Chapter 2
The first Viper came at me with the pool cue.
He held it high like a club, which told me he had never fought anyone who knew how to move inside a swing.
I stepped forward instead of back.
The cue cracked against the table behind me.
My left elbow drove into his ribs.
My right hand caught the back of his vest.
I sent him headfirst into the pie display.
Glass shattered.
Cherry filling burst across his face like blood.
The waitress screamed behind the counter.
“Stay down,” I told her.
The second man came with a knife.
Short blade.
Dirty handle.
Bad grip.
He slashed at my stomach.
I turned sideways and let the blade pass close enough to cut fabric, not skin.
Then I trapped his wrist against my forearm and slammed his hand into the edge of the table.
Once.
Twice.
The knife hit the floor.
Rex’s eyes never left it.
“Stay,” I said again.
He stayed.
Barely.
The third man hit me from behind with the chain.
Pain exploded across my shoulder.
White heat shot down my arm.
I stumbled into a chair.
The diner gasped.
But pain has a language.
I knew it too well.
I turned before he could swing again and wrapped the chain around my forearm.
He pulled.
I stepped with it.
His own force brought him into my knee.
He folded around it, choking.
I drove him into the floor.
The fourth man grabbed a bottle and came screaming.
The fifth tried to circle toward Rex.
That was his mistake.
Everything in me stopped.
I pointed at him.
“Don’t.”
He smiled.
Then he took one more step toward my dog.
I moved faster than he expected.
Faster than I had moved in years.
I crossed the room, caught his collar, and slammed him into the wall so hard the deer head above the jukebox fell crooked.
His feet kicked once.
I leaned close.
“You don’t look at him.”
He nodded fast, eyes wide.
The bottle man froze behind me.
I turned.
He dropped the bottle.
Smart.
Butch groaned from the floor.
His men were down or crawling away.
The diner was silent except for heavy breathing and Rex dripping water onto the floor.
I looked at the waitress.
“Call the sheriff.”
Her face went pale.
“No.”
I frowned.
“Why not?”
Before she could answer, the front door opened.
A man in a tan sheriff’s uniform walked in.
He looked at the broken glass.
The men on the floor.
Me.
Rex.
Then Butch.
His face hardened, but not with surprise.
With irritation.
“Jack Mason,” he said.
I went still.
I had not given anyone my name.
The sheriff rested his hand near his sidearm.
“I figured you’d come through eventually.”
The waitress whispered, “I’m sorry.”
I kept my eyes on the sheriff.
“You know me?”
“I know your wife’s name.”
The room tilted.
Sarah.
Nobody in that town should have known Sarah.
Nobody.
The sheriff smiled slightly.
“Sarah Mason. Born Sarah Whitaker. Buried three counties over after that tragic accident.”
My fists tightened.
Rex stood.
The sheriff looked at him.
“Tell the dog to sit.”
I said nothing.
“Tell him,” the sheriff repeated, “or I put him down right here.”
The cold part of me sharpened.
“Rex. Place.”
Rex sat, but his ears stayed forward.
Butch laughed weakly from the floor.
“Told you he’d come.”
I looked down at him.
“You were waiting for me.”
The sheriff stepped farther inside.
“Not waiting. Hoping.”
“Why?”
His smile vanished.
“Because you’ve been asking questions about your wife’s family land.”
There it was.
The reason I had taken the long route through this dying town.
Three months earlier, my wife’s lawyer called me about property Sarah had inherited before she died.
Property I had never known existed.
A ranch outside Clayton Ridge.
Two hundred acres.
A mineral lease.
A trust.
And signatures that looked wrong.
Sarah had died before she could tell me.
Now I understood why.
I looked at the sheriff.
“What did you do?”
He tilted his head.
“Careful.”
“What did you do to my wife?”
The diner went even quieter.
The waitress started crying.
Her name tag said Molly.
She looked terrified in a way that had nothing to do with broken furniture.
The sheriff saw me watching her.
“You keep staring at my niece.”
My stomach tightened.
Niece.
Molly whispered, “Uncle Dale, please.”
He snapped, “Shut up.”
Rex growled.
Low.
Dangerous.
The sheriff’s eyes flicked toward him.
“Control the animal.”
I stepped between Dale and Rex.
“Control your mouth.”
His face changed.
For one second, he almost drew.
The room knew it.
So did I.
Then sirens sounded outside.
Not one.
Several.
The sheriff looked confused.
That was my first bit of luck.
The waitress had not called him.
Someone else had called state police.
Two cruisers pulled up outside.
A tall woman in a state trooper uniform entered with her hand on her weapon.
“Sheriff Whitaker,” she said. “Step away from him.”
Dale’s jaw tightened.
“Trooper Ellis, this is local.”
“Not anymore.”
Butch tried to crawl toward the back.
Trooper Ellis pointed at him.
“Stay where you are.”
She looked at me.
“Commander Mason?”
“Retired.”
“I know who you are.”
“Seems everyone does.”
Her eyes softened for half a second.
“I served with your wife’s cousin, Leah. She asked me to watch for you.”
Sarah’s cousin.
The one person in her family who had sent flowers to the funeral with no return address.
Trooper Ellis turned back to Dale.
“We’ve had an open inquiry into the Whitaker land transfer for two months.”
Dale’s face went gray.
“You don’t have jurisdiction.”
“Federal agents do.”
The diner door opened again.
Two men in suits stepped in.
FBI.
Butch cursed.
Dale reached for his sidearm.
Rex moved before I spoke.
Not attacking.
Positioning.
One step forward, body low, eyes locked.
Dale froze.
I said quietly, “Don’t make him choose.”
The sheriff lifted his hands.
Trooper Ellis disarmed him.
Molly sobbed behind the counter.
I looked at her.
“What happened to Sarah?”
She shook her head, crying harder.
Dale shouted, “Molly, don’t you say a word.”
The FBI agent cuffed him.
Molly looked at me with a face full of shame.
“She came back the night she died,” she whispered. “She said she had proof. She said if anything happened, I had to find you.”
My heart stopped.
“Proof of what?”
Molly reached beneath the counter with shaking hands and pulled out a small metal box.
Dale began shouting.
But I did not hear him.
May you like
Because engraved on the lid was Sarah’s handwriting.
Jack, if I’m gone, trust Rex first.
