Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
My body responds without thought, muscles conditioned by years of riding and ranch work, propelling me forward. “He gets away, and I’m blaming you.”
“Blaming me? What the hell did I do?” he grumbles, but I don’t respond.
The woods are pitch black beneath the canopy. Others might be scared, but I know these mountains like I know my reflection. I was born and raised here. I’ve hunted these forests since I could walk. If anyone can find him here, it’s me. The smell of damp earth and decomposing leaves rises with each footfall as I navigate between trees and over fallen logs.
The forest floor is a mess of pine needles, broken branches, and exposed roots that could snap an ankle if you don’t know how to move in this terrain.
Wayne crashes through the underbrush like a wounded bull, all power and no finesse, from somewhere behind me.
Scanning the area, I glimpse movement to my right and change direction, cutting through the trees. The snap of branches ahead guides me straight toward him. My breathing remains steady, controlled. Before I understood what it meant to be a Bishop, my father would take me hunting. I didn’t realize then that the time he spent with me was all about training, lessons to be taught. “Control your breath, control your shot,” he would always say.
In times like now, I still hear his voice in my ear.
The forest opens into a small clearing bathed in silver moonlight. Martin’s there, struggling to climb over a fallen log, his movements clumsy with panic. Each breath he takes is a ragged gasp that hangs cloudy in the cold air. At least we got him, and I don’t have to report back to my father that he escaped.
Fuck, that’s definitely not something I want to deal with today. I draw my gun—a plain black Glock, nothing fancy like Wayne’s showpiece —and take aim.
“Martin. There’s nowhere to go. Turn around, and let’s end this the easy way.”
Surprisingly, he does, his movements sluggish now, his chest heaving. There’s blood on his hand. He must have cut himself in his mad dash.
“Please,” he whispers, and his voice seems to shrink as it echoes. “I’ll get the rest of the money. I’ll do anything. I swear on it.”
I level the gun at his chest, finger steady on the trigger.
The metal feels cold but familiar against my skin. “My father doesn’t accept partial payments.”
“I’ll work it off! I can work at the ranch—” His voice breaks, desperate hope flickering across his face like the last embers of a dying fire.
“We don’t need more hands.” The lie comes easily.
We always need more hands after all. Five thousand acres doesn’t tend itself, and good help is hard to find this far from town. But a man’s word has to mean something, and now I know Martin’s word doesn’t mean shit.
In the distance, I hear Wayne catching up. Always a step behind.
That’s why my father sends me. I don’t make mistakes.
“Please,” Martin begs. Sweat drips down his temple despite the cold. “Let me live, and I’ll pay double. Triple.”
A laugh catches in my throat.”With what money? You couldn’t even pay what you already owe. Don’t be writing checks you can’t cash, Martin.”
I should have anticipated it. A desperate man will make desperate moves, but that’s the thing. I don’t anticipate. I’m completely caught off guard when he lunges at me. The movement is telegraphed, clumsy with fear and desperation. I could sidestep it easily—years of wrestling steers and breaking broncs have given me reflexes most men can’t match—but I don’t.
Instead, I squeeze the trigger. The gunshot cracks through the forest, and Martin stumbles back, clutching his shoulder, shock etched into the creases of his face. Blood seeps between his fingers, black in the moonlight.
I didn’t shoot to kill. Not yet.
“Play stupid games, win stupid prizes,” I tell him as he sinks to his knees, the pine needles cushioning his fall.
His breath comes in short, pained gasps, forming small clouds in the cold air. He looks down at his hand, even more slick now with fresh blood, and something shifts in his eyes. The resignation is gone, replaced with wild desperation—the look of a cornered animal.
At that moment, Wayne joins us, and I risk a glance toward him.
That’s all the time it takes for Martin to gain his feet again, his movements quick for someone bleeding out since he’s already inside the tree line when I turn back.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, holstering my gun and taking off after him. How the hell is this bastard so fast? What the hell is wrong with me? Blood’s easy to track, even in the dark. It leaves a trail a blind man could follow, dark droplets catching in the moonlight where they fall on leaves and pine needles.
Wayne shouts from somewhere behind me, his voice echoing between the trees. By the time he catches up, Martin will be dead. I guarantee it. Martin’s wounded, terrified, and running blindly through unfamiliar territory. He won’t get far.