Page 76 of Fatal Strike
“Has anyone contacted you about selling your property?” Jon said.
“A man phoned me about a year ago wanting to know if I’d sell a hundred acres from the northwest section, but I refused. It’s been in my family a long time.”
“Did he give you a name?”
“I didn’t ask because I wasn’t interested. He did offer quite a bit. Told him there isn’t a public road access to the northwest acreage, but he was insistent. I think I kept his number.Anyway, I’m in Seattle and won’t be home until Wednesday. Want me to text it to you then?”
“Yes, please.” Jon gave him his number. Could be something. Could be nothing.
They drove down a dirt road, then turned onto a rutted lane bordered on both sides by waist-high weeds. The lane soon ended, and they bumped over pastureland to a weather-beaten shack. Trodden-down weeds indicated other vehicles had been there. He parked the truck and together with Leah, Everson, and the officers, followed a path around dense woods. Jon noted Leah lingered at a patch of yellow black-eyed Susans and silverleaf nightshade. The harsh caw of a crow and the hum of insects reminded him of the hours spent as a boy exploring the land surrounding his home in Oklahoma.
A massive live oak to the west with its arching branches marked the direction of the pit, twenty feet north of the tree. According to Henry, the milking was done here, in the shack, and the equipment needed was brought to the site. The area was clean of any signs, only the bent weeds and scraping rake marks.
Jon found the pit. A metal grate held in place by heavy stones kept the snakes inside. Leah moved to his right, and he studied her face. Her flattened lips failed to mask her fear.
He lowered his tone. “No need to put yourself through this. Why not wait in the truck?”
She stared at the pit. Her gaze flew to his, liquid fire. “Stand down, Jon. This is my private war. I’m no coward.”
Stand down?
“Agent Riesel,” an officer said.
She swung toward the man who’d spoken her name. To her right, a four-foot rattler uncoiled, its head directed at her ankle, well within striking distance, just a yard away.
Jon pulled his gun. “Easy, Leah. I’ve got this.”
“No. I’ll kill it.” With shaking hands she slowly pulled her Glock from her back waistband.
Her face paled.
The snake rattled its warning.
How long should he wait? If he jumped in to save her, she’d probably shoot him.
“Jon.” Her voice trembled.
He fired, blowing off the rattler’s head. “Stay away from its head. It can still bite.”
“I know that!” Leah turned and walked back to the truck.
Jon ached for her. He’d experienced gut-wrenching terror, the paralysis of despising yet protecting yourself.
Jon and the officers removed the stones and used a dead branch to slide the grate and expose the pit.
One of the officers swore. Jon snapped a couple of pics. He estimated it contained a couple hundred rattlers.
“The Venenos won’t be getting their venom here anymore.” Everson peered over the lip at the poisonous snakes in the pit.
“We could contact the Sweetwater Rattler Wranglers,” Jon said. “But it’ll take time for them to get here.”
“Forget that.” Everson pulled his Sig.
Jon held up his hand. “There’s a legal way to get rid of them. It’s up to the property owner.”
“He’s not here.” Everson turned to one of his officers. “Bring me the gas can on my truck bed. In my glove box are matches.”
Before Jon could phone the owner and explain the situation, Everson fired repeatedly into the pit, like each one of them was a Veneno. Jon made the call anyway.
