Page 50 of Branded Betrayal

And that’s something. Not everything, but I’ll take it.

I drive past Whiskey Creek to another town about twenty miles away. Birch Falls. Sounds like a nice place from the name, but knowing that Wilkerson has his operations set up there means it’s been poisoned by his toxic business deals. He’s also got crews of “workers” set up here, too, guys he pulls in for jobs, jobs I used to run for him.

Better them than me. I’m finished with that asshole. Right after he gets Red Rock, I’m done.

And Savannah will leave town.

Forever, this time. No doubt about that. There are too many ghosts haunting her here, and losing the ranch would just add one more to the list.

My jaw tightens. I’m sure that vet’d be disappointed to see her go. Although . . . and the thoughts roils my gut . . . if he sinks his claws deep enough into her, she might stick around longer. And that’d be way worse than her leaving—seeing her with him, knowing I let her slip through my fingers again.

But the worst part is that Wilkerson might still use her to get to me. And I can’t let that happen. She has to go.

I stop my truck outside what looks like a tractor-parts storefront. It’s on the edge of town, tucked away in a remote spot that probably doesn’t see a lot of foot traffic. You’d only come here if you were a specific kind of customer.

Or if you were being threatened by the proprietor.

I pull open the door and step inside the place, a noxious cloud of cigarette smoke combined with the stench of stale beer and tractor fuel making my gut twist. Shelves of dirty machine parts line the space, and the layer of dust on them is about an inch thick.

“Anyone here?” I call out, walking deeper into the mess. My voice echoes, an eerie chill slithering over the back of my neck.

For the briefest second, I have to wonder if I’m walking right into my own hit because this is exactly the kind of place where you could mutilate and dispose of a body without anyone decent being the wiser.

And let’s face it. I don’t have any fans back in town who’d come looking for me if I suddenly disappeared.

They’d probably be relieved.

“Who’s there?” a sharp voice answers back, slicing through my thoughts. Metal jangles in time with the heavy feet clunking across the floor, louder with each step. A tall, lanky guy who looks like he hasn’t showered in a month glares at me with soulless blue eyes. His messy hair is thick with grease and hanging in stringy strands around his gaunt face.

Jesus Christ, he looks like the living dead. His stained gray tank top hangs off his skinny frame, wrinkled skin covered with faded tattoos. My eyes latch on to one in particular creeping down the side of his neck, though. One that I know is common to a certain gang that has dealings in the western region of the country.

I remember it well. And based on what Nash told me, they remember me well, too.

I force my eyes away from the image of hands gripping a lightning bolt. “211” is their code for death and destruction, and even though I can’t see it, I know the number sits in the center of the image. Lightning bolts are pretty popular, but you have to know to look deeper at the intricacy of the design to understand who these motherfuckers really are.

And they’re bad.

But then again, so is the man they work for.

The guy lifts an eyebrow, waiting for me to speak.

“Wilkerson sent me.”

He nods and walks over to a shelf of metal tools and parts. “This what you’re lookin’ for?”

“I have to fix some underground piping for an irrigation system,” I say, eyeing the contents of the shelves. I pick up a piece of coupling and turn it over in my hands. “And I don’t want it to hold for longer than a couple of weeks.”

“That there should work fine.” The guy narrows his eyes at me. “You’re the soldier, yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say abruptly, grabbing the materials I need. “I’m in a rush, so if you can just give me the total—”

He shakes his head, thin lips lifting into a sinister smirk. “Nah. This is on the house, soldier boy. Courtesy of Wilkerson.”

I give him a stiff nod and lug the equipment out to my truck. His footsteps approach as I load the pieces into the flatbed. Hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, my leg muscles twitching with the urge to run like hell.

“Hey,” he calls out.

I jerk my head around, fingers wrapping tight around a short metal pipe. He holds up an empty cardboard box. “Thought this might help.”