"I know."
I climb out of the van, turn to leave, then stop. "How many photos of Vic are on this drive?"
"Every one I've got. Three years of circuit coverage. If he's in the background, he's on that drive."
I walk across the parking lot to my truck, mind already working through the next steps. Find Vic. Get answers. Figure out who's pulling the strings. The plan is simple. The execution is going to be the hard part.
I plug the drive into my laptop and start scrolling. There's Vic, shot after shot, standing by bull pens with medical supplies visible in his hands. Different events, different venues, same nervous sweat.
She's right. There's a pattern. And now I have proof.
The afternoon grinds by. I compete in the evening event, ride a bull whose name I forget before I've walked out of the arena, and spend every minute between rides tracking Vic across the grounds. He handles his stock with the same jittery efficiency he always has, but now that I know what to look for, the nervous sweat and the way his eyes dart toward every sudden noise tell me everything I need to know. This man is running scared, and scared men talk.
I find him that night at the Dusty Rose, a honky-tonk bar three blocks from the arena where riders go to drink and pretend they're not counting down to their next potential injury. The place is crowded, loud, country music blasting from speakers while cowboys and buckle bunnies dance and drink and forget tomorrow exists.
Vic's at the bar, three drinks deep and getting louder. Wade Ashcroft's a few stools down, working through his own bottle with the grim determination of a man who rides saddle broncs for a living and drinks like he's trying to forget it. Wade catches my eye, raises his glass in a salute that's more muscle memory than warmth, then goes back to his bourbon. I watch Vic long enough to nurse a beer I barely taste, waiting for the right moment. When he stumbles toward the bathroom, I follow.
The parking lot behind the bar is empty except for a few trucks and the dumpsters. Vic's leaning against the building, trying to light a cigarette with hands that shake too much to manage it.
"Need a light?" I ask.
He jerks his head up. When he sees me, the blood drains from his face. "Grant. Hey, man. I, uh. I was just. Heading out."
"Stay a minute. We need to talk."
"Nothing to talk about." He tries to walk past me. I step into his path.
"Tyler Brennan," I say. "The night before he died. You had a conversation with him by the stock pens. Want to tell me what that was about?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"See, I think you do. I think Tyler figured out you've been drugging bulls. Making them more dangerous than they naturally are. Creating spectacular accidents for someone's profit."
Vic's eyes go wide. "You're crazy."
"Am I?" I pull out my phone, show him the photo I saved from Rainey's drive. Him standing next to Hellfire's Revenge with a syringe in his hand. "This was taken the night before Tyler died. Want to explain what you were doing?"
The cigarette falls from his fingers. "I. That's not. You can't."
"Can't what? Prove you drugged the bull that killed my friend?" I take a step closer. Vic backs up against the building. "Here's how this is going to work. You're going to tell me who paid you to juice Hellfire. You're going to tell me how many other bulls you've tampered with. And you're going to tell me who else knows about this."
"I can't." His voice cracks. "If I talk, I'm dead. You don't understand who you're dealing with."
"Then help me understand."
"No. No, I can't. I won't." He tries to push past me. "Get out of my way, Grant."
I grab his shoulder, slam him back against the wall. Not hard enough to hurt him, but hard enough to make it clear I'm not asking anymore.
"Tyler Brennan died because of what you did. He tried to tell me something before he bled out in the arena dirt, and he couldn't get the words out. So you're going to finish what he started." I lean in close, let him see the rage I've been carrying for three weeks. "Who paid you?"
"I don't know!" The words come out in a rush, panicked. "I never met them. Just got envelopes. Cash and instructions. They'd tell me which bull, what to give it, when. I'd do it, and the money would show up after the event."
"How long has this been going on?"
"Months. I don't know exactly."
"How many bulls?"
