Page 68 of Raven's Mark
"We have the video, Harlan. The surveillance footage from Pritchard's cameras. Cloud backup you didn't know existed." I watch his profile in the dim glow of the dashboard, gambling everything on the hope that fear will make him stupid instead of violent. "We recovered it days ago. Every federal agent at that compound right now knows you walked into that barn, committed a cold-blooded murder, and staged an accident."
The silence stretches long enough for me to hear his breathing change. Faster. Shallow. His knuckles go white on the steering wheel. Mine are already white, but I keep my face still and force myself not to flinch.
"Won't matter," he says finally. "None of it matters. You think you took down a pipeline tonight? You cut off one head and ten more are waiting." His laugh is bitter, airless. "I didn't rebuild what Bo Hollister started. I improved it. Used every route, every contact, every staging point that old bastard set up. His own son couldn't see what was right under his nose because he was too busy playing soldier and pretending to be better than his daddy."
"What else are you running besides guns?"
"You have no idea." Harlan's voice loosens now, anger overriding whatever caution he had left. "The money laundering through the casinos up in Oklahoma. The distribution network running product through half of Central Texas. You think Alvarez was the only fed on the payroll?" He shakes his head. "Little girl, you don't even know how deep this goes. You ripped out one root and the rest of the tree is still standing."
I file every word, burning it into memory. Harlan is unraveling, his anger loosening his tongue the way fear never would.
The truck slows as the road dead-ends at a cattle gate. Harlan kills the engine and grabs the gun off the dash, then sits for a moment, staring through the windshield at nothing. In the sudden quiet, I can hear crickets and the tick of the cooling engine and my own pulse hammering against my eardrums.
"Get out." He motions with the gun.
I work the door handle with my bound hands and step down from the cab. The ground is uneven, rocky, mesquite and cedar pressing in close under an afternoon sun that bakes everything flat. My legs are unsteady beneath me, and I lock my knees to keep from swaying.
"On your knees."
I don't move. Not out of courage. My body has simply frozen, every muscle locked tight against the command because someanimal part of my brain understands that if I kneel on this gravel, I'm not getting back up.
"I said on your knees." His voice cracks on the last word. He's panicking now, cornered and desperate, and desperate men are the most dangerous kind. "You want to play tough? You can play tough in the dirt. You're just a girl who got in way over her head, just like your uncle did. Martin Bishop thought he could outsmart Bo Hollister, and look what happened to him."
The mention of Uncle Martin sends ice through my veins, followed immediately by a fury hot enough to burn through the fear. "Don't you say his name."
"Why not? I was there when Bo made that call. I was the one who made sure the sheriff's office looked the other way. Your uncle died because he was too stubborn to know when he was beaten." Harlan steps closer, the gun leveling at my face. "Just like you."
The glare of a windshield cuts through the cedar from the road behind us. Harlan spins, his arm swinging wide as he tries to track the approaching vehicle and keep the gun on me at the same time. Tires crunch over gravel and a truck comes to a hard stop thirty feet away.
Jesse steps out of the driver's side, and the relief hits so hard my knees nearly buckle. Everything I've been holding in place with stubbornness and spite threatens to crack wide open at the sight of him.
He doesn't rush. He moves with the measured deliberation of a man who has put down targets at a thousand yards and can certainly handle one at thirty feet. His sidearm is already drawn, held low against his thigh, and even from here I can see the cold calculation in those pale blue eyes. Not anger. Something worse. The quiet, focused intent of a predator who's already decided how this ends and is simply choosing the moment.
"Let her go, Harlan." His voice is flat and stripped of everything except intent, the way a blade is stripped of everything except edge.
"Stay back." Harlan grabs my arm and yanks me in front of him, pressing the muzzle against my temple. His hand is shaking badly enough that I can feel the barrel trembling against my skin. "I'll do it. You know I will."
"I know you’re a coward. You murdered a man with a taser and a tractor because you didn't have the nerve to use a bullet." Jesse's gaze doesn't flicker to me. It stays locked on Harlan with the flat patience of a man who has all the time in the world and no intention of giving any of it. "So go ahead. Pull that trigger. See what happens in the next half second of your life."
"Coward? Your daddy needed me. He couldn't move a single crate without my roads, my contacts, my cover. I'm the reason the Hollister name meant anything beyond a bunch of inbred ranchers playing cowboy."
"My father's dead. His operation's dead. And right now, your coordinates have been relayed to every federal vehicle within fifty miles." Jesse takes one step closer, unhurried, his sidearm still held low against his thigh like he doesn't even need it. "You've got no extraction, no backup, and no play. Let her go and I'll make sure you make it to a courtroom instead of a body bag."
Movement catches my eye from the tree line on my left. A man materializes from the shadows, dressed in dark tactical gear, rifle held at low ready. Another appears to the right, flanking Harlan's position from the opposite side.
Harlan sees them too. His grip on my arm loosens as his head swivels between the new arrivals, trying to calculate odds that stopped being in his favor the moment Jesse's truck appeared.
"Who the hell are they?"
Jesse doesn't answer. His mouth curves, barely, and the expression on his face isn't a smile.
Harlan makes his choice. His arm swings from my temple toward Jesse, and in the fraction of a second it takes for the gun to travel that arc, Jesse fires twice.
The sound splits the air. Harlan drops. His hand opens and the service weapon clatters onto the rocks. He doesn't move again.
My legs give out. All of it, the fear I'd been choking down since Harlan dragged me out of the compound, the bravado I'd forced through shaking hands, the adrenaline that's been the only thing holding me upright, lets go at once. The ground comes up hard, gravel biting through my jeans, and everything is suddenly too quiet, the ringing in my ears drowning out everything except the sound of boots on rock as Jesse crosses the distance between us.
He kneels in front of me and his hands are on my face, tilting it toward the light. His fingers are calloused and warm and firm, and the way they move along my jaw, my temple, the bruise forming near my hairline, isn't gentle so much as thorough. Cataloging damage with the focus of a man who's already deciding what the cost will be, and who's going to pay it. His thumb traces the cut near my eyebrow, and his pale eyes go darker than I've ever seen them.
