Page 16 of Deadly Evidence
“I appreciate your offer...and the money. I truly do. But it’s been two years now, and—”
“Chuck was one of my best friends. I’m Tyler’s godfather. Please, just let me do these things.”Please, let me make amends.
She gave in as she always did, with a tremulous sigh, and he knew that they were both thinking about the gentle bear of a man who’d gone out on that last joint operation with the border patrol and the DEA, but never came back.
Two other agents had lost their lives that night as well—dedicated, intelligent, experienced agents who’d also been Brady’s close associates.
Ending the connection on his cell phone, he strode down the barn aisle toward Copper’s stall.
He’d always be there for Tyler and his mother, in every way he could. But he was also going to make sure—absolutely sure—that Chuck’s killers were caught and tried.
He allowed himself a grim smile.
Thanks to perseverance and prayers, he was in just the right place to do it.
Trying to obtain information from a teenage boy rivaled interrogating a prison lifer who had little to gain by cooperating.
After two hours of riding with Dante while checking the herds, Brady had come up with nothing.
The report he’d just received from Luis indicated that Dante had a long juvenile record and a fringe association with some members of the Mafia Mexicana.
Given that, there was a chance that he’d had been planted here by the Garcia drug organization to help smugglers crossing Triple R land.
He shot a glance at the sullen kid lounging on his horse with one knee hooked over the saddle horn and decided to try again. “It sure is pretty here.”
They’d stopped on a low rise overlooking a broad valley rimmed by rocky outcroppings and, on the far side, a trio of buttes.
A mountain range loomed along the horizon, purple now that the sun was riding low in the sky. A herd of cattle—224 head, all bearing the Triple R brand—ranged across the land below them.
Dante gave a noncommittal grunt and shook out some slack in his reins, then reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a plastic-wrapped sandwich. His black gelding lowered its head and started grazing.
“Do you know what those mountains are to the northwest?”
That earned an impatient shrug. Which meant the boy didn’t know, didn’t care, or considered conversation a waste of time.
Brady tried another tack. “Nice horse you have there. Is he yours?”
Dante shook his head.
“I had a black gelding when I was a kid.” Brady gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Named him Spitfire, of all things. I figured he’d win the Kentucky Derby someday, and then I would use him to become a world champion roper.”
That earned a snicker.
“Problem was, he was just a tad over fourteen hands and had the build of a Shetland on steroids. He waddled instead of walked, and the only time he moved fast was when we turned for home.”
After wolfing down his sandwich, Dante watched his horse graze for a long moment. “You had a ranch?”
“Until we lost it. Drought...cattle prices...you know the drill. How about you—did you come from these parts?”
“No.”
“Where, then?”
A vague wave of Dante’s hand might have meant El Paso or any number of tiny, dusty towns between here and there, though Brady already knew exactly where he’d come from.
“How long have you worked for Anna?”
The boy shot him an irritated look. “Long enough.” He balled up the plastic wrap, stuffed it in his saddlebag, and dropped his foot into the stirrup. “Ready?”
