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Bryce chastised himself for being curt—no, downright rude—to Cecily. It had been a hell of a day, and he’d snapped without thinking. In a sense, it meant he’d shaken off his father’s constant presence, even if Cecily bore the brunt of Bryce’s outburst. Last night, he’d barely dozed after waking up in a sweaty mess, and any attempts to talk to Grady today had been met with monosyllabic responses. Not that Bryce was a gifted conversationalist, but the prolonged silences left too much room for thoughts about his father.
Over and done. The bastard’s dead.
So why was he still haunting Bryce?
His plan to feel Grady out had fallen like a cowboy on his first bull ride. Anything Bryce said that remotely touched on Grady’s life before coming to the Triple-D had the boy withdrawing deeper into himself. He’d done his assigned chores, but he’d jumped at every sound, every movement, until Bryce had to keep him away from the horses which were picking up on his mood. To make things worse, they were picking up on Bryce’s mood—even the mellow Ginger—and he kicked himself for letting his emotions get the better of him.
Part of him had wanted to put the kid on Buck, let him get tossed a couple of times. That wouldn’t have been fair to the horse. Instead, Bryce had him clean out the storeroom. When Cecily hadn’t shown up when he’d expected her, Bryce realized he’d been looking forward to seeing her, and not because she’d make a nice buffer between himself and Grady. He’d envisioned them both apologizing for the way they’d left things last night, maybe grabbing a pizza to make up for it.
When she’d called, he’d already dismissed Grady for the day, and the kid had stormed toward the house mumbling profanities under his breath—but not so far under that Bryce didn’t hear them. The kid’s mood matched Bryce’s like a new pair of socks, and it would do them both good to be apart until the next morning. Whatever Grady had done on the computer last night—and Bryce was a hundred percent certain the kid hadn’t been watching YouTube, playing games, or even looking at porn sites as Cecily had suggested—had upset him.
Bryce wasn’t a social worker or some kind of counselor. Definitely not a therapist. If Grady had the slightest interest in animals, maybe things would be different, but he was considering taking Derek up on his offer to hand the kid off to Tim.
So why wasn’t he racing to tell Derek he’d had enough?
Because everyone should be allowed one bad day. And because his bad day coincided with Grady’s, everything played out in super hi-def. No, they both needed to regroup.
Bryce went home, poured himself a beer, and flopped onto the couch in front of the television set. He flipped to the local news, wondering if there had been any more cattle killings. When he heard Cecily’s voice come out of the television set, his heart jumped high enough to clear a five-foot fence. He listened to the replay of a 911 call, his eyes glued to the transcript accompanying the voices. Holy crap. She’d said she’d been delayed at work, and his brain knew the kind of work she did, but his pity party mouth had answered without giving her a chance to say what had gone down. Ninety-five percent of what she shared with him was grumbling about idiots calling Dispatch or 911 for trivial problems. But this? Damn. Why had he been so effing self-centered?
He called her. Got her voice mail.
Suck it up. Two words. You can say them.
“I’m sorry.” Once those were out, the rest came easier.
“I was in a bad mood and didn’t let you finish. I should have. Saw you on the news. You were great.” Okay, the next three words would be the kicker. He took a breath.
“I was wrong.”
Feeling slightly better, he went on. “Can I make it up to you? Dinner tomorrow? You pick the place.”
Which was a major grovel, because he’d left it open for her to choose somewhere swanky with tiny bits of food he wouldn’t recognize. He didn’t do swank, but he’d make an exception.
“Call me.” He disconnected and finished his beer. After shoving a freezer meal in the microwave, he hit the shower. Drying off, he contemplated the scars he’d accumulated over the years. Most from his Ranger days, but there was the older one that transported him to the night he’d confronted his father.
You’re not going there.
As a distraction, he popped The Hunt for Red October into his DVD player and settled on the couch with his dinner.
Right before the submarine leaped out of the ocean, Bryce’s cell phone burred. He hit pause on the remote.
If it’s Cecily, agree with her. Doesn’t matter what she says.
It wasn’t Cecily. It was Derek.
“Something up, D-Man?” Bryce asked. “Just hit the best part of Red October.”
“Frank was on his way home, said he saw an ATV on the old McMillan spread.”
Bryce connected the dots. “He thinks our cattle killer is back?”
“At this point, I’m not willing to ignore the possibility. You want in? I can tell you how the movie ends.”
Bryce shut off the television and headed for the bedroom to change out of his sweats. “On my way. Where are we meeting?”
“Ranch house,” Derek said. “Frank’s keeping an eye on the ATV. Tim’s on his way.”
Bryce’s immediate thought was that Tim was a sniper in the Rangers. “We’re not going to assassinate him, are we?”
Derek chuckled. “Those days are over. But we’ll do everything we can to catch him and turn him over to the authorities. He hits any piece of the ranch, he’s trespassing, and we’ll play it by ear from there.”
“What about the other ranchers?” Bryce asked.
“Let’s try this ourselves first. We don’t need a vigilante lynching party.”
“Agreed.” Bryce disconnected and contemplated wardrobe choices. He dragged out his camo instead of jeans, and his lightweight hikers instead of his boots. His stomach gave a quick lurch.
This is the Triple-D. Not Iraq.
Twenty minutes later, Bryce joined Tim and Derek on the ranch house porch. Both men had also abandoned cattle ranching attire in favor of camo. Derek handed Bryce a pair of night vision goggles, which he looped around his neck. He had his shotgun, as did Derek. Tim carried a rifle with a Leupold power scope, along with a pair of night-vision binoculars.
“We’ll take my pickup.” Derek set another pair of night-vision goggles onto the dash. “Rendezvous with Frank and regroup from there.”
Derek got behind the wheel, Tim next to him in the passenger seat. Bryce climbed into the back. Charlie raced across the yard, yipping in excitement. Bryce held his door open.
“C’mon, fella,” Bryce called.
“You sure he’ll be okay?” Derek asked.
“We can lock him in the truck,” Bryce said, “but his hearing and sense of smell will take the place of a recon helo feeding us intel.”
Derek started the pickup and headed out. “Tim, you’re backup if things get ugly. I imagine—assuming Frank spotted the cattle killer—he’ll surrender with a couple of shotguns pointed at him.”
“Here I thought I was going to have a chance to take down a genuine little green man,” Tim said. “You take away all the fun, D-Man.”
“Let’s not start an intergalactic war,” Derek said. He confirmed Frank’s location. “You all right, Bryce?”
“Yep.” Only a minor lie. The missions that went south stayed with you, but the last one had been a long time ago. There was nothing about the Triple-D that resembled an Iraqi village.
Frank stepped from under a cluster of young pines as they approached. He pointed to some crushed grass. “Should be easy to follow.”
Tim hopped out and relinquished his seat to Frank. Climbing in beside Bryce, Tim said, “Show us the way, Sherlock.”
Charlie sat on Bryce’s lap and hung his head out the window. The presence of a dog both calmed and excited him. As Derek drove in the direction Frank indicated, Charlie’s ears pricked up and his head lifted, sniffing the air. He whined, then gave a sharp bark. His hackles jerked to attention.
“Something’s out there,” Bryce said.
Derek cut the headlights and rolled slowly forward. Bryce put on his goggles, and everything glowed shades of green.
Frank pointed off to the right. “ATV at two o’clock.”
Tim peered through his night vision binoculars. “Someone’s getting out. Heading into the pasture.”
Derek stopped the truck. Bryce commanded Charlie to stay.
Whoever this guy was, he seemed oblivious to anything other than his perceived target, which Bryce figured was the pair of cows sleeping under a tree about thirty yards away, a good distance from the nearest group of cattle. The man walked with a purposeful stride, a rifle in one hand.
“I can shoot him now, D-Man,” Tim whispered. “Clear shot, piece of cake.”
“He hasn’t done anything yet,” Derek said. “Move in. Stealth, please. We don’t want to spook the livestock.”
Before they’d covered half the distance, the man raised his rifle, pointed it at the cows. One toppled. The other animal stood and trotted toward a larger grouping of cattle. The man rushed forward, a hunting knife in his hand. He crouched beside the fallen cow, his knife poised at the cow’s throat.
Frank, Tim, and Bryce took off, circling so they were coming at the man from all directions.
“Don’t move,” Tim shouted. “Unless you want your head blown off.”
The man looked around, as if searching for his rifle, which Frank had already appropriated.
“Tranquilizer dart, I’ll bet, Frank said.”
Which explained why nobody had heard shots when the cattle had been killed before.
“Doesn’t look like a little green man to me, Tim,” Frank said. He had his shotgun pointed at the man’s belly. “How about you drop the knife and explain yourself.”
The man raised his hands, still holding the knife. “I’m just following orders,” he said.
Tim pointed his rifle at the man’s head. “You heard the man. Drop your weapon.”
In the next heartbeat, the man pivoted, rushed at Bryce, knife extended.
Without thinking, Bryce sidestepped, grabbed the man by the forearm, and gave it a sharp twist. The knife fell to the ground, and Frank stepped in with flex cuffs, shoved him to the ground and secured his wrists.
“Haven’t lost your touch, I see,” Frank said to Bryce.
Bryce rubbed his arm. Looking down at the rip in the sleeve of his shirt, he shook his head. “I seem to have slowed down a bit. Out of practice.”
“You all right?” Derek asked.
Bryce yanked up his sleeve. No skin penetration. “Yep.” His heart rate jacked up in its usual after it’s all over response, but everything had happened so fast, a couple of deep breaths sent it back to normal.
Derek stepped forward and crouched by the captive’s face. “What did you give that cow?”
The man spat a mouthful of dirt. “Just something to make it sleep. I don’t approve of animals suffering.”
“No, you just want to kill them,” Tim said.
The man huffed. “I follow my orders. Which, for your information, do not include putting them to sleep first, so you should be thanking me.”
Bryce resisted the urge to kick the guy’s junk. “Whose orders?”
“The masters don’t tell me their names. They appear in my brain.”
Thoughts of brainwashed Iraqi kids flooded Bryce’s thoughts. He resisted another urge to kick the guy.
“Back to the alien theory,” Tim muttered.
The man struggled against his cuffs. “Cattle are killing the environment. Takes too much land, too much grass to raise one hamburger. The masters chose me to bring this to the attention of the earth’s inhabitants. It is for the good of the planet.”
“Did these masters explain how killing cattle one at a time will save the environment?” Derek asked.
“It is not my place to question the masters,” the man said.
“Nutcase,” Tim said. “Let’s dump him at the Sheriff’s Department. I was really hoping for little green men.”
“They’re blue,” the man shouted as they shoved him into Derek’s pickup.
“I’ll check on the cow,” Bryce said. They’d stopped the nutcase before he’d used the knife, and the tranquilizer dose must have been low, because the animal struggled to its feet. Shaky at first, it staggered for a moment, then went back to the herd. After letting Derek know, Bryce drove home. He contemplated calling Cecily again. To what purpose? If she’d gotten his message, she would have called. Unless she was still angry. If she hadn’t, leaving a second one would be groveling and he’d already told her he was sorry, that he was wrong. One grovel a week—maybe a month—was all anyone could expect from a red-blooded male, right?
Cecily was probably out celebrating with friends. Cop friends? One cop friend in particular?
Bryce stripped and crawled into bed. With their cow killer in custody, life should be normal again. Or, as normal as it could be considering he was still saddled with Grady.
When the nightmare hit, it wasn’t the kid wearing the explosives-lined vest. Or his father. It was Grady.