"And you're okay with that?"
Am I? Rainey walked into this on her own, but I didn't exactly send her away. I let her stay. Let her get close. Last night I took her to bed knowing that whoever's after us won't distinguish between partners and targets.
"She made her choice," I say.
"So did Tyler. Look how that turned out."
The words hit harder than Flint intended. I clench my jaw, force myself to stay calm. "You know something about what happened to Tyler?"
"I know Thornton Livestock has been getting preferential treatment for six months. Best time slots, highest-profile events, biggest prize purses. And I know their bulls have been involved in more injuries than any other stock contractor on the circuit." He crosses his arms. "Ask Zane Crowe. He's been losing contracts to Thornton for months. Good stock, fair prices, decades of reputation, and he keeps getting passed over for a company that didn't exist two years ago. Zane's too proud to complain about it publicly, but he sees what I see."
"Thornton Livestock. Who owns them?"
“Shell company out of Nevada. But the manager is Dale Thornton's brother and Dale is the Southwest Circuit's head of operations."
Circuit officials. Of course. Who better to rig matches and cover up evidence than the people running the show?
"And Dale Thornton doesn't run anything on his own," Flint continues. "He answers to Hayes Merrick. Merrick's investment group is behind the shell company that owns Thornton Livestock. His name's buried under three layers of corporate filings, but everyone in the stock contracting business has heard the rumors."
"Hayes Merrick. The circuit commissioner?"
"The same. He's been consolidating power on the Southwest Circuit for ten years. Controls the officials, the stock contracts, the sponsor deals. If someone's running a fraud operation through this circuit, it doesn't happen without Merrick knowing about it. And if Merrick knows about it, he's profiting from it."
I process this. Merrick. The man at the top of the food chain. Not some mid-level stock contractor skimming money, but the president of the entire professional rodeo operation.
"You have proof?"
"Nothing that would hold up in court. Just observations from someone who's been in this business long enough to recognize when the game is fixed." Flint studies me. "What are you planning to do with this information?"
"Find out if you're right. Make sure they pay for what happened to Tyler."
"And if the people pulling the strings have the power to make you disappear? What then?"
"Then I disappear fighting."
Flint shakes his head. "You're just like your old man. Stubborn as hell and twice as stupid when it comes to knowing when to walk away."
My father. We haven't spoken in three years, not since I chose rodeo over taking over the family ranch. Last I heard, he's still disappointed I didn't turn out the way he wanted.
"If you're trying to talk me out of this, you're wasting your time," I tell Flint.
"I'm not trying to talk you out of anything. I'm trying to keep you alive long enough to actually accomplish something." He pulls a business card from his pocket, and hands it to me. "This is my ranch. Forty miles northwest of here, off the main highway. You need somewhere safe to lie low, you come there. No questions asked."
I pocket the card. "Why are you helping me?"
"Because Tyler Brennan deserved better than what he got. And because I've known you since you were seventeen years old, riding practice bulls and thinking you were invincible." His expression softens. "You remind me of my son. He died in a rodeo accident ten years ago. Trampled after a bad ride. Officials called it bad luck, closed the case." Flint's voice goes flat. "I didn't accept it. Spent three years making noise, writing letters, calling anyone who'd listen. Eventually an agent at the FBI field office in Albuquerque heard me out. Woman named Torres. She couldn't do anything then. One death, no pattern, no evidence of foul play beyond a father's gut feeling. But she told me if I ever had something solid, something that showed a system, to bring it to her."
"You kept her number."
"Kept everything. Because I knew, even if I couldn't prove it, that my son's death wasn't bad luck." He straightens, turns back to the bulls. "And now you're showing me the proof I never found. Be careful, Grant. These people don't play fair, and they don't leave loose ends. You've already lost one friend. Don't let them get you."
He walks away before I can respond, leaving me standing in the dust with more information than I had before and the weight of another warning I'm probably going to ignore.
Rainey and I drive back to the motel after the event, and she has her laptop open before I've even locked the door. She's been cross-referencing during every spare minute at the arena, downloading her shots between events and running them against what she already had in the cloud.
"Thornton Livestock supplied bulls for nearly every event where Vic shows up in the backgrounds," she says, turning the screen toward me. "And in most of those, top-ranked riders sustained injuries that knocked them out of competition for at least one event."
I sit beside her on the bed; studying the spreadsheet she's built. Names, dates, injuries, prize money. The pattern is undeniable once you're looking for it.
