“You can’t keep doing this,” said Faras.
Ty said nothing.
“It costs me money and time.”
Ty met his gaze and read the warning there. Things were serious now. With the pressure of the Russians and the tribal police bringing in the FBI, Faras was in a difficult spot. He could not afford to bring his suppliers less, to even let one little fish swim out of the net.
“That’s the last one. You feel me?” said Faras.
Ty nodded.
“And where you been? I’ve been trying to reach you since Tuesday. You don’t answer your phone or return my calls.”
Ty told himself not to move his healing shoulder. Not to give away that he’d been injured, running for his life in the woods, trying to reach the reservation and home before the Feds caught him and locked him up beside his dad. Because if Faras knew, he’d also know that Ty followed his brother to the holding house that was stop one in the surrogate operation.
“I had a delivery in Phoenix. That ’78 Nova. Matte-black.”
“Phoenix and back takes six hours.”
Ty met his gaze without shifting in his seat or offering further explanation.
Faras dragged his hand down his braid, tugged and then tossed it over his shoulder. “Listen, you asked me for a favor. You asked me to lie to my suppliers about a certain baby girl dying. I did that.”
“And you already called that favor. Sent me on a pickup. I drove Kacey Doka at your request and I delivered her, didn’t I?”
“And both those guys are dead.”
“How you figure that’s my fault?”
“It’s your brother’s fault. Colt killed them.”
“He’s not a dog on a leash. He loves Kacey.”
“Love? Don’t make me laugh. How did Colt know where to find those Russian dudes?”
“Dunno. Followed me?”
“You better hope that’s how it went. If you tipped him...” Faras sat back in the booth and looked at the ceiling. Then dragged in a long breath and exhaled.
Ty read the signs. Now he was already in the danger zone. He regretted chasing off Randy. The timing had been bad.
Faras met his gaze across the table, his eyes flat and cold. “You still owe me for the baby. I’m calling it in. Moving you to transport.”
“I delivered Kacey. That covers it.”
“Not hardly. Two more of Vitoli’s guys were killed in Antelope Lake.”
“Too bad.” Ty tried and failed to look sorry. The bastards had nearly killed Kee.
“And you were there.”
“No.”
“Says you.”
Faras didn’t know. He was fishing, putting together the pieces.
“No way,” said Ty.
“Just making a three-day delivery of a Chevy Nova. Yeah, I heard. You want that baby to stay dead?”
Ty felt trapped. His entire life he’d been trapped. By his father, by the Marine Corps, by the gang. All he wanted in this shitty world was to have the chance, like Kee and Jake and Colt, to make something of himself. But he’d made his bed at eighteen. He didn’t regret what he had done. But he never anticipated that by accepting Faras’s help back then he would be tied to the man forever and painted with the same broad brush.
He wanted out. But if he left, just got on his bike and rode, who would protect his family from these predators that lived inside their rez like a nest of vipers?
The police couldn’t do it, because they had laws to follow and they were outmatched in numbers and finances. The Feds couldn’t do it. They didn’t operate here unless invited and they flitted in and out like migrating birds while he wallowed down here in the mud.
“You hear me, Ty?” said Faras.
Ty nodded.
Faras leaned in. “I got a new operation. We’re cookin’ now. Ice.”
Ty frowned, hating crystal meth and hating even more that the posse would be in production on his rez. “That so?”
“Yeah. First lab is in production up on Deer Kill Meadow Road. Old hay barn up there.”
“Won’t someone see the smoke?”
“Nights only. You gonna start transport next week.”
The hell he was. “Sure.”
Chino returned with the beer. Ty left his on the table, went to the bar and sat beside Quinton. Ty was sitting facing the taps when Quinton’s foot dropped heavily off the bar stool as he sat forward. He did not reach for his gun, but his eyes widened and he looked as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water in his face.
Ty spun on the swivel stool toward the door. A woman paused on the Budweiser floor runner and glanced about. Ty thought her attention paused on him, but that might have been wishful thinking.
“Damn,” said Quinton. “Why I have to be working when something like that shows up?”
Ty thought it was a someone, not a something. But he agreed with Quinton that the woman was spectacular. She was tall with a confident stride and an economy of movement that spoke of power. Ty waited a beat for her partner to arrive and then it settled over him that this woman had come by herself to an unfamiliar watering hole, one with at least eight Harleys parked out front, and she had walked in with a self-assurance that showed either foolishness or strength.
Strength, he decided. That to him was more appealing than beauty because it took grit to survive up here. Both fortitude and compromise.
The tilt of her head and the way she scanned her surroundings gave her the air of a woman who knew what she was doing. There was no hesitation or wariness as she took in her surroundings. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she owned the place.
The conversation lulled as one after another of both the single and married men considered their chances. Several of the men turned back to their beers, taking themselves out of the race by fidelity to their mates, or just by judging themselves to be farm-league players in a major league game.
Ty leaned forward and drank her in like water. High brown suede boots, with silver studs around each ankle, hugged her well-defined calves. Her jeans were dark, new-looking and tight, showing legs that went on and on. The cropped leather jacket seemed to have lived a long, interesting life as a favorite garment, and Ty resented the way it hugged her upper body and breasts. Below the bottom of the jacket was a wide silver rodeo buckle, the kind that was won, not purchased. From here, it looked like the lady was a world-class barrel racer. Oh, how he would love to see her ride.
Her fawn-brown skin held the luster of gold undertones, catching the light on her high cheekbones. She seemed multiracial. He thought he recognized the Native American lineage in her distinctive facial structure. Her pale eyes hinted at European roots, and she had full lips, light brown skin and a curl of her brown shoulder-length hair. A natural beauty.
Women, sitting beside their men, placed proprietary hands on their companions, claiming them as she again swept the room with a slow scan. Her gaze fell on him. Her mouth quirked and he saw trouble coming his way, again. Only this time he felt like walking out to meet it.
She raised her voice to be heard above the jukebox as she kept her eyes fixed on his. “I’m looking for Ty Redhorse.”
In Beth’s