Page 47 of Rio's Release

“If there’s accelerant, you can’t use water,” I shout.

The man pauses and shouts orders to his men, and they run off, returning with several fire extinguishers.

“Let us help,” I bark.

He eyes me, then nods.

I grab an extinguisher and get to work at the base of the tree. If those vandals doused these trees with gasoline, they probably didn’t get very far up the trunk.

More men sprint out with axes and chop the surrounding trees, trying to make a firebreak. My men grab the axes out of the smaller men’s hands and get to work.

With the added manpower, we make quick work of getting those trees down and the others form a bucket line, dousing the downed trees with water.

It takes about twenty minutes before the three trees are out, but smoldering.

I squat near the trunks. All three of them smell like gas.

I feel a presence at my side and glance up to see the older man wiping his hands on a bandana.

“Thank you for your help,” he says.

I stand, my knees cracking. “Saw a couple of guys toss some gas cans in the back of a pickup and take off.”

He stares down the highway. “I had to fire a couple of workers yesterday. Could have been them.” He looks at me. “Blue truck?”

“I can’t say for sure. They were too far away.” I jab a thumb over my shoulder. “Sent two of my guys after them.”

His eyes drop to my black cut. “You that club I’ve heard about? Seems everyone in town can talk of nothing else.”

“Saint’s Outlaws.” I extend my hand. “I’m Rio. Las Cruces Chapter President.”

“Rio. Good to meet you. I’m Eduardo Sanchez. I own the place. Sanchez Pecans. Thanks for your help. If we didn’t get control of that quickly, my whole grove could have gone up in flames.”

“Glad we happened by at the right time.”

“Come. You and your men, join me for a drink. Please.” He heads up to the house, and we follow. We sit on chairs on the front porch, and one of his employees brings out a tray of glasses and a pitcher of sangria.

My phone rings, and I pull it out. “Yeah?”

It’s Bagger on a video call. “We caught up to ‘em. Taught ‘em a lesson.” He grins and turns the phone to two teenagers down on the dirt with blackeyes and bloody noses. “You want me to haul ‘em back there?”

I look at Sanchez with a brow cocked, showing him the two boys.

He waves me off. “I don’t think they’ll be back.”

“Let ‘em off with a warning; we see them again, they’ll be six feet under by sundown.”

“You got it, boss.”

The video ends.

“I appreciate that,” Sanchez murmurs, lifting his chin to my phone. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I glance around his operation. “How long have you been here?”

“Three generations. My grandfather started this business a hundred years ago.”

I nod. “Impressive. There good money in pecans?”

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