“People would still see them,” I said. “Cops. Ranchers.”

  “I tell you what, Mrs. Johnson. Few years ago, some promoters came by, paid me twenty thousand dollars to allow some rock and roll concert out on my property. Twenty grand, for two days. You think I’m the only one who rents out land, time to time? Some come, and squat without paying. Some ask permission, pay a fee. If you owned a hundred acres, paid taxes on a hundred acres, and a guy with a couple of trucks wanted to park on your land, for three days, no questions asked, for a thousand bucks, would you take it?”

  “And law enforcement?”

  “Mrs. Johnson, I’m sure a pretty thing like yourself has no problem flirting your way out of a speeding ticket. The rest of us make due with a folded hundred dollar bill when we pass over our driver’s license. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of cops looking the other way.”

  “Have you found any evidence of this?” McGlade asked.

  “Every few months, I find tire tracks all around the county. Big tire tracks. I’ve taken reports from locals who saw a large vehicle moving through the plains. And, of course, there have been bodies.”

  McGlade was now leaning so far forward his ass was almost off the edge of the seat. “Tell us about the bodies, Sheriff.”

  “Three found in South Dakota. Four in Kansas. Three in this state. One as far west as Wyoming. Found out in the open. No shirt or shoes. Signs of starvation and abuse. Some dead from exposure. Some dead from a bullet in the head.”

  “What makes you sure they’re all connected to the Cowboy?” I asked.

  Wyatt smiled, a thousand watt grin that was Hollywood close-up perfect. Then he raised a finger and tapped his incisors. “No teeth, Mrs. Johnson.”

  Another lengthy dramatic pause. My feelings were mixed. We were getting good intel, but something felt off to me. I’d gone from being slightly intimidated by Wyatt’s good looks and wealth, to slightly flattered by his charm and flirting, to slightly skeptical of his version of this story.

  Sheriff Wyatt Earp Steinhoffer was hiding something. Or withholding something.

  Or, maybe, outright lying.

  “Have you ever run into the Cowboy,” McGlade asked. “Face to face?”

  Of course, the answer would be no.

  “The answer is yes,” Wyatt said. “Two years ago. South of Norfolk. I was tracking the Cowboy’s vehicle, riding Jack.”

  “Your horse,” McGlade interrupted. “Not my dead best friend.”

  I barely restrained my eyeroll, and made a mental note to prevent Heckle and Jeckle from using that footage.

  “We’d been riding for three days.” Wyatt had already learned how to ignore McGlade’s vocal diarrhea. “Trail wasn’t easy to pick up, lots of rocks and grass, but I knew I was following something big. Never saw tire tracks like that. Each wheel was wide as a pick-up truck. We’d settled in for the night. I had dinner, fire was about to die, and was just stretching out in my bag to sleep. It was quiet. Crazy quiet. Not even the crickets out. That’s when he snuck into camp.”

  Now Wyatt did the dramatic pause. It lasted so long, Harry had to ask, “What happened?”

  “He wore all black. Except for that bandana over his nose and mouth. It had some sort of Halloween face on it. A ghoul or a witch or something. Jack and I didn’t even hear him coming, until he was standing right next to me.”

  Pause. The turbines behind Wyatt stood out like lighters during a rock ballad.

  “We both drew and shot. The Cowboy was faster. So fast it was… inhuman.”

  “And?” McGlade asked.

  “His first shot hit my gun.” Wyatt held up his arm, and unsnapped a large TAG Heuer watch. “Knocked it out of my hand. Ricochet nicked my wrist.”

  He showed the scar.

  “Then his second shot…”

  Wyatt lifted up his flannel shirt.

  Of course he had a six pack.

  He also had a bullet hole, a few centimeters above his navel.

  “Did you hit him?” McGlade asked. He’d somehow gone from aggrandizing talk show host to awed fanboy.

  Wyatt chuckled, shook his head. “I did. In his boot.”

  Now Wyatt began to unbutton his shirt. I didn’t see the point, but saw no reason to stop him. Three buttons down, he exposed his necklace. It was the rowel—the star-shaped pointy part—from a spur, hanging from a strip of leather. Two of the points were missing.

  “He left me to die. Gut shot. Bad way to go out. But I managed to mount Jack, and she carried me fifty miles to safety. Just before my stomach acid ate through my diaphragm.”

  “You didn’t call for help?” Harry asked.

  Wyatt shook his head. “No signal out there.”

  “And the spur?”

  “Sterling silver. No prints. No marks. No way to ever trace it to the Cowboy. Except…” Wyatt’s voice trailed off.

  McGlade ate it up like Wyatt’s words were peanut M&Ms. “Except…?”

  “Except when I match it with its twin.”

  I watched the laptop as Heckle zoomed back in for the close-up. Then Harry said, “Cut!” and stood up with a huge grin on his face.

  “That was hella awesome. Have you been on camera before, Sheriff? Because my viewers are going to love you, buddy. What did you think, J-Dawg?”

  “I have a few more questions.”

  Wyatt leaned forward and hefted himself to his feet. “Happy to answer. But right now I need a whiskey. How about you folks?”

  “Twins and I need to do some editing.” Harry gave me a look. “Holler if you need me.”

  I gave him a curt nod, and then he and his crew headed back to the Crimebago Deux, Rosalina tagging behind them. Then Wyatt was all of a sudden standing too close to me, his eyes twinkling.

  “How about you, little lady?”

  I wasn’t sure I’d ever been called little lady. But Wyatt was so much taller than me, I actually felt a bit dainty.

  “Sure,” I said. “A drink sounds good.”

  He actually crooked out an elbow, offering me his arm.

  I quickly considered all the ways I could play it. Aloof. Friendly. Professional. Interested. Annoyed. Curious.

  I went with friendly, lightly took his arm, and let him lead me into his ransion.

  THE COWBOY

  The text reads, ARE YOUR EARS BURNING?

  The Cowboy knows not to respond. There are scheduled times for texts, and now isn’t one of them. Besides, why restate the obvious?

  After deleting it, another one appears.

  IT‘S HER.

  The Cowboy stares at the words, and blinks.

  First comes a surge of adrenaline, and something akin to joy.

  Then comes trembling.

  With a shaky finger, the Cowboy texts, REALLY?

  There’s no immediate answer.

  Five seconds pass.

  Ten.

  Then, a picture arrives.

  An old newspaper clipping, showing a face that the Cowboy has memorized.

  Jacqueline Daniels.

  SHE‘S ALIVE, comes the follow-up text.

  The Cowboy’s thumb hovers over the delete button, but pauses to savor for another few seconds.

  Incredible.

  Beautiful.

  Intoxicating.

  Jack Daniels.

  Among the living.

  Not for long.

  The Cowboy breaks into a rare, painful grin, then draws the Ruger Vaquero.

  I’m faster. I’m deadlier. I’m better.

  And I’m going to show her.

  I’m going to maim her.

  Hurt her.

  Kill her.

  After she’s spent a good long while begging for death, of course.

  It’s so tempting to drop everything, and rush to her. Right now.

  But after waiting this long, the Cowboy can wait a bit longer.

  For the deal to go through.

  For the LeTourneau to be handed over.

  For Usher House 2.0 to be live.

  Jack Daniels and Harry McGlade, live on darknet. Being slowly taken apart, agonizing piece by agonizing piece.

  The ratings will be spectacular.

  After deletion, one more text appears.

  I‘M ON IT.

  The Cowboy is tempted to immediately reply DON‘T TOUCH HER SHE‘S MINE!!!, but knows the person on the receiving end is well-aware of this.

  He won’t dare do anything on his own.

  The Cowboy deletes it, then gets Dmitri on the radio.

  “What’s our count?”

  “Four still out there, not including two you dispatched. Closing in on two more.”

  “Where’s Yuri?”

  “Yuri,” said Yuri, “is listening in. Is there something you need, Cowboy?”

  “I need to leave for a few hours.”

  A pause. Then Yuri says, “Are the workers back at work?”

  “They’ve all been fish-hooked, and are harvesting. We’ll make the weight quota by the meeting tomorrow.”

  Even with all the opium you smoke yourself, the Cowboy thinks.

  “How about the two Americans? Have they been found?”

  “Nyet,” says Dmitri. “But we have two teams out, there are more pings.”

  “We still have no idea how so many volunteers managed to escape at once,” Yuri says.

  The Cowboy doesn’t like his tone. Wonders if he’s high again.

  “The quota will be met,” the Cowboy repeats.

  The escape was an aggravation, and no one is more upset over losing the Americans than the Cowboy is, but Yuri isn’t focusing on the bigger picture. Once the transaction takes place, Yuri is planning on killing the prisoners anyway. Why should it matter how they got away? They’ll all be dead within twenty-four hours. The man is losing his grip.

  “I’m working on it,” the Cowboy says, instead of going there. No need to tempt fate this close to the finish line.

  “Working on it, by leaving for a few hours?”

  “Would you like to discuss this in person, Yuri?”

  There’s no immediate answer, and the Cowboy wonders if a face-to-face meeting might actually be required. The Cowboy knows Yuri’s reputation. His past. The things he’s done, and the things that have been done to him.

  Being tortured changes a man. Warps him into a funhouse mirror version of himself, enlarging some important parts while reducing others.

  The Cowboy knows this, exquisitely well.

  “No,” Yuri finally says. “Alert me when you return.”

  “Contact me when the Americans are found. Don’t kill them until I’ve had a chance to interrogate them.”

  “I wouldn’t think of starting without you, Cowboy. Dasvidaniya.”

  JACK

  Material things usually didn’t impress me. The handful of times I’d gone to McGlade’s various domiciles, he puffed and crowed while showing me expensive gadgets and rare objects, bragging about how much he paid for some work of art, or how old his single malt scotch was. I was a simple woman, with simple tastes, and didn’t need my own Ms. Pac-Man machine, or a signed first edition of The Big Sleep. Especially when my Kindle Fire adequately replaced both.

  But walking into Wyatt’s house was like a trip through the looking glass.

  Immediately upon entering, I was in the great room; a ridiculously enormous open space with a twenty-foot high log-lined cathedral ceiling, a river stone fireplace on each end, a full bar, a rustic, twelve person dining room table made of oak limbs, a red felt pool table, four gigantic leather sofas, a dozen matching easy chairs, an overhead ceiling fan network with a single belt that connected and turned all ten of them, and various full-size taxidermy animals including two grizzly bears, a puma, and a timber wolf. And there were logs everywhere; walls, beams, arches, and they even formed a grand staircase at the far end of the room.

  It had a ski lodge vibe, with enough room to land a private plane.

  I sat on a barstool at the bar, gaping at everything, and Wyatt returned from the bathroom and situated himself behind the elongated, rough-hewn countertop.

  “Jack Daniels?” he asked.

  I blinked. “Excuse me?”

  He pulled a familiar, rectangular bottle from behind the bar and set it next to me.

  Jack Daniels whiskey.

  “Rocks?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Water?”

  “A few drops.”

  He nodded his approval, as if adding water to open up a whiskey and release its flavors and aromas was some closely guarded secret. After setting two rocks glasses in front of me, he poured a few fingers in each and then produced a glass bottle of Acqua Panna. We each got a splash, and then Wyatt raised his glass.

  I lifted mine as well.

  “To friends,” he said, “old and new.”

  We clinked. We drank. Jack Daniels tasted reassuringly familiar in this odd setting. I wanted to ask him more questions about the Cowboy, but for the moment I kept it congenial.

  “Do you hunt?” I asked, my eyes falling on the stuffed wildcat behind the bar.

  “No. The animals are all Annie’s.”

  I took another sip. So did he.

  “So, your friend Harry is a private detective. Do you work with him?”

  “My husband does. I’m more of a secretary.”

  Wyatt winked. Of course he was a winker. It was an alpha male thing. “Do all secretaries pack a .357?”

  “Around Harry? Yeah.”

  Wyatt finished his drink, then looked at mine, silently encouraging me to catch up with him. I made no effort to sip any faster. Rather than wait, he poured himself another.

  “Tell me—” we both said at the same time.

  Wyatt winked again. “Jinx.” He raised his glass, and we clinked. “You first.”

  I took another small sip and said, “Tell me about your sister.”

  “Annie? We grew up with a bit of money, but our parents were… emotionally unavailable. They substituted expensive gifts for affection, and our dad never cottoned to the bible saying spare the rod, spoil the child. So she grew up tough. Even tougher than me.”

  “What did she do before the abduction?”

  “A bit of everything. You could call her a Jack of all trades. She was into rodeo for a long time. Riding and roping. Bull riding. Girl could stick to a bull or a bucking bronco like super glue to your thumb. She was a WPRA star, won a lot of events.”

  “WPRA?”

  “Women’s Professional Rodeo Association. The PRCA, Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association, that’s the big one that everyone knows. But when Annie was into rodeo, women weren’t allowed to compete against men.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  Wyatt snorted. “It’s bullshit. She would have whooped all their asses. Treat a person like a person. Everyone wants to divvy people up. This group, that group, my group, their group. You don’t feel good about yourself, so you gotta separate yourself from other folks so you can feel superior.”

  He killed his second glass, and these weren’t small glasses. I killed mine as well, only to encourage him to refill us both. The more he drank, the more he’d talk.

  Wyatt gave an even more generous pour. He added water to mine, but didn’t bother with his own.

  “So, Annie—”

  “Uh-uh,” he said, wagging a finger. “Your turn. Tell me about your husband.”

  “He’s…” What best described Phin? “He’s a bad ass.”

  “Bad boy, huh?”

  “Yes. No. He can be, but that’s not what I’m saying. He’s the kind of guy who you want on your side when the heavy shit goes down. Slow to anger, but quick to calm.”

  “So why are you riding with McGlade, instead of your bad ass husband?”

  “He’s… recuperating.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Nothing serious, I hope.”

  I shrugged. “He’s tough. He’ll get over it.”

  At least, that was my hope.

  “You guys got kids?”

  I considered the truth, discarded it. “No. You?”

  “Naw.”

  “Is there a Mrs. Wyatt Earp Steinhoffer?”

  He downed his third drink. “I don’t believe in marriage.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because Jack Daniels is nice, but easy to get sick of,” Wyatt said. He hefted another bottle onto the bar top. “Sometimes you also want Jägermeister.”

  He poured one for himself, and I took a tiny sip of my whiskey.

  “Can I see your necklace?” I asked.

  He nodded. I expected him to take it off. But instead he pulled it out of his shirt and leaned close to me.

  He was too close, but I wanted to see it. I took it in my hand, Wyatt’s whiskey breath in my hair. There was a divot in the rowel, and a few of the points were missing, but I couldn’t tell if a bullet had done the damage, or something else had.

  “I’ve never worn spurs,” I said. “Do they make noise?”

  Wyatt grinned at me. “Spurs are musical. Like a tinhorn jingling his pocket change in a Dodge City whorehouse.”

  I released the rowel and leaned back, crossing my legs to put some distance between us. Wyatt put his palms on the bar, and it looked like he was getting ready to vault over. I wasn’t enjoying the way he was looking at me. It was a horny stranger stare. The stare of a man who wanted something, but didn’t care what you wanted.

  “What are you kids drinking?” McGlade had come in, and he was walking pretty fast for a fat guy. “Shit! Jäger? Do you have any Red Bull, Sheriff? A Jäger Bomb would really hit the spot.”

  As Harry sidled up on the stool next to me, and Wyatt reached under his magic bar and came up with a can. He pushed that, and a glass, over to Harry, who poured himself a shot of Jägermeister and topped it off with the energy drink.

  McGlade raised it up. “To the Cowboy,” he said. “Don’t care if he’s six feet under, or serving ten life sentences, as long as the son of a bitch is in a hole.”

  We all clinked glasses.

  Harry downed his drink.

  I sipped mine.