"Tyler tried to tell me something before he died," I say. "Couldn't get the words out, but he was trying. Said 'they paid.' That's all I got."
Colt's jaw tightens. "They paid what? For what?"
"I don't know." I look back at the stock pens. "But I'm going to find out."
"Grant." Colt's voice carries a warning I know well. "Don't go looking for conspiracies where there's just bad luck and worse timing."
"You see that bull's movements? That wasn't normal aggression."
"Bulls do unpredictable things. That's why we ride them."
"Not like that." I meet his eyes. "Something was wrong with Hellfire. The way he moved, the way he came back for Tyler after the throw. That bull was juiced or drugged or something."
Colt studies me for a long moment. "Even if you're right, what are you going to do? The officials already made their ruling. Tyler's dead. Going after ghosts won't bring him back."
"No." I look down at my hands, still red with Tyler's blood. "But maybe it'll keep the next guy from dying the same way."
Colt doesn't argue. He knows me well enough to know I've already made up my mind.
"Be careful," he says finally. "If there's something dirty happening, the people behind it won't want you digging."
"I know."
He leaves me there, goes to get ready for his own ride. The circuit doesn't stop for the dead. We've got events to compete, points to earn, bulls to ride. Life goes on, same as it always does.
But I make a promise standing in that blood-stained dirt behind the Fort Worth chutes. Tyler was trying to warn me about something. Tried to tell me who paid, and for what, and couldn't get the words out before he died.
I'll find out what he was trying to say.
And when I do, whoever's responsible for putting my friend in the ground is going to pay for it in ways they can't imagine.
Three weeks later, the blood is gone from my hands but not from my head. I still hear Tyler trying to get the words out, still see his eyes losing focus, still feel his grip going slack around my wrist.
The circuit keeps moving. So do I.
1
Amarillo, Texas
Present Day
The photographer has good hands and dangerous eyes, and I notice both before I notice she's aiming a camera at my face.
I'm behind the chutes at the Amarillo event, prepping Satan's Gambit—a mean son of a bitch who's thrown every rider who's tried him in the past three months. My rope's coiled on the rail, rosin bag ready, and I'm running through the mental checklist that's kept me alive for over a decade of professional bull riding. Check the rope. Check the bell. Check the?—
Click. Click. Click.
Camera shutter. Close. Too close.
I turn my head and there she is. Five-six, maybe five-seven, auburn hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing a photographer's vest with a dozen pockets and a camera that costs more than most riders make in a month. She's got the lens aimed at me like she's documenting evidence, not taking promotional shots.
"You're not supposed to be back here," I say.
She lowers the camera. Amber-brown eyes meet mine without flinching. "Press credentials get me anywhere the action is."
"Action's in the arena. This is the workspace."
"This is where the real story happens." She raises the camera again.Click."Before the eight seconds. When you're still just a man instead of a spectacle."
