To anyone else, it just looks like our ranch bought some new prized mares.
"How big?" he asks.
"Big enough that Colt asked for help."
He nods. The joking drops for half a second. "Alright. I'll handle the reporter solo. Shouldn't take long. Just gotta pull up, look scary, throw a bag over their head. The usual."
"You've done this before?"
"Once. In college."
"You didn't go to college."
"Exactly. So imagine how well it went without training." He revs the engine. "I'll have them at the barn by one. Come by after your shipment? Help me put the fear of Sterling in them?"
"I'll be there." I pause.
“You got a name for this reporter?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. They’ve been given my number; they’ll text me with their table number.”
I shake my head. I guess Hunter didn’t want Jett getting confused with names or faces. We just have to hope he can count today.
He salutes. "Wish me luck."
"Jett."
"Yeah?"
There's a gnawing feeling in my gut.
"Don't hurt them. Hunter said bring them in. Not bring them in pieces," I tell him, dead serious.
He waves a hand. "Relax. I'm a professional."
"You're wearing a flamingo shirt."
"A professional in disguise. Who would guess a guy with a fuckin’ flamingo on their shirt is going to kidnap them in broad daylight?"
I run a hand over my face. You can’t argue with that logic, I suppose.
“Okay, well, don’t get arrested, Jett.”
He salutes me and floors it. The truck fishtails on the gravel, spraying dirt across the barn wall, and disappears down the drive.
I watch the dust settle.
My cousin is about to kidnap a reporter in a flamingo shirt. My brother is on the phone with God knows who, putting together a response to a Greek army building in our backyard. And I'm about to go help move enough firepower to arm a small country through the back roads of Arizona in broad daylight.
Just another Tuesday on Sterling Ranch.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Harper
I'm tapping my fingers on the table, nursing a chocolate milkshake that's dripping down the side of the glass and pooling on the napkin underneath. I should wipe it up. I should drink it. I should do anything other than sit here vibrating with anxiety, but my stomach is in knots, and the milkshake tastes like chalk, and I'm two minutes away from sending a text that puts me in the hands of a man who runs a criminal empire.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
