Page 34

T he Midnight Stampede in Blackwater, Louisiana looms ahead like some kind of neon-lit monster against the twilight sky. The arena's floodlights slice through the humid night air, creating these weird halos in the mist that's rolling in off the nearby swamps. It's different from the other venues—darker somehow, with Spanish moss hanging from the surrounding trees like nature's own funeral decorations.

"Home sweet hell hole," Kade mutters beside me as our caravan of trucks pulls into the gravel lot.

I say nothing, just take in the electric buzz of anticipation that always precedes these events. The Midnight Stampede has a reputation of chaos and showmanship.

The rides don’t start until midnight and you ride under the big lights, dark corners be damned.

The crew starts unloading with practiced efficiency, a well-oiled machine of muscles and metal. I grab my duffel from the truck bed, feeling the weight of my medic supplies against my shoulder. Every venue has its own energy, its own demons. This one feels like it's watching us.

"You good?" Levi asks, materializing next to me with that silent way he moves. His eyes scan the surroundings, never stopping in one place too long.

"Always am." My standard answer. My shield.

The check-in process is the usual clusterfuck of clipboards and credentials. The event coordinator—a woman with hair teased higher than her ambitions and a drawl thick as molasses—scrutinizes each of us like we might be imposters.

"Y'all with the Savage 8?" She smacks her gum between words. "Got your paperwork right here. You need something special, you holler." Her eyes linger a beat too long on Kade, who gives her the kind of smile that's gotten us free drinks in every backwater bar from Texas to Tennessee.

The media vultures circle as soon as we clear check-in. They smell blood in the water after the last event. A woman with a microphone thrust forward like a weapon corners us before we can escape to the preparation area.

"Savage 8! Willow! Can we get a word about your expectations tonight? Rumors are flying that some of your team shouldn't even be competing after some nasty rumors about doping!"

Levi's jaw tightens beside me. I step half an inch closer to him, our arms almost touching. A silent alliance against the barrage.

"We're just focused on the rides tonight.”

The reporter doesn't take the hint. "But what about the allegations that—"

"We said we're focused on the rides." Rhett steps forward, all six-foot-something of pure irritation radiating off him like heat waves. "You want a story? Watch us ride."

The camera guy actually takes a step back. Smart move.

We push through to the prep area, a concrete-floored maze of stalls and equipment racks. The air down here smells like leather oil, sweat, and the faint copper tang of blood. Real bull riding isn't the sanitized eight seconds you see on TV. It's torn ligaments and cracked ribs and the taste of dirt mixed with your own blood.

"Fucking vultures," Jace mutters, throwing his gear bag down with more force than necessary. "One controversy and they're all over us like we're goddamn celebrities."

"We are celebrities," Kade replies with a wolfish grin. "Just not the kind they want us to be."

I start unpacking my supplies, laying everything out in the precise order I've perfected over years. Gauze, antiseptic, tape, scissors, splints. The ritual calms me, gives my hands something to do while my mind races.

The boys are strapping up nearby, that pre-ride tension crackling between them like electricity. I catch Rhett watching me from across the room, his eyes dark and unreadable. He nods once, then turns back to his rigging.

"You feel it too, don't you?" Levi materializes beside me, voice low enough that only I can hear. "Something's off tonight."

I pause, antiseptic wipes in hand. "This whole place feels like it's built on a graveyard."

"Probably fuckin’ was.”

Jace chuckles. “Then I better say a goddamn good prayer, huh?”

King doesn't joke about prayers. Not before a ride. Not ever.

"Circle up," he says, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade through butter.

The Savage 8 move without question, forming a tight circle in the corner of the prep area, away from prying eyes and hungry cameras. Even Kade, who usually has some smartass comment ready, goes silent. This is sacred ground now.

"Willow." Rhett extends his hand toward me, palm up. Not grabbing, not demanding. Offering.

I slide into the gap between him and Levi, feeling the heat radiating off their bodies. The circle closes tighter, our shoulders touching, creating a fortress of flesh and bone against the world outside. For a moment, we're not competitors or colleagues or whatever the hell we are to each other. We're something older, more primal. A tribe.

Jace bows his head, his voice dropping to that gravelly whisper that always makes the hairs on my arms stand up. "Lord, we come to you tonight as warriors entering battle."

The words flow over me like warm water. I've heard variations of this prayer dozens of times, but tonight it feels different. Heavier. The dim light catches the scars on Jace's knuckles as his hands grasp Kade's and Levi's.

"Protect these men from harm. Guide their bodies when their minds can't. Eight seconds of grace is all we ask."

Rhett's thumb traces small circles on the back of my hand. Such a small gesture, but it anchors me to this moment, this circle where we're not just a team, but something more sacred.

"Keep their hearts steady," Jace continues, his eyes closed tight now, forehead creased with concentration. "Keep the beasts beneath them honest. And if it's written that one of us falls tonight—" his voice catches just slightly "—catch them in your mighty hands."

The air between us feels charged, like we're standing in the eye of an electrical storm. I'm not religious, never have been, but there's power in this ritual that transcends faith. It's about connection, about acknowledging the danger that waits for us beyond this circle.

"And watch over our guardian," Jace adds, his eyes flicking briefly to me. "Give her the strength to piece us back together when we break."

My throat tightens. I wasn't expecting that addition to the prayer. Rhett's hand squeezes mine gently, and something in my chest cracks open like an egg, spilling warmth through my ribs.

"Amen," the circle murmurs in unison, a rumble of deep voices that vibrates in my bones.

We break apart, but something lingers—a current between us, invisible but undeniable. The energy shifts as everyone returns to their preparations, but it's different now. Focused. Deadly.

Rhett lingers a half-second longer than necessary, his fingers trailing across my wrist before he turns away. I busy myself with rechecking supplies I've already checked three times, trying to ignore the burn his touch left behind.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" The announcer's voice booms through the speakers, filtering down to the prep area. "Welcome to the Midnight Stampede!"

The crowd roars in response, a sound like thunder rolling across the Louisiana sky.

The roar grows louder, like a living thing clawing at the walls. I feel it in my chest, a vibration that rattles my ribs.

I hang back in the shadows near the chutes, my medic bag ready. This is my battle station—close enough to reach a fallen rider in seconds, far enough to assess the whole situation. The boys file past me one by one, each with their own pre-ride ritual.

Kade taps my shoulder twice without looking at me—his good luck charm. Levi nods, solemn and focused. Jace murmurs something that might be another prayer. And Rhett... Rhett pauses, his eyes finding mine in the dim light.

"See you on the other side, darlin'," he says, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.

Then he's gone, swallowed by the noise and dust and chaos of the arena.

The first few rides go as expected—bone-jarring, earth-shattering eight-second battles between man and beast. Kade comes out clean despite drawing Tombstone, a nasty Brahma with a reputation for sending riders to the hospital. When he dismounts with a perfect flourish, the crowd loses their collective mind.

I stay vigilant, eyes tracking every movement, cataloging every potential injury before it happens. This is my dance—watching for the moment a body hits the ground wrong, a limb twists the way it shouldn't. I've gotten too good at predicting broken bones before they happen.

Jace rides next, his form textbook perfect against the midnight sky. Even the most vicious bucks from his bull can't dislodge him. Eight seconds pass like an eternity before the buzzer sounds.

I'm making my way back to the med station to restock my portable kit when voices drift from around the corner—hushed, urgent, and definitely not meant for anyone else's ears. I freeze, instinct kicking in before conscious thought. Years of surviving by being invisible have taught me when to disappear into the shadows.

"The Hollow Creek stop is when we make our move," a man's voice says, the words nearly lost beneath the arena's constant rumble. "The Devil's Corral is perfect—isolated, minimal security, and the syndicate's got people on the inside."

My blood runs cold. I press myself against the wall, breathing shallow, ears straining.

"What about the Savage 8?" A second voice, smoother, with that distinctive Louisiana drawl that doesn't belong to any rider I know. "They're causing too much attention. Especially after that shit with Monroe's bull."

"Accidents happen in bull riding all the time." The first voice again, colder now. "One more won't raise eyebrows."

My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I'm afraid they'll hear it. This isn't just talk. This is a threat—calculated, specific, and aimed directly at my riders.

I shift slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of the speakers, but a hand clamps over my mouth from behind. I react instantly, driving my elbow back hard, but whoever has me anticipates the move.

"Easy," a woman's voice whispers directly into my ear. "Not here."

I'm dragged backward through a service door I hadn't even noticed, into what looks like an ancient maintenance closet. When the door clicks shut, the hand releases me, and I spin around, fists already clenched.

The woman standing before me isn't what I expected. Mid-forties, with sharp features and copper-colored hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. Her eyes are alert but not hostile, scanning me with clinical precision.

"You've got good instincts," she says, keeping her voice low. "But terrible timing."

I square my shoulders, keeping the door at my back. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Someone who doesn't want to see you or your boys in body bags." She crosses her arms, leaning against a metal shelf stacked with cleaning supplies. "Name's Elise Harmon. I work for people who are very interested in the same conversations you just overheard."

"What people?" I demand, not relaxing my stance one bit.

She gives me a thin smile. "Let's just say I'm with an agency that doesn't officially exist, investigating things that don't officially happen."

"That's not cryptic at all.”

Elise laughs. "I know, I know. But trust me when I say that what you just heard is only the surface of something much bigger and much more dangerous."

I cross my arms, mirroring her stance. "So what exactly are you investigating?"

"A gambling syndicate that infiltrated professional bull riding. They're fixing competitions, drugging bulls, threatening riders." Her eyes narrow. "Sound familiar?"

The hairs on my arms stand up. Levi's bull. The accusations against our team. The "accidents" that have been plaguing the circuit.

"They've got officials in their pocket," she continues. "Judges, veterinarians, even some riders. The Midnight Stampede is one of their strongholds, but they're expanding. Hollow Creek is their next target."

"Why tell me this?" I ask, suspicion crawling up my spine like ice.

"Because you're positioned perfectly," Elise says, her voice dropping even lower. "You're with them constantly. You tend their wounds. You hear things. You see things. And most importantly—" she leans forward slightly "—they trust you."

My stomach drops. "You want me to spy on them."

"I want you to help protect them." Her correction is swift, sharp. "The Savage 8 have targets on their backs because they refuse to play ball. Especially your boy Rhett. He's been approached twice already."

My pulse jumps at the mention of Rhett, but I keep my face neutral. "And he turned them down."

"With language colorful enough to make a sailor blush." The corner of her mouth turns down. "I saw what Ethan’s death did to all of you. But especially Rhett and yourself. Ethan was…”

“Working with you?”

“Starting too. Then the ‘accident’ happened.”

I cross my arms. “And now?”

Elise grins. “It’s time I got my revenge.”

“Revenge?”

She leans against the wall, looking up at the ceiling. “You get close to your informants as you build these cases.”

“And just how close did you two get?”

Elise's eyes glitter with something dangerous. "That's not relevant to the conversation."

“Ethan was more than a connection to you, wasn’t he?”

But it is. I can see it in the tight line of her mouth, the way her fingers curl into a fist at her side. Ethan wasn't just an informant to her. I recognize that particular brand of grief—it mirrors what I've been carrying since we lost him.

"They killed him because he was getting too close," she says finally, her voice barely audible over the distant roar of the crowd. "He found evidence linking three circuit officials to the syndicate. The night before he died, he told me he was going to confront one of them."

"And you think his bull was tampered with." It's not a question.

"I know it was." She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a small flash drive. "This contains everything Ethan gathered—names, dates, bank transfers and transactions, communications. Everything you need to blow this whole operation wide open." She holds it out to me, this tiny piece of plastic that suddenly feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.

I stare at it, not reaching out. "Why me? Why not go to the authorities?"

"Because the authorities are compromised. I don't know how high this goes." Her eyes burn into mine. "And because Ethan trusted you. He said if anything happened to him, you were the one person in the Savage 8 who'd do what needed to be done, no matter the personal cost."

My throat tightens. That sounds like Ethan—always seeing straight through people, always knowing exactly what buttons to push. Even from the grave, he knows how to back me into a corner.

"Take it," Elise urges, pressing the flash drive into my palm. "You don't have to decide right now-”

“No. I’ll do it.”

Elise grins. “Welcome to the team, Willow. I’ll shoot you a text and we’ll go from there.”

The buzzer blares, pulling me from my thoughts as the announcer's voice booms overhead: "And next up, riding Blackout Blizzard, we've got Levi ‘Breaker’ Monroe!”

I slide the flash drive into my pocket and slip out of the maintenance closet, my mind racing faster than my heart. Back to business. Back to my boys.

I make it to the chute just as Levi mounts Blackout Blizzard, a monstrous bull with a mean streak wider than the Mississippi. The animal's muscles ripple beneath its hide like something from a nightmare. Levi adjusts his grip on the rigging, face set in that blank mask he wears before every ride. He doesn't see me, too locked in his zone.

The gate crashes open.

The bull explodes into the arena like a bomb detonating, all fury and muscle and raw power. Levi's form is perfect for the first three seconds—balanced, centered, moving with the beast instead of fighting against it. The crowd roars its approval as he makes it to the halfway point.

Then Blackout Blizzard changes the game. A vicious twist to the left followed by a corkscrew spin that defies physics. Levi's center of gravity shifts—just a fraction, just enough. I see it happening in slow motion: his right arm straightening when it should stay bent, his weight shifting backward instead of centering.

The bull bucks again, violence made flesh, and Levi goes airborne.

He hits the ground wrong. I'm already moving, vaulting over the barrier before his body stops rolling. The rodeo clowns are there, distracting the bull, but my focus narrows to the still form in the dirt.

Time slows, stretches like taffy as I sprint across the arena. My training kicks in—assess, stabilize, transport. The litany runs through my head on autopilot as I skid to my knees beside him.

"Levi!"