Hunter DeMassi was about to get his ass blown to hell and back.
The truth coiled his muscles tight. Anxiety knotted his stomach and cranked the vise in his chest. He forced a deep breath. Rather than ease the tautness in his body, the extra burst of oxygen fed his worry.
It didn’t matter that he had a Glock strapped to his hip and a badge stuffed into his left pocket. If anything, those two items painted him as an even bigger target. It was one thing to fire a load of buckshot into some unknown sonofabitch who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and quite another to take out the one man intent on shutting down the biggest moonshine operation in the entire Lone Star state.
A setup not more than fifty yards away from where he crouched behind a massive oak tree. It was early evening, the sky overhead dotted with stars, but none of that light made its way down through the dense foliage.
He squinted, his eyes quickly adjusting to the darkness and the small clearing littered with debris. An old washing machine. An ancient tiller. A dingy John Deere missing all four wheels. A rusted-out shell of an ancient ’59 Ford pickup truck. His gaze zeroed in on the spiral of smoke whispering from the tailpipe. The scent of warm yeast filled the air and the hair prickled on the back of Hunter’s neck.
These guys were smart.
His gaze scoured the rest of the area, from what looked like a haphazard line of tin cans scattered near the tree line at the edge of the clearing.
Smart and a little bit old school.
Which made whoever was responsible for the setup even more deadly.
The old-timers came from a different era where the only law involved a Remington and a box of shells. A man did what he had to do to protect his livelihood. His life. Whether he was up against a stranger, or someone wearing a badge. The details made no nevermind.
It was all about survival.
Hunter had learned that a long, long time ago, on the knee of his great-grandmother who’d told him all about the old days and her daddy’s infamous Texas Thunder.
Not that Elijah Sawyer had been the one solely responsible for the state’s most notorious moonshine. He’d had a partner back then, a man by the name of Archibald Tucker. He and Archibald had been as close as brothers. But then they’d had a falling-out, ripped their precious recipe right down the middle so neither could keep brewing the popular stuff, and parted ways. Their fight had caused a riff that had run deep and divided the entire town. But Elijah hadn’t wasted any time crying over the loss of his best friend or his meal ticket. He’d taken all the cash he’d stashed when Texas Thunder had been selling like hotcakes and gone the straight and narrow.
Which had been his plan all along.
While Archibald Tucker had fit the old moonshine mentality to a tee—he’d liked drinking just as much as he’d liked brewing—Elijah Sawyer had been looking at the stuff from a monetary standpoint. A means to an end. Legend had it that he’d never even touched a drop of the brew other than to taste for quality control. Instead, he’d kept his head clear and his mind focused. He’d wanted more than a few coins in his pocket and a Mason jar in his hand—he’d wanted to make something of himself, his family, and he’d done just that. He’d bought up the land around Rebel, Texas and turned it into one of the biggest cattle ranches in the South.
“You can make it, too,” his great-grandmother had told him time and time again. When he’d been eight years old and barely passing because a bad case of dyslexia had made school nearly impossible. When he’d called it quits his junior year at Rebel High to work at the local rodeo arena and help bust broncs. When he’d left town to travel the circuit because his choices had been too few and far between, and living on the edge had paid the most money.
He hadn’t listened to her. Not until he’d come home six years later for his youngest brother’s funeral. A brother who’d stayed the course, graduated at the top of his class, gone off to college, and then straight into the Marines. Travis had never run from anything difficult. He’d worked hard to make their parents proud. To make something of himself. To live up to the prestigious Sawyer name.
“It isn’t too late to step up and do the right thing,” Mimi had told him as she’d sat next to him in that first church pew, the smell of gardenias from the casket spray nearly suffocating him. “You can do this, Hunter. You can turn it around and be a steady hand just like Travis.”
She’d been right.
Hunter had traded in his living-on-the-edge mentality and wandering ways, and now he was here, about to run for his third term as sheriff of Rebel County. People had been skeptical at first and he’d barely won the first race, but thanks to his Mimi and the fact that he’d been running against a low-life Tucker, folks had seen him as the lesser of two evils and given him a chance. Number two had been a landslide, and three was sure to be the same, especially since his opponent was none other than Cade Tucker. While Cade was one of the few Tuckers to rise up and amass a small fortune for himself, most of the local businesses had Sawyer roots. The Sawyers were the money behind Rebel. They always had been, and to hear his Mimi tell it, they always would be.
Even against Cade, Hunter would most certainly win.
If he could shut down the moonshine ring that was still operating in his county. That would easily top Cade’s one and only claim to fame—blowing the whistle on two local nail salons that had been fronting football pots.
This was much bigger and sure to trump Naughty Nails and their little side business. That’s why Hunter was out here risking his neck. No way did he like the sliver of apprehension that whispered up his spine, or the rush of adrenaline that pumped through his veins and coiled his muscles tight.
This was just part of the job.
One that he would soon hand over to the suits out of Austin. The FBI had been breathing down his neck about this case, thirsty for details, hungry for a major collar. Which he would gladly give them. Once he had more information. Hard-core evidence.
It was all about being thorough.
No way was he out here after hours because this was the most interesting case to come across his desk since he’d discovered Buddy Roy selling marijuana brownies out of the trunk of his Kia. Sure, Hunter dealt with the occasional moonshiners, but most were local and harmless. They posed more of a threat to themselves than they did to the good citizens of Rebel.
But these guys … They were different. They might well be local, but they were smart, too. Cunning. And judging from the covert setup, they were most certainly moving more than a few jars of moonshine down at the VFW Hall. These shiners were going to great lengths to cover their tracks and protect their investment, which told him it was a hefty investment, indeed. That, and he just had a feeling.
That tingle that told him there was something big going on. Something dangerous. Exciting.
The thought struck and he pushed it away. He wasn’t looking for excitement. This was all about keeping the peace in his town. Being reliable. Dependable.
He wouldn’t disappoint.
Those days were long gone, buried six feet under with his little brother who’d always gone above and beyond the call of duty.
Yep, he would gather as much information as possible and then he would hand it over to the Feds. Then he would get himself over to the courthouse and file the paperwork to run for another term.
But first …
He eyed the small red dot blinking on a nearby tree. His gaze focused, taking in the edges and curves of the game camera attached to the sturdy wood. Another quick glance at the rest of the area and he noted another camera. And another.
Yep, these shiners were smart, all right.
So smart that he wouldn’t doubt that the cameras not only took pictures, but also sent live feed to someone on the other end. Watching for trespassers. Waiting.
He moved ever so slightly and the light on the nearest tree blinked. The faintest hint of flash lit up the area and sent Hunter ducking behind the tree.
Too smart and so it was time to back off.
For now.
Hunter locked in the location on the GPS on his phone and turned. He made it several steps, picking his way slowly past the trees, moving this way and that, backtracking the way he had come. He’d almost made it, too, but then he heard the voices in the distance.
“He was right here, I tell ya. Right here.”
Leaves crunched, branches rustled, and just like that, he had two shiners hot on his tail.
He reached for the walkie-talkie in his back pocket. “This is Sheriff DeMassi. I need backup.” He breathed a quick location before cutting his dispatcher off in midresponse and hitting the Silence button.
Stuffing the walkie-talkie back into his pocket, he picked up his steps and hauled ass.