"I'll be ready," Ryder lied.
"Good man," Davis said. "We'll send the contract. See you in Oklahoma."
Click.
Ryder hung up the phone.
His heart was hammering a frantic, violent rhythm. He had just signed a deal with the devil. He had four weeks to do the impossible.
He looked around the barn. It was empty.
Start now.
He grabbed his crutches. He hobbled to the center of the aisle.
There was a practice barrel set up in the corner—a fifty-gallon drum suspended on ropes, used to train balance.
Ryder walked over to it.
He leaned his crutches against the wall.
He stood on his good leg. He reached out and grabbed the handle of the bull rope tied to the barrel.
"Up," he whispered.
He hopped. He swung his broken leg over the barrel.
The impact of his inner thigh hitting the metal drum was blinding.
"Gah!"
He saw white stars. He gasped, sweat popping instantly on his forehead. The vibration traveled straight to the screw sites. It felt like someone was taking a hammer to his hip.
Push through it. Pain is just noise.
He settled onto the barrel. He slid his hand into the rope. He tightened his grip.
He squeezed his legs.
The muscle in his left quad seized instantly—a cramp so violent it felt like a tear.
Ryder screamed. A guttural, animal sound that echoed in the rafters.
He slipped.
He fell off the barrel, landing hard on his right shoulder—the torn one.
He lay in the dirt, gasping for air, tears streaming down his face. His body was screaming at him.Stop. You are broken. You are dying.
But in the center of the pain, a small, cold flame had ignited.
He had a deadline. He had a ticket out.
He wasn't going to rot in this valley. He wasn't going to let Elena look at him with pity for one more day.
He dragged himself up. He grabbed the crutches.
He looked at the barrel.
