“You told me to get her out of there.” My voice strains to remain calm when I just want to get in his fucking face for being so stupid. I should have anticipated this. I should have protected her better. For months—for fucking months—she’s been bugging me to let her be involved in some way. I could have found a different way had I not been so pissed this afternoon when she’d brought up my attitude and then so fucking weak because she’d let me get it in.
“What the fuck’s going on out here?” The office door swings open, and Jerry’s boss walks out slowly with a rifle in his hands. Not the most practical weapon he could carry, but it’ll blow a big enough hole in a guy to make sure he’s not talking about how it got there later. Jerry’s boss is in his sixties, if I have to guess, with a quickly receding hairline and a lazy eye. If Jerry runs the ranch’s day to day operations, then it’s Jerry’s boss who makes sure Jerry and his guys are honest and not skimming off the top. That’s basically this no-name fuck’s entire purpose in this world—making sure the numbers add up to where they’re supposed to.
“Tell your man to stand down,” Duke says. We stand tense like this for a long moment before we’re joined by three of Jerry’s guys. They each have their guns at the ready and drawn but not raised. When they get close enough, Jeremy lifts his AR-15 and points it at them.
“Too close,” Jeremy barks loudly. The men back off and drop their guns into the dirt beneath their feet.
“Stand down,” Ian orders. “Only way this ends is with you both dead and the ranch with two job openings.”
“Jerry,” the old man orders in a stern voice. He slowly lowers his rifle and props it up against the door frame to his office. He didn’t get his job without having some brains, and this move proves he’s not a total idiot. His buddy Jerry, though, doesn’t move. Fucking moron.
“You have ten seconds to lower your piece,” I say. Jerry’s eyes are wild, bouncing from me to Duke to Ian and then to Cub. He can’t seem to keep himself focused despite the situation. He moves his foot in what is almost a tap, and his limbs jerk slightly.
“How much blow have you done, Jerry?” I ask, trying my best to sound less irritated than I am. Maybe he’s just nervous, and maybe he’s not as fucked-up as I’m thinking he is, but either way, he’s off his game, and that creates a new danger. If he’s high, then he’s fucking unpredictable. Shit. I could use some blow to get through this fucking day, but then I wouldn’t be on point, and for Cub to be here I have to be on point. I won’t risk her safety any more than I already have.
“Fuck you!”
“Shit, he’s tweaked,” Duke says. “I hate having to put down a sick dog.” A guy loses his cool and fucks up, we don’t mind taking him out. Most of us dabble in some powder, and we all enjoy the bud, so we’re no stranger to a little self-induced therapy, but a guy with a habit is a disaster waiting to happen.
Slowly, Jerry lowers his gun, giving me a moment to fucking breathe. Duke and Ian both nod, and the three of us withdraw our weapons as well. Everything else happens so fast. It’s either Jerry or his boss who grabs for the rifle first, I don’t know, but they lunge for it at the same time and it goes off. Loud and ricocheting into the barn’s rafters, the bullet lands somewhere above us. Jerry and his boss glare at each other with murderous intent in their eyes.
I take a step back to get Cub away from the danger, shielding her body with mine, and get my hand in position, close to my gun, just in case. Jerry moves for his handgun that’s tucked into the waist of his jeans. He takes a step back, but he’s not far enough from his boss, who goes to knock the gun out of his hand. Duke and Ian raise their pieces just as Jerry’s shaky hand lifts his gun at me. If I pull my piece now, he’ll shoot me. I’ve known Jerry long enough to know that.
“Signing your own death warrant,” Ian tells him. It makes no difference. Jerry is spiraling, and there’s nothing that can save him now. I should have trusted my instincts and paid better attention to his demeanor when he met us at the van. But I didn’t, and me being distracted didn’t help us diffuse this situation. I have to do better.
“Doesn’t matter. Mancuso’s putting pressure on us. Forsaken’s putting pressure on us. Everybody’s fucking pressuring us,” he sputters out. The gun shakes in his hand as he keeps it trained as best he can on my heart. Shit. Shit. Shit.