Border guard in debt. Wants him leaning their way by tomorrow night.”
“Fast,” Carver replied. “Did he name a number?”
“A good number.”
Silence. Then, “That’s leverage. Stay close.”
“Still no clue how they’re moving precursors,” Breakneck said quietly. “Whatever it is, it’s not inside the buildings.”
“We’ll take care of the guard,” Carver said. “Name?”
“Jacques Marques.”
