I’ve got a plan.
Behind us, the arena erupts with cheers as another rider bursts from the chute. Music blares through the speakers while the announcer shouts over the crowd, the whole place vibrating with adrenaline.
Ace steps up beside me, rolling his shoulders as he watches the arena. “Couple rides before mine,” he mutters.
I nod absently, scanning the grounds. Then someone steps into my peripheral vision. A cowboy, and not one that Irecognize. And he’s making a beeline right towards us with purpose.
The unease in my chest sharpens instantly.
Jett notices him too. “You lost, partner?” he calls casually.
The man stops a few feet away. Something about him feels wrong. My hand drifts slowly toward the gun tucked at the back of my waistband.
“Depends,” the stranger says.
Then his hand moves, and a shot cracks through the air.
Jett jerks violently beside me as the bullet hits him. Everything slows. But my body moves before the sound even finishes echoing. I slam into the shooter with enough force to drive him back into the metal fencing beside the arena gate. The gun fires again as we collide, the bullet tearing harmlessly into the dirt.
My fist crashes into his jaw. Really fucking hard.
He tries to lift the gun again, but I grab his wrist and smash it against the rail until the weapon clatters to the ground.
“You stupid motherfucker,” I growl, gripping his collar and slamming him into the fence again.
Boots pound toward us as people start shouting. But the rodeo noise is loud enough that most of the crowd barely notices.
“Who sent you?” I hiss.
Blood runs down his chin as he grins at me. “You don’t get it,” he rasps.
My grip tightens in his jacket. “Then explain it.”
His gaze locks onto mine. “Accept the deal.”
The words land cold. Fuck him.
“Work with the Greeks,” he continues hoarsely, “and they’ll give you the people responsible for Ashley’s murder. That was the message I have to give you.”
My jaw tightens.
“Work with them, and you’ll get your freedom.”
Freedom. That’s what they think I want badly enough to betray my own people for.
My fist crashes into his face again, hard enough that his skull cracks against the metal rail. Behind me, Ace drops beside Jett, who is sitting in the dirt with one hand pressed to his side, blood seeping through his fingers.
But the stubborn bastard is awake. And furious.
“Son of a bitch winged me,” Jett growls.
Ace lifts the edge of his shirt and checks the wound. “It’s clean,” Ace mutters. “In and out.”
Jett spits in the dirt beside him. “Fuckin’ prick ruined my day.”
Relief loosens the tight knot in my chest. It takes a lot to kill a cowboy.
I drag the shooter across the gravel toward the line of trucks and trailers behind the arena. Jett’s horse trailer sits hitched up nearby.