“We’ve got it.”
Breakneck frowned slightly. “Anything else?”
“Stay on Ramos. Don’t lose momentum.”
The line went dead.
He slid the phone back into its hiding place, fixed the fence properly, and mounted.
The gelding shifted beneath him, uncomplicated and steady. His gut tightened. The border guard. The joke about killing someone. That wasn’t a line he crossed. Not for cartel scum. Not for the United States government. Snipers killed to protect. This would be murder.
No one expected him to pull the trigger. But the implication alone sat heavy.
He drew a slow breath, cold air burning his lungs. The fact that the thought sickened him meant something. It meant he wasn’t empty. It meant he wasn’t built wrong.
The realization flickered like something fragile. Hope. He tamped it down immediately. He was walking on personal and professional eggshells now. Any lapse in focus was reckless.
Stay sharp.
Breakneck tightened his grip on the reins and turned back toward Stone Creek.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “No shit.”
The border guard situation went smoothly, too smooth, which told Breakneck everything. The DEA had greased the wheels ahead of time, and laid quiet groundwork that made the guard cooperative before Break even opened his mouth. Nothing about the meet pointed toward a real operation. It was a test, one more layer in the gauntlet Ramos kept throwing at him. He walked away with the guard’s agreement, but no shipment got tagged and no new information surfaced.
It was frustrating as hell. They were still circling him, still poking at his edges, still deciding whether he was worth the risk.
Two nights later, when the ranch went quiet, Breakneck slipped from the bunkhouse and moved toward the main house. The moon cut pale light across the yard, enough for him to pick his way around the loose gravel without making a sound. He crouched beneath the front window, the living room a warm rectangle of light against the dark, the television flickering across Ramos’s face. Ryker sat beside him, both men with beer bottles sweating in their hands.
“What’re your thoughts about that kid?” Ramos asked. “You think he’s got potential?”
Ryker shrugged, gaze fixed on the screen. “I can’t put my finger on it, but he’s…too put together. Competent. Almost too competent.”
Ramos chuckled. “You don’t like him because he’d make a damn good second.”
Ryker’s jaw flexed, the subtle crack of tension, Breakneck had seen before. “That’s funny, boss,” he muttered, but he took a quick sip of beer and looked away.
The phone rang, sharp in the quiet. Ramos grabbed it, listening as his expression shifted from annoyance to mild interest.
“The guard was just to see how the kid reacted,” he said. “Why are you getting your panties in a twist?” A beat of silence. “DEA? They pulled the guard’s record. Why?”
Breakneck’s breath stilled.
Ramos nodded slowly, chin lifting. “I know what I’m doing. Make sure you keep the RCMP off our asses. That’s what we pay you for.” He hung up.
Ryker straightened. “What’s going on? Our contact is getting antsy. Let the DEA sniff around. They don’t have shit on us.”
Ramos leaned back, eyes narrowing. “They were asking about Marques. That worries me.” He took a long drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You think we have a rat infestation?”
Ryker’s fingers tapped the bottle, a nervous, twitchy rhythm. “Could be.”
Ramos nodded. “Yeah. The only good rat is a dead rat.”
Breakneck eased away from the window, keeping low, moving one silent step at a time until the dark swallowed him. He didn’t breathe freely until he reached the bunkhouse and slipped inside.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck.
He wasn’t spooked. He wasn’t even close. But he would have to be cautious going forward. Someone, somewhere, was being sloppy, and sloppy got people killed. They had doubts, and with Ramos, doubts could get a man buried on the wrong side of the border.
