Page 37 of Carnival’s Playground

"Looks like the world isn't done throwing punches at us yet," I remark, fastening my belt buckle. My fingers fumble with the metal, and I have to try twice.

"Guess not," he agrees, catching my wrist before I can reach for the door handle. "Hey."

"What?" I ask, looking up into his storm-gray eyes.

"Whatever the hell is on that screen," he steadily tells me, "we face it as a team. No reckless hero shit from you, no lone-wolf garbage from me. We move as one unit."

"One unit," I repeat, letting the weight of the promise settle deep into my chest. It helps, just a little.

"Damn right," he responds, leaning down to take my mouth in a quick, bruising kiss that leaves my head spinning.

He shoves the trailer door open, letting the biting October air rush inside, and we step out into the gray Texas morning to hunt down whatever bastard is trying to destroy our circus.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CARNIVAL

Dutch's office trailer door stands wide open when we walk up, yellow incandescent light cutting through the freezing morning haze. Petey is already inside, hunched over the fold-out laminate table, glaring at a laptop screen like it just insulted his mother. Avery's fingers stay locked tightly in mine the entire walk across the gravel, and I don't give a single damn when Petey glances up and his eyebrows shoot straight toward his hairline. "Well, look at the dynamic duo," Petey drawls, a smug smirk spreading across his face.

"Shut your mouth before I shut it for you, Petey," Avery warns, though there's no real venom in her tone.

"I didn't say a damn thing," Petey playfully lies, throwing his hands up in mock surrender.

Deputy Cassidy Renn is leaning against the narrow kitchenette counter with her tactical jacket zipped tight and her radio humming quietly on her shoulder. She clocks our joined hands with a sharp, calculating glance, but she keeps her mouth shut about it. The woman is pure business. "Morning," Renn formally greets us, tapping her knuckles against the edge of the table. "Figured you two would want to see this together."

"We do everything together lately," I bluntly state, releasing Avery's hand just enough so we can both lean over the screen.

"Is that a threat or a statement of fact, biker?" Avery teases, bumping her hip hard against mine.

"Take it however you want, spitfire," I murmur.

Dutch clears his throat, a sound like grinding concrete, crossing his thick arms over his flannel shirt. The man looks like he hasn't slept more than twenty minutes in the last three days. Dark circles bruise the skin under his eyes, and his jaw works like he's chewing on something bitter. "Renn cleaned up the trail camera footage from the west tree line," Dutch informs us, gesturing at the monitor. "Run the tape, Deputy."

Renn taps the spacebar. The grainy black-and-white clip starts rolling, a digital timestamp ticking away in the bottom right corner. The footage is dark and grainy around the edges, but the motion-activated infrared sensor clearly captures a tall, broad-shouldered figure slipping through the dense mesquite brush near the perimeter fence. The bastard is carrying something heavy slung across his chest. "Stop it right there," I instruct, leaning in until my face is six inches from the screen. My pulse kicks up, adrenaline flooding back in when I thought I was finally coming down. Renn pauses the video. We all crowd in, our breath fogging in the chilly trailer.

"Is that a duffel bag?" Avery tightly asks, her knuckles turning white where she grips the table edge.

"Or a spool of heavy wire," Petey nervously guesses. "Maybe high-tensile steel cable."

"Looks like a canvas tool roll," Dutch mutters, rubbing his scarred jaw. "Heavy bolt cutters or an iron pry bar."

"Whatever the hell this is, he's carrying it with both hands close to his ribs," Renn points out, tapping the frozen frame with her pen. "He's not dragging it, and he's not letting it bang against the brush. He knows the weight, and he knows how to move through brush without making noise."

"Can you pull the face into focus?" Avery presses, her tone urgent.

"Not from this angle," Renn admits, regretfully shaking her head. "The oak branches block the direct line of sight, and he's got a dark ball cap pulled low over his brow. But take a look at the left arm." Renn scrubs the footage forward three seconds. The figure turns slightly to duck under a low-hanging limb. The infrared light catches the sleeve of his heavy canvas work jacket. Stitched right near the cuff is a faded, circular embroidered patch with a jagged pale emblem in the center.

My jaw clenches so hard my back teeth ache. "That patch," I quietly state, the blood pounding hot behind my ears. "That's the old crew emblem from Vesper Crow Traveling Circus."

"It looks damn close," Renn cautiously agrees. "I can't swear to it in front of a grand jury without better resolution, but it's enough probable cause to pull every old employment roster in the district."

"So it's Rourke," Avery flatly concludes, the anger in her voice shaking with raw tension.

"It's a strong lead," Renn corrects. "Not a confirmed identity. We don't jump to conclusions until the forensic evidence lines up."

Dutch grabs the evidence folder from the counter, pulling out the glossies of the scored high-wire clamp, the bagged iron pipe from the jammed gate, and the printed still frame of the man in the brush. He slaps them down in a neat row. His hands shake slightly, just enough that I notice. "Same heavy boot tread we pulled from the mud by the generators," Dutch heavily notes, comparing the tread patterns. "Same height, same heavy build. It doesn't prove it's Rourke, but the son of a bitch is definitely hunting our grounds."

"Half the road hands in Texas wear those exact work boots," Petey mutters.