Page 17 of Broken Ride

"Nothing you'd put on a postcard. Ranch roads, border crossings, a lot of empty desert where nobody asks questions about what's inside a livestock trailer." His jaw works once, a slow grind of his back teeth. "Those aren't ranching routes, Laney. Not for a stock hauler on a schedule."

The pieces lock into place with an almost audible click. His road knowledge laid over my contamination data turns the scattered red marks into a line, a corridor running south through the border country between Deming and Douglas, then looping back to the interstate in time for the rodeo delivery.

"Someone is using those trailers to move product," I say. "The horses are collateral damage. If fentanyl is being stored inside the rigs near the livestock, any failure in containment would produce exactly the kind of inconsistent, low-level contamination I'm documenting. The exposure would depend on proximity, duration, and how well whatever is carrying the product is sealed. That's why some horses show symptoms and others don't, even on the same haul."

"And you think Thornton is running product alongside livestock."

"I think five contaminated horses on one hauler's routes is past the point of coincidence. The transit time anomalies match. The lab results match. It's one corridor, one hauler, one operation."

He reaches across the desk for one of the Thornton delivery receipts near my elbow, and his arm passes close to my face without warning. I flinch. The reflex is fast and involuntary, a full-body contraction that pulls me sideways before my conscious mind registers that the movement was harmless. His hand stops in midair, receipt pinched between two fingers, and his eyes come up to mine.

The moment holds for half a second. I straighten, take the receipt from his hand, and set it between us on the desk. My expression doesn't change. His doesn't either. But his gaze hardens, fast and controlled, and he pulls his arm back to his own side of the desk with the deliberate precision of a man who just learned a thing he intends to use.

He doesn't mention it. I don't explain.

"Colt told me about a vet named Salazar," he says, and the shift in subject is abrupt enough to feel like a door slamming shut. "Circuit vet before you. Started asking questions about Thornton. Disappeared."

The information lands in my stomach with a weight that has nothing to do with surprise. I already suspected someone else had noticed. "When?"

"Months ago. Nobody went looking very hard."

"That's reassuring."

"It wasn't meant to be." He holds my eyes, and the weight of the look pins me where I'm standing. "We just mapped a federal drug corridor. And the veterinarian asking questions about it is you, not me. The people running this have already made one vet disappear. This isn't a phone call to the state board, Laney. This is the kind of thing that gets people killed."

"So we go to the FBI." I pull the manila envelope toward me. "I know it was an agent named Torres who ran the Merrick investigation. We hand her everything, let the feds build the case, and get out of the way."

"And Thornton shuts down the routes before a single warrant gets signed." Wade leans forward, elbows on his knees. "You've seen how fast these people adapt. Merrick goes down, Thornton adapts. You blow the whistle on Thornton, somebody else picks up the contract next season with cleaner trucks and smarter methods. The corridor doesn't die. It just moves."

"So your plan is to keep gathering evidence until we have enough for an airtight case while a drug operation keeps poisoning horses and a missing veterinarian stays missing?"

"My plan is to not get you killed by walking into a federal office with half a case and a target on your back."

"I already have a target on my back." The words come out harder than I intend. "I've had one long before Thornton. The difference is this target I can do something about."

His expression goes flat. The assessment is rapid and thorough, and I can feel him recalculating everything he knows about me against what I just implied. His mouth thins into a hard line, and the temperature in the room drops.

"We need more," he says. "Another week. I can get to Reyes through a contractor who owes me a favor. If Reyes is the one running the loaded rigs, he's the weak link. Drivers talk when they're scared, and a man hauling federal weight across state lines has plenty to be scared about."

"A week."

"One week. If I can't get to Reyes by then, we go to Torres with what we have."

"That isn't your decision to make."

"I'm not making it. I'm asking."

"One week," I say. "And if another horse gets sick before then, I go to Torres immediately. With or without you."

"Fair."

My phone buzzes on the desk between the manifests. I glance at the screen.

Unknown number. Oklahoma area code.

The buzz cuts through the room like a blade, and every muscle in my body locks into a stillness that predates thought. The number isn't one I've seen before. It's never the same number twice. Different phones, same area code, same silence on the other end if I'm stupid enough to answer.

I don't answer. The call rings through to voicemail.