Page 70 of Wyoming Cowboy Undercover

Mercy’s uncle grabbed the radio from the dash and hit the button on the side. “I’m here, Marsh. Go ahead.”

“I just found out. I’m in shock, ashamed, at having been fooled,” Marshall said in a rush. “But we’ve all been deceived.”

A prickle of warning crawled up Rocco’s neck. He tensed, his muscles coiling with readiness.

“What on earth?” Mac leaned forward, hunching over the radio. “Deceived about what?”

“Not what, my brother, but bywho. Rocco is an undercover ATF agent. I trust you to handle it as you see fit.”

Rocco’s chest constricted, his adrenaline kicking into high gear.

Nanoseconds bled together. Everything happened in slow motion. Barry turned for him. At the same time, Rocco raised the AK-47 and slammed the butt of the rifle into the man’s face.

Bone crunched. Blood gushed.

Mac was in motion, shifting in his seat.

Rocco swung the buttstock ninety degrees. Smashed it forward between the front seats against the side of Mac’s head, sending his skull crashing into the window.

The truck swerved as Dennis reached for a weapon. Rocco ignored him. Only the other two men mattered at the moment.

With his right hand, Rocco snatched the bowie knife from Barry’s holster. He rotated his elbow up and jammed the blade back into the man’s throat.

A wet gurgling came from Barry.

Rocco yanked the knife free. Barry’s hand, now gripping the wound, was so coated in blood it seemed as though he had slipped on a crimson glove.

Almost too late, he caught sight of Mac grabbing a 9 mm.Almost.Rocco pounced forward. A bullet rifled by him—close enough that he felt the heat at the side of his neck—shattering the rear windshield. He thrust the bowie knife into flesh, sinking the sharp blade into Mac’s wrist.

The 9 mm clattered to the footwell.

Rocco grabbed the strap of his seat belt, wrapping the webbing around his left arm. Lunging up, he pressed the button on the buckle for Dennis, releasing the driver’s safety belt. He punched Dennis in the temple with a hammer fist, using the fleshy side part of his clenched hand.

Then he grabbed the steering wheel and yanked it hard, pitching them off the road and down the steep hillside.

His heart whipped up into his throat. His stomach dropped. The saliva dried in his mouth. Bracing, he tightened his grip on the seat belt webbing that locked in place.

A string of curses flew from Mac’s mouth. The man tried to wrangle the steering wheel with his one good hand, but it was no use. The truck was out of control.

The heavy dually whooshed down the slope. Angry metal chewed through brush, barreling over shrubs. Nausea welled in Rocco. A burst of fear slicing through him was razor sharp.

Fear that he would fail to stop the other men from launching the attack. That he wouldn’t keep his promise to get Mercy out of the compound.

The groan of steel crunching and rending filled his ears when the passenger’s side of the truck wrapped around a tree, bringing them to a bone-jarring halt. The sudden impact had him lurching forward, but the safety belt he clung to jerked tight, snapping him back against the seat.

His brain felt like it had been caught in a blender. His stomach in a knot. His left shoulder ached from the force of the impact.

Clearing his head, he gained his bearings.

Barry was dead, bled out beside him. Mac was unconscious with a deployed airbag in his face.

But Dennis was gone. His body had been thrown from the vehicle, out through the windshield.

Rocco looked around. Found the Calico submachine gun and the 9 mm Mac had dropped in the footwell. He grabbed both.

He pulled on the handle of his door. It stuck. He had to kick it open.

Glancing back at Mac, he ached to put a bullet in him, sending his soul straight to hell. He had to remind himself that he wasn’t a vigilante doling out his own brand of justice.

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