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ROAD TO REDEMPTION
Laura Scott
CHAPTERONE
Owen Ross hunchedlow in the front seat of the rusty dark-green pickup truck that he’d parked halfway down a dirt track well off the main road as he waited for his drug cartel contact to arrive. It felt strange to be back in the game. This was his first time reaching out to his contacts since January, when he’d been shot and nearly arrested along with the rest of his crew.
He’d never expected to survive when he’d escaped five months ago, weak and fighting off a life-threatening infection. And it was clear from the call he’d finally made to Will Minor, the Colorado cop who worked with Colin Granger of the DEA, that both men had written him off as dead and buried too.
He knew he should have died that night. He didn’t believe in God the way Emily did, but it was hard to explain how his snowmobile had taken him as far as Doc’s run-down ranch before sputtering out of gas. The registered nurse his crew had kidnapped had taken good care of him, and thankfully, Doc had picked up where Emily had left off.
Emily. He gave himself a mental shake. He had no business thinking of Emily Sanders. She was beautiful, sweet, kind, and honest. Everything he wasn’t. Yet even as Doc, a retired veterinarian, treated him with antibiotics that were intended for his horses, Owen had been preoccupied with thoughts of Emily. Yearning for her touch. Her voice. Her caring.
Enough. Emily was back home where she belonged. And he still had a job to do.
His revenge had carried him forward this past year. Over twelve months of being associated with low-life scumbags while searching for the man at the top of the food chain. Domingo Hernandez, the man he knew had brutally murdered his younger brother, Oliver. His brother had turned to a life of crime, but he hadn’t deserved to die for his sins.
Especially since much of the fault for Oliver’s actions rested solely on Owen’s shoulders.
Yet his desperate thirst for revenge had faded since his injury and subsequent recovery. To the point he’d even considered packing up to go back home.
Then he’d remembered Oliver’s once innocent face. His brother’s desperate attempt to care for their ill mother. Two harsh reminders that this was no time for him to go soft. Not until he’d accomplished his mission.
Even if that meant risking another go-around with death.
So be it. If that meant joining his brother and mother in the afterlife—assuming there was one—then he’d accept his fate.
But he’d make sure to bring Domingo Hernandez down with him.
And the first step in achieving that goal was to get back into the drug business. Hence his meeting with Juan Sanchez. Juan was one of the few men he knew that still worked for Hernandez. Owen’s goal was to convince Juan to bring him back into the fold.
A rustling sound caught his attention. Because of the mild spring air, he’d decided to wait with his truck windows open. He scrunched lower in the seat, listening intently. Juan should be there any minute, but the drug runner should be arriving by car.
Not skulking through the woods.
Something wasn’t right. Every one of Owen’s senses had kicked into high gear. He’d spent enough time in the mountains recovering from his gunshot wound that he was keenly aware of the usual bird and wildlife noises.
None of which were present now.
Another rustling sound. He cocked his head, trying to pinpoint the general location in his mind. To his right and somewhat behind his truck.
He pulled his weapon—the one that he was not legally allowed to carry. Thankfully, just about everyone in Cody, Wyoming, carried a side arm, so he wouldn’t be required to produce his permit. At least, not without provocation.
Owen took a calming breath, then abruptly opened his driver’s side door and rolled out of the truck, landing on his knees. At the exact same time, thepop, pop, popof gunfire rang out as several rounds punctured the vehicle. Using the battered truck as cover, he rose just enough to pinpoint the man standing partially behind a tree and returned fire.
Hearing a gasp of pain, he wanted to believe he’d hit the shooter. But he ducked and stayed where he was, waiting and listening for more gunfire.
The seconds ticked by for a full minute. Then two. Then five.
He couldn’t stay there forever. Easing along the side of the truck, he peeked over the top of the truck bed to scan the woods. Spying the man sprawled on the ground, he narrowed his gaze and continued to wait.
When the sounds of wildlife returned, he knew the threat was over. The guy who’d fired at him must have come alone. Owen rose and hurried over to the fallen man. Up close, he could see his aim had been true. The gunman had fired a half dozen rounds into his truck. Owen had only fired twice, and one bullet was embedded in the right side of his chest. He checked for a pulse and found nothing.
The guy was dead. And worse, Owen had never seen him before in his life. He wasn’t Juan Sanchez, that’s for sure. The guy who could have been part Hispanic appeared to be in his early thirties and dressed in typical jeans, western shirt, and belt buckle, along with hiking boots. After a moment’s hesitation, he pulled out his phone and took a picture of the dead man’s face.
Then he headed out to make a quick circle around the area. He didn’t see the guy’s vehicle. How far had he come on foot? Returning to the dead man, Owen dug in his pockets and found a key fob but no wallet or driver’s license. Maybe they were in the car. Or maybe the guy had purposefully left all identifying information behind.
The western version of a hit man? Hired by Juan Sanchez? His law enforcement contact, Will Minor? Or Colin Granger of the Colorado DEA?