Page 21 of Rope Burn

He's telling me the rigs carry more than stock, and the documentation is designed to make sure nobody traces what else is moving.

"Give me the full name."

"Sandoval Hauling, LLC. New Mexico registration with a Doña Ana County address. Check it against the federal registry."

I write Sandoval Hauling, LLC on my clipboard under a column of fabricated loss-adjustment notes, wedged between a fictitious herd count and a made-up deductible figure.

"What else are you holding?"

"When you've confirmed Sandoval doesn't exist in the federal database, come find me."

"That's not how intelligence exchange works, Carrick."

"It's how mine works." His mouth pulls at one corner, and the expression is too controlled to be called a smile. "You came to my room and left without finishing the exchange. That's not how intelligence works either."

The observation lands where he aimed it. He knows what I failed to do and why.

He's standing close enough that the smell of arena dust on his skin pulls a sense-memory from last night, one that has no business surfacing at a livestock pen during an active event.

His hands on the fence rail catch in my peripheral vision, scarred across the knuckles, braced with the same deliberate control he uses in competition and conversation and motel rooms. I steer my attention back to the clipboard before the memory of those hands pinning me to the mattress finishes forming.

"You're feeding me this one piece at a time because you don't trust me enough to hand over everything," I tell him.

"I'm giving you one piece at a time because the last time I trusted a federal channel, someone leaked my appointment to the man holding my leash. That leak is still inside the system." His voice drops below the pen noise, flat and level. "If you want the rest, Engel, prove Sandoval is dirty and then come back. That's how trust works outside your chain of command."

He glances toward the back lot. "One more thing... the Thornton rig behind pen twelve pulled in last night. No livestock to haul out until tomorrow afternoon. There's no reason for that trailer to still be on the grounds unless it's waiting for a load that isn't on the schedule."

Pen twelve sits beyond the vendor row, visible from Penny's table.

He turns back to the holding pens. "Pen six," he says. "The records will be in the stock office until they break down tonight. After that, they're gone."

He pushes off the fence and walks away. The conversation is his to end, and he ends it without looking back.

I watch him cross the lot toward the competitor area, his stride unhurried and deliberate. The way he moves through the fairground crowds reminds me of how he moved through the dark motel room: like a man who knows where every wall is without needing the light.

He's given me a carrier name, a plate number, a gate camera, and an unscheduled Thornton trailer that shouldn't be here. He's also given me a condition: prove Sandoval is dirty and come back for the rest. The intelligence is exceptional. The price is returning to a man I'm already too close to, and we both know it.

I find the bay roan in pen six, standing with its head low in the afternoon heat, the freeze brand visible on its near hip.

In the stock office, the intake binders for the current event are stacked on a folding table beside a half-empty coffee pot. The clerk barely glances at my lanyard when I ask to review the carrier documentation for pen six. Insurance adjusters pulling transport records is routine enough to bore everyone involved, and I use the boredom the way I use the clipboard: as camouflage.

The intake record lists the delivering carrier as Clovis Livestock Transport, Clovis, NM. Not Sandoval. The bill of lading carries the Clovis name and a compliance stamp in the approval column: S. Hendricks, Director. The authorized signatory on every carrier certification in APRA's system. The task force cleared Steve months ago, but phantom haulers are moving through the division he controls, and his brother built the corridor they operate in. I flag him for renewed scrutiny.

I step outside and get into my vehicle with the photographed documents and open Torres's digital hauling records on my operational phone. Sandy's last confirmed sighting at the Lubbock fairground falls inside the window when two former Thornton rigs left town under new carrier paper. Both arrived late at their next recorded stops, continuing the pattern of unexplained transit delays the prior corridor investigation documented but never resolved.

I photograph the intake record and the bill of lading, upload both to the encrypted task-force file, and link them to the Thornton transit logs already in Torres's records. The images preserve the Clovis side of the discrepancy. The east-gate footage will either corroborate Carrick or expose him.

My ASAC calls as the fairground lights come on. I roll up the windows, check the mirrors, and let the cab go quiet before I answer.

"Progress report, Carroll," he says. The neutral inflection of a supervisor who asks the same question on the same schedule regardless of what the answer might be.

"Sandy Canutson's abduction tracks to the old Thornton rigs. Two of them left Lubbock inside the relevant window, both arriving late at their next recorded stops. Torres's intake files show fragmentary reports of other women connected to the circuit who disappeared along Thornton's routes between southern Arizona, New Mexico, and West Texas. The pattern is geographic. The timing follows the transport calendar."

"Carrick?"

"Active on the circuit. Competing. His presence at events provides ongoing access to the transport infrastructure."

"Cooperation assessment?"