Page 35

His eyes are open but unfocused, pupils dilated with shock. Blood trickles from his nose, bright crimson against his dust-covered face. I stabilize his neck with practiced hands, already cataloging injuries—the unnatural angle of his left shoulder, the way his breath hitches when I press gently against his ribs.

"Don't move," I order, voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. "Where's the worst pain?"

"Shoulder," he gasps, teeth gritted. "Ribs. Fuck, Wills..."

The medical team arrives with a backboard, their faces grim beneath the harsh arena lights. We work in sync, transferring Levi onto the board with minimal movement. The crowd has gone eerily quiet, that collective breath-holding that happens when everyone knows they're witnessing something serious.

The rest of the Savage 8 materialize around us as we move toward the medical area, their faces masks of controlled panic. Rhett pushes through, his eyes meeting mine over Levi's prone form. I give him the smallest head shake—not now, not here.

The next hour blurs into a parade of medical terminology and paperwork. X-rays confirm what my hands already told me—dislocated shoulder, three cracked ribs, and a mild concussion. The local doctor, a weathered man with nicotine-stained fingers and tired eyes, moves efficiently as he pops Levi's shoulder back into its socket. Levi doesn't scream, just bites down on the leather strap between his teeth until his jaw trembles.

"You're benched," I tell him once we're alone in the exam room, my voice leaving no room for argument. "At least through the next weekend or two.”

Levi just nods, no arguing. The crew gathers around us, faces taut with concern. They hover like anxious shadows, too close but not daring to leave.

"Bullshit," Levi finally mutters, but there's no real fight in it. The pain meds are kicking in, softening his edges. "Hollow Creek's next weekend."

"And you'll be watching from the sidelines," Rhett says, his tone brooking no argument. He's wearing his captain's face now, all hard lines and authority. "We need you healthy for the long haul."

Levi's eyes find mine, searching for an ally. I shake my head. "Don't look at me. For once, I agree with him."

"Traitor," Levi mumbles, but his lips twitch toward a smile.

The local doctor returns with discharge papers and prescriptions, explaining aftercare instructions that I could recite in my sleep.

Jace runs his hand through his hair. “Alright. You stay put with Willow, we’ll pack up. Weston will drive your truck. We get on the road now.”

T he Airbnb in Hollow Creek sits nestled against the foothills like some forgotten postcard from another era. It's all weathered timber and wide windows, with a wraparound porch that creaks under our boots as we file in, exhaustion hanging off us like wet clothes. Montana stretches out around us, mountains cutting jagged lines against the twilight sky, the scent of pine and wildflowers thick in the cool air.

Levi's still moving like glass might shatter inside him with each step. The painkillers have dulled the worst edges, but he's pale beneath his tan, lips pressed into a thin line as Jace helps him to the leather couch that dominates the main room.

"Easy, brother," Jace murmurs, gentler than most people would believe him capable of.

I drop my medical bag by the door and take in our temporary home.

The cabin is all rustic charm wrapped in modern conveniences—stone fireplace dominating one wall, open-concept kitchen gleaming with stainless steel, and enough bedrooms down the hallway to give us each our space without feeling isolated. The Devil's Corral arena looms just visible through the back windows, its metal framework silhouetted against the mountains like some ancient beast's ribcage.

Kade whistles low. "Whoever booked this place deserves a goddamn medal."

"That'd be me," Weston says, dropping his duffel by the stairs. "So I'll take my medal in whiskey form, thanks."

The guys disperse like scattered pool balls, claiming bedrooms and checking the fridge contents. I stay put, watching them move, feeling the weight of the flash drive in my pocket like a live grenade.

Rhett softly kisses the top of my head. “You got something on your mind?”

I slowly nod. “Yeah. We need to have a family meeting.”

Rhett's eyes narrow, that razor-sharp focus landing on me with full force. "Family meeting" is our code for serious shit—the kind that doesn't leave the circle.

"Now?" he asks, already reading the urgency in my face.

"Now."

It takes less than two minutes for the Savage 8 to assemble in the main room. There's something almost primal about how quickly they respond, abandoning half-unpacked bags and exploratory wanderings to gather around Levi's couch. I stand with my back to the fireplace, feeling the last warmth of the day's sun radiating from the stones.

"Lock it down," Rhett instructs, and Weston immediately moves to close blinds and check that doors are secure. It's not paranoia if people are actually out to get you.

Seven pairs of eyes fix on me. Waiting. Expecting. I reach into my pocket and pull out the flash drive, holding it up so it catches the lamplight.

"At the Stampede, I overheard a conversation I wasn't supposed to hear," I begin, keeping my voice steady despite the thundering in my chest. "Two men discussing plans for Hollow Creek—this stop. Talking about making their move here."

The room goes still, that particular kind of quiet that falls when predators sense danger.

"What kind of move?" Jace asks, his normally jovial face hardened into something ancient and dangerous.

I take a deep breath. "The kind that involves accidents happening to riders who don't cooperate. The kind that specifically mentioned the Savage 8."

Kade curses, low and vicious. Rhett's posture shifts almost imperceptibly—battle-ready.

"There's more," I continue, turning the flash drive between my fingers. "After I heard them, someone grabbed me—a woman named Elise Harmon."

"What the fuck?" Rhett's voice cuts through the room like a blade. "Someone put their hands on you?"

"Let me finish," I say, meeting his eyes steadily. "She pulled me into a maintenance closet. Said she works for some agency that 'doesn't officially exist.' She's been investigating a gambling syndicate that's infiltrated professional bull riding."

The tension in the room thickens, becoming something you could cut with a knife. Levi struggles to sit up straighter, wincing as his ribs protest.

"This syndicate," I continue, "they're fixing competitions, drugging bulls, threatening riders who won't play along." I swallow hard, the next part sticking in my throat. "And Elise believes Ethan's death wasn't an accident." My voice breaks slightly on his name, the wound still raw after all this time.

A heavy silence falls, thick with shared grief and fresh anger. I watch it hit each of them differently—Jace's eyes closing briefly in silent prayer, Kade's jaw clenching hard enough to crack teeth, Weston's hands curling into white-knuckled fists.

Rhett stands absolutely still, the kind of stillness that precedes violence. "Go on," he says, his voice dangerously soft.

"This flash drive," I hold it up, "contains everything Ethan gathered before he died. Names, dates, bank transfers, communications. Everything needed to expose the whole operation."

"And this Elise woman just handed it over to you?" Weston asks, skepticism etched across his face. "Why?"

I take a deep breath, the weight of all the things I haven't told them pressing down on me like the Montana sky.

"Because Ethan trusted me," I say, meeting their eyes one by one. "And because Elise and Ethan were..." I hesitate, searching for the right words. "They were involved."

"Involved?" Kade's eyebrows shoot up. "Like, fucking involved?"

"Jesus, Kade," Weston mutters.

"More than that," I say quietly. "The way she talked about him—there was history there. Deep history."

Rhett's eyes narrow. "Ethan never mentioned any woman named Elise."

"He was protecting her," I say, running my fingers over the flash drive. "The same way he tried to protect all of us. He kept her separate from his life with us—compartmentalized. That's why they never knew about her."

The cabin falls into that heavy silence that only comes when everyone's processing something that changes what they thought they knew. I look at their faces—shock, confusion, betrayal all flickering across like shadows. Part of me wants to stop here, to keep some of Ethan's secrets buried with him. But we're past that point now.

"Elise was his handler," I say, my voice dropping lower. "But somewhere along the line, it became more. She was investigating the syndicate, and Ethan became her inside man. He was gathering evidence, feeding her information about suspicious bets, altered equipment, and threats made to riders."

Levi shifts on the couch, wincing as his ribs protest. "How do you know all this? She just volunteered this information in a maintenance closet?"

I shake my head. "Not everything. But I could read between the lines.”

I slide the flash drive into my laptop, and we crowd around as files pop up on screen. There's so much here—spreadsheets tracking unusual betting patterns, recordings of conversations, photos of meetings between circuit officials and known gambling figures. And logs. Pages and pages of Ethan's personal notes, documenting everything with that meticulous attention to detail that was so uniquely him.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Jace whispers, leaning over my shoulder. "He was sitting on a goddamn powder keg."

"And it blew up in his face," Kade adds grimly.

We spend hours going through the files, connecting dots, filling in blanks. Seeing the full picture for the first time. It's like watching a horror movie where you finally understand why everyone's been dying—except this is our life, our world.

"So what's our next move?" Weston asks, rubbing his eyes. They're all looking at me now, waiting for an answer I'm not sure I have.

"We ride," Rhett says before I can respond, his voice firm. "We go into the Devil's Corral and we ride like nothing's wrong."

"While these fuckers are potentially planning to kill us?" Kade looks at him like he's grown a second head.

"While these fuckers are potentially planning to kill us," Rhett confirms, standing up to pace the length of the room. "We show nothing. Change nothing. Meanwhile, we dig deeper, figure out exactly who's involved at this stop."

"I don't like it," Jace says, crossing his arms. "Feels like walking into a trap with our eyes wide open."

"Sometimes that's exactly what you need to do," I say quietly. "They don't know what we know. That gives us the advantage."

Levi shifts on the couch, grimacing. "And what about me? I'm not exactly in fighting shape."

"You're our eyes and ears," Rhett says, coming to stand beside him. "You'll be in the stands, watching for anything suspicious. Anyone who doesn't belong."

"Great. I get benched and turned into a fucking mall cop."

"Better than being a fucking corpse," I snap, harsher than intended. The room goes quiet. I run a hand through my hair, exhaustion making my edges raw. "Sorry. I just—we need to be smart about this. All of us."

Rhett's hand finds my shoulder, a steady weight that grounds me. "We will be. Levi needs you to keep him alive. I need you to be sane."

"Fuck you," I say without heat, the ghost of a smile tugging at my lips.

"Maybe later," he murmurs, just low enough for only me to hear.

Jace claps his hands. “Alright. Let’s move.”

The Devil's Corral lives up to its name in every possible way. Standing at the edge of the arena, I can feel the energy of this place crawling up my spine like electric fingers. Montana's mountains loom behind the complex, casting long shadows across the grounds as the sun dips toward the horizon. The arena itself is a massive steel and concrete cathedral to chaos, with floodlights that cut harsh white beams through the gathering twilight.

"Cheery place," Kade mutters beside me, scanning the rafters with narrowed eyes. "Definitely doesn't look like somewhere people get murdered."

"Keep your voice down," I hiss, elbowing him in the ribs.

We've been on high alert since arriving, watching for anything suspicious. So far, the only thing that stands out is how normal everything seems. The usual pre-event bustle, the familiar faces of riders and staff, the standard buzz of anticipation that precedes these events. It's the normalcy that freaks me out the most—like we're the only ones who know we're walking through a minefield.

"Where's Levi?" Rhett asks, materializing at my shoulder with that silent way he moves.

"Already in position." I nod toward the stands where Levi sits with binoculars disguised as standard-issue field glasses. He's wearing a ball cap pulled low, looking like any other spectator. "He's got eyes on the judges' booth and the stock contractors."

Rhett grunts approval. "Good. Stay close to the chutes. I want you where I can see you."

I arch an eyebrow. "I always am."

"Not for the usual reasons." His voice drops lower, serious in a way that makes my chest tighten. "If they're making a move, it'll be here. Tonight."

I swallow hard, the reality of our situation hitting me fresh. We're not just trying to win a competition—we're trying to survive one.

"I'll be fine," I say, but even I can hear the hollowness in my words.

Rhett's hand brushes mine, just a whisper of contact that sends electricity up my arm. "We'll all be fine," he says, conviction hardening his voice. "Because we know what they don't know we know."

"That's a lot of knowing."

His lips quirk up at one corner. "You're smarter than all of us combined, Wills. Always have been."

Before I can respond, the announcer's voice booms through the arena, summoning riders for the first round. Rhett gives my hand one final squeeze before striding toward the chutes, all confidence and swagger like he's walking onto a stage instead of into danger.

Weston and Jace flank him, the three of them creating this wall of muscle and determination that parts the crowd without effort. I watch them go, this knot of fear and pride tangling in my chest.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Unknown number, but the message leaves no doubt about the sender:

"Eyes on you all. Stand by. E."

Elise is here somewhere, watching. I scan the crowd but see nothing suspicious—just the usual mix of fans, families, and industry people. I text back a single thumbs-up emoji and delete the conversation.

The Devil's Corral erupts with noise as the first rider takes his position. I move to my station near the medical team, close enough to the action but far enough to see the whole picture. From here, I can watch both the arena and the chutes, and most importantly, my boys.

The competition blazes through its opening rounds, a blur of dust and muscle and calculated violence. I watch with the trained eye of someone who's seen a thousand rides—assessing form, anticipating falls, cataloging potential injuries before they happen. But tonight, I'm watching for something else too. Something darker.

Weston rides first among our crew, drawing a bull called Funeral March, the irony not lost on me. Weston settles into position, his face a mask of concentration beneath his helmet.

The gate crashes open and the world explodes into motion.

Devil's Advocate launches out like he's been shot from a cannon, all raw power and barely contained fury. But Weston—goddamn beautiful Weston—moves with him like they're dancing.

His body flows with the bull's movements, anticipating each buck and twist like he's reading the animal's mind. Eight seconds stretch into eternity as Weston rides the hurricane beneath him, one hand raised high, his core muscles visibly working to keep him centered.

The buzzer sounds like a gunshot. Weston dismounts with a perfect flourish, landing on his feet with cat-like grace as the bullfighters distract Funeral March. The crowd erupts, stomping and hollering as the scoreboard flashes an incredible 94 points.

"Holy shit," I breathe, adrenaline coursing through my veins just from watching.

Weston jogs back to the chutes, grinning wide enough to split his face. When he reaches us, sweaty and dust-covered but gloriously intact, the guys swarm him with back slaps and whoops of approval.

The celebration is cut short by a sharp crackling sound that makes us all freeze. For a split second, I don't understand what I'm hearing—it's like the snap of kindling being broken, but amplified a hundredfold. Then I smell it. Smoke.

"Fire!" someone shouts from the back corridors, voice high with panic.

I whip around to see orange flames licking up the wooden support beams near the livestock holding area, spreading faster than should be possible. Black smoke billows toward the ceiling in thick, choking clouds.

"Holy fuck," Kade breathes beside me, eyes wide with shock.

The initial confusion lasts only seconds before the arena erupts into chaos. The announcer's voice blares over the speakers, trying to maintain calm, but there's an edge of panic that cuts through his professional veneer.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please proceed to the nearest exit in an orderly fashion. This is not a drill."

The fire grows with unnatural speed, consuming the aged wood of the arena's infrastructure like it's been soaked in accelerant. My first thought is Levi—alone in the stands, still nursing his injuries. I scan the crowd frantically, trying to spot his familiar form among the sea of panicking faces.

"Get out!" Rhett shouts, grabbing my arm. His face is harsh with urgency, eyes reflecting the orange glow of the flames. "Now, Willow!"

"Not without Levi!"

“Jace got him! Let’s move!”

The evacuation feels like it lasts hours, but it's probably only minutes before we're all outside, gasping in the clear Montana night air as flames climb higher inside the Devil's Corral. Fire trucks wail in the distance, their sirens cutting through the chaos of shouting voices and crackling flames. The parking lot has become a sea of confusion—spectators huddled in shocked groups, riders trying to account for teammates, arena staff running back and forth with walkie-talkies crackling urgent instructions.

I find the rest of the Savage 8 gathered by our trucks, a tight knot of tension and adrenaline. Levi's leaning heavily against Jace, his face pale with pain—the mad rush must have aggravated his injuries.

"Everyone good?" Rhett demands, his eyes scanning each of us like he's taking inventory of parts he can't afford to lose.

"This wasn't an accident," I say, watching the flames dance against the Montana sky. The fire's casting this hellish glow across the parking lot, turning everyone's faces into something from a nightmare. "This was a message."

Rhett nods once, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. "A fucking clear one."

Sirens wail closer as the first fire trucks arrive, their red and blue lights cutting through the smoke-thick air. The Devil's Corral is going up like kindling, years of dust and polish and bull shit making perfect fuel. Wooden beams crack like gunshots as they give way, and somewhere inside, a section of the roof collapses with a thunderous roar.

"We need to move," Jace says, supporting Levi's weight. "Now."