Page 4 of Rio (Redcars #3)

THREE

Lyric

I was back in the beautiful middle-of-fucking-nowhere ranch in Montana.

The air was cool, sweet, crisp—and the stillness was absolute, too perfect.

The sun hung low over the hills, casting long golden stripes across the fields.

Mist clung to the grass, swirling around my boots as I stood by the fence.

The corral stretched out wide in front of me, the wooden rails weathered and familiar under my fingertips.

Birds called from the trees, the sound distant and peaceful.

My favorite mare, Button, stood on the other side of the fence, ears twitching as she watched me. Her rich chestnut coat caught the early sun and her warm breath puffed in the morning chill. I reached for her, wanting to feel the velvet softness of her muzzle under my hand.

“Lyric.”

A voice called behind me. Probably Lucy. Calling me in for breakfast again. Persistent as always.

“Lyric.”

I smiled faintly, but I didn’t turn. I just wanted one moment longer with Button. My arm stretched further, fingers brushing the air.

“Lyric.”

“He’ll open his stitches.”

The voice grew closer now. Urgent. It wouldn’t stop. I tried to move, but my feet wouldn’t cooperate; they were cemented into the dirt. My legs trembled, but I couldn’t lift them. I’d forgotten how to move.

I reached for Button again ? —

And she was gone.

Gone as if she’d never been there.

In her place was Lucy.

A monster, shifting, extended claws. And then Lucy was dead.

Sprawled across the dirt, her hair fanned out like a dark halo.

Blood pooled beneath her in slow, unnatural ripples, the color too dark—almost black, with a strange iridescent sheen shimmering like oil under the unreal light.

The metallic tang filled my lungs, and my head screamed at me to run, but my legs stayed frozen.

I knew I had to move. I had to run. But I couldn’t.

Something was around me now—tight, heavy, wrapping me up and pulling me in.

The world warped, sounds stretching unnaturally like distant echoes underwater.

Time slowed, each second dragging long and distorted, as if the nightmare wanted me trapped inside it forever.

Arms? Restraints? My mind spun. Was I caught in barbed wire?

I struggled, twisting, but the grip only got stronger.

Someone had found me.

I was going to die.

“Stop moving!” someone shouted, rough and urgent. It wasn’t Lucy. It wasn’t anyone I knew. The words slammed into me, and panic surged. My chest heaved, but I couldn’t get enough air.

I was scared. Terrified.

The harder I fought, the more tangled I became.

And all I could see above me was dark eyes and a scowling expression full of anger.

There were moments when I thought I was waking up. I could feel the edge of it—the soft weight of a blanket, the faint pressure of something warm pressed against me. For a breath or two, the pain faded, and I floated. I didn’t want to move. I couldn’t.

But then the cloud shifted.

A harsh realization cracked through the fog. I had to move. I had to get away. That instinct hit hard—loud, panicked, blaring like a siren in the back of my head.

I tried to move. I tried . My body jerked, or I thought it did, but my hand… my hand wouldn’t move.

Why wouldn’t it move?

A thick bolt of fear ripped through me as I tugged harder—and felt the resistance. My hand was stuck. Restrained. Bound to something I couldn’t see. Why? Why was it stuck?

Was he here?

Had the latest contract been a success? Had they taken the contract and handed me over?

I needed more time.

I twisted harder, pulse thudding in my ears. I needed to move. I needed to fight. I needed?—

Then it shifted.

The cloud vanished, and I plummeted into the dark, back into the blood and the cold and the weight on my chest. I dreamed again—no, not dreams. Nightmares of silver monsters chasing me, always one step behind. I ran through Montana, through smoke and flame, Button screaming somewhere in the dark.

Voices called my name. Over and over. Louder. Closer. Some I recognized. Some I didn’t.

And I couldn’t tell anymore what was real and what wasn’t.

Until everything stilled.

No running. No wolves. No fire. Just a soft sound. Breathing. Slow. Measured. Not mine.

A pressure tugged at the fog in my head, as though someone was peeling back the layers one by one. My body ached, heavy and raw, but the pain was distant this time—not gone, but softened, dulled around the edges.

I blinked.

The light hurt. Not sunlight. Bulbs. Overhead. Harsh. My hand was still fastened to something, and the other hand was painful and linked to a long wire or something.

I blinked again, and something came into view. A ceiling I didn’t recognize. Faint shadows moving. The scrape of a chair. Leather .

“About time you woke up,” someone said. A low voice. Not unkind. Not familiar either.

I tried to turn my head, but everything felt slow, as if I were swimming through glue.

Then, someone leaned into my line of sight.

The same dark eyes as in my dream. Was he real?

I blinked up at him. He’d held me—pressed me up against the wall—and I’d fought to get free.

I’d kicked, twisted, shoved with everything I had in me, but it hadn’t been enough.

He was big. Strong. I couldn’t move him off me, no matter how hard I struggled.

And yet, every desperate, hopeless attempt still clawed its way out of me.

I’d fought him, and he’d held on anyway… hurt me… dropped me…

Fuck. I remembered where I was.

I’d tracked down DaemonRaze using tech I’d nearly forgotten, after following a trail of old handles and encrypted whispers until I hit something I wasn’t supposed to find. DaemonRaze was attached to deep web queries filled with names I recognized. Names I feared.

He’d been a good guy, right? But now? Lying here, trapped in someone else’s bed, that certainty was gone. Where was he? Had he brought me here to save me? Or was he calling Kessler right now, handing over coordinates with a quiet voice and blood money in his pocket?

Panic surged.

How long did I have?

I tried to move. My arm wouldn’t lift. My chest hurt, the pain all-consuming. My left hand wouldn’t move. My legs were immobile. I was tied down.

Why was I tied down?

I thrashed harder, my heart pounding, desperate to flee.

A hand slammed against my chest, solid and unyielding.

“Settle the fuck down,” someone snapped.

I flinched. The pressure of a hand held me, and it wasn’t a gentle touch. It warned me. He wasn’t going to let me break loose. He wasn’t going to let me run.

“You’re safe,” the man said.

My head throbbed as I blinked up at him, trying to make sense of the world as it fell into place around me. The smell hit me first—oil, dust, and sweat.

Then a voice. Low. A little rough.

“You’re safe.”

My lashes dragged open. The room blurred, then steadied. He was crouched beside the bed, all shadows and bulk, one arm braced on his knee.

Dark eyes, unreadable. I didn’t know why I looked at his mouth. Full lips, a little chapped. Not smiling.

He wasn’t holding me down.

He could’ve. Easily.

And he hadn’t.

The man exhaled and worked on the restraints. The ties on my legs loosened one by one, and though my muscles screamed, the weight of them lifting brought a shaky breath to my lungs. The ties were soft, worn, cut from an old T-shirt maybe—but they’d held fast.

I tugged at my left hand. It didn’t move. I was cuffed. He’d taken off the ties, but he hadn’t let me out of that one. That was staying. A silent message I couldn’t miss—and it sank deep in my gut.

He didn’t say anything else as he stood and strode to the door.

Then he shouted. “Get your ass up here, Jamie!”

Footsteps pounded on the stairs somewhere below.

And I braced myself all over again.

I was still alive.

But for how long?

The door swung open fast, and another man appeared—tall, wiry, a suspicious gaze fixed on me. Jamie? That was who the scary guy had called for. DaemonRaze. I think.

His eyes scanned me, assessing, then narrowed as if confirming something. “RootNightJar?” he asked, voice edged with expectation, as if he wanted me to give him proof that I was who he thought I was.

I swallowed and gave a tiny nod. It fucking hurt.

“Get the cuff off me,” I demanded, though it came out weak, croaky, as though the air had been scraped from my throat. I didn’t do weak.

Weak got you killed.

“Not happening,” a deep voice said to my left, and I glanced that way, wincing. The big man who’d pinned me to the wall was snarling and snapping like a rabid dog.

“Your stitches were for shit,” DaemonRaze said.

I swallowed. My throat hurt. “I d-did…. my-myself.” I was choking, couldn’t catch my breath, then winced when the scary big guy held water and a straw, still with the snarl on his granite features.

“Well, you fucked them up,” DaemonRaze said, then sighed. “I’m Jamie,” he said as he straightened, then crossed his arms. “And you are?”

I didn’t know what to say or who to trust. I’d survived this far by running and hiding, and I wasn’t going to break that now .

“Talk to him,” Scary Dude ordered, curling his hands into fists, every inch of him radiating tension.

I tried to curl my uncuffed hand into a fist, but a jolt of pain as the catheter there tugged stopped me cold.

I had no choice but to lie still, heart racing, pinned as some half-dead offering waiting to be sacrificed.

“Fuck Rio, what do you want me to say?” Jamie snapped.

Jamie had to be different. If anyone could get me a shot at living, it’d be him.