“That’s Kitano.”
Rocco watched the Paint’s skittish behavior. “What’s wrong with him?”
Mandy shook her head. “They say he’s gone loco.”
Rocco didn’t miss the look she flashed at him. He wondered if they were still talking about the horse. Damn Kit, anyway. Had he told her about Rocco’s stay at Walter Reed? He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Has he?”
“I think so.” She nodded. “I’m fostering him. I hope I can rehabilitate him. I don’t know that I will ever be able to use him in the center’s work, but I would be happy to settle him with a family who will love him.”
“What happened to him?”
“He was part of a herd of horses used by a tourist’s riding stable down in Colorado. His owners fell on hard times and couldn’t feed their horses. They were put in a pasture where they slowly starved. Kitano didn’t take a liking to that. He fought back, fought to free the herd. His owners beat him, then locked him up in a stall and forgot about him. I can’t get him to go inside a building at all now. That’s why I’ve got him in this corral.”
Rocco cursed low under this breath. Kitano’s hell was like the pit he’d been a guest in. The wind curled around the buildings, making a plaintive whine.
“How are you going to fix him?”
“I don’t know. Time maybe. And patience. Plenty of food and water. Consistent handling. Basically starting over like he’s unbroke.”
She stepped on the bottom rung of the corral and pushed herself up to brace her folded arms on the top board. “My grandfather had a persistent belief that there was nothing sunshine, rest, good nutrition, exercise, and laughter couldn’t cure.”
“Horses don’t laugh.”
She looked at him. Her sharp, green gaze pierced the haze of his mind, the clutter of memories and heartache that rode him with razor-edged spurs. “I wasn’t talking about Kitano.”
He gave her a cold stare. She didn’t fucking want to get into his head. It wasn’t a safe place for any of them. “Thanks for the tour. I’m going to talk to George’s crew.” He touched the brim of his hat and headed back to the construction site.
Hours later, after meeting the guys working the construction site below, his gut told him George’s assessment of his men was accurate. None seemed to be hiding anything. No one had seen any strangers around the site or up at the ridge.
Rocco sighed as he stepped into the steel toolshed. The building was an oversized workshop that had long ago been taken over as a storage area. Various farm equipment and household artifacts littered the space-mowers, tillers, attachments for the tractor, extra tires, tools, shovels, rakes, brooms, boxes, trunks, discarded furniture-all of it covered with a thick layer of dust, none of it in any order. The clutter and confusion of the space amplified the noise in his head, hitting him like a wall he couldn’t pass through.
He looked behind him, back to the wide-open space of the ranch as a wave of impatience slammed into him. He was grateful for the job, for the place to crash. But holy hell, he didn’t want to be here, fixing a goddamned tractor. He needed to be back in Afghanistan searching for his son.
Chapter 4
Alan Buchanan nervously crossed and uncrossed his legs. He’d been in this cafe for fifty-five minutes. Only five minutes to go. What a wasted day. He’d made the four-hour drive down to Denver only to now turn around and make the long drive home again. As usual. Over the past two years, he’d been summoned here at random intervals, several times a year. Until last month, he’d never once met with anyone.
For their part, his associates had kept their word. They’d erased his past, given him a new identity-complete with a wife and a kid, set him up in a new town with the capital to start a business. He’d missed only one of these meetings. One, and yet the consequence had been severe: his wife had been murdered.
He looked at his watch. One minute left. He got up to throw away his coffee cup, but immediately sat back down as Amir Hadad walked in and joined him.
“Hello, Mr. Buchanan. How have you been?”
Alan’s mouth went dry. Amir looked like any other affluent white-collar executive out for a coffee break that afternoon. A pinstripe suit. A neatly pressed white shirt. A perfectly knotted silk tie. His soft chin was well defined by an immaculately trimmed beard. His black hair was short. His dark eyes were alert. His friendly smile was contemptuous.
“I’m here. As requested,” Alan answered, pleased that he didn’t stutter.
Amir leaned back in his seat. “So you are. So you are.” He waved a hand toward a waitress and ordered a double espresso. “You are aware of all that we have done for you? Yes?”
The memory of his wife’s car accident flashed through his mind. They said she’d been drinking. It was a lie. The woman had been a teetotaler. “Yes. Of course.”
Amir’s coffee arrived. He did not touch it. “What is the progress on the construction site?”
“As you requested, it has been problematic. The girl is having a hard time keeping workers. The construction is taking twice as long as it should because of all of the delays.”
“Very good. Very good, indeed. It’s time that there should be a fatal accident, no? We need to speed things along.”
“Kill someone? Who? How?”
“It matters not to me. If you can manage to do it without being caught, I will relocate you again when this assignment is finished.”
“You’re crazy,” Alan hissed. Sending a surreptitious look around the coffee shop, he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “That’s insane. I’m not going to kill someone.”
“Will you not? Has our time together been so onerous? One day of service here or there? You knew there was a price when you accepted the deal.”
“I have already paid a terrible price. I lost my wife, thanks to you. I want out. Out for good. I will repay you what you have invested in me.”
“There is no out, Mr. Buchanan.” Amir took out a ten-dollar bill and set it on the table. “By the way, how is your daughter?”
“Don’t hold her over my head. She isn’t my kid. She was my wife’s.” He pretended indifference. “Do what you want to her, I don’t care.”
“Of course I was not threatening her. Do you think me a monster? But I do have your signed confession. I would not hesitate to turn it over to the FBI should you find yourself unable to complete your obligations to us.”
Alan shut his eyes as he weighed his options. He couldn’t cut and run, because he’d be right back where he was five years ago. He couldn’t go to the authorities: they wouldn’t believe him, and they’d throw him in jail for his past crimes. “I didn’t mean I wouldn’t do it, just that after I do it, then I’m out.”
Amir smiled. “Good day, Mr. Buchanan. Always a pleasure to chat with you.”
Fresh out of a shower, Rocco studied his duffel bag, trying to decide whether he should unpack it and stay awhile or keep living out of the bag and remain mobile. He’d waged this debate with himself for a quarter of an hour without any progress.
What the hell. He couldn’t even decide something so freaking simple. It wouldn’t take long to repack if he had to leave in a hurry. All he really needed was his shotgun.
He pulled his clothes out of the duffel and stacked them in the dresser. When he finished, he wished he hadn’t. Everything he owned fit in two drawers. Almost thirty fucking years old, and what did he have to show for three decades of life? An old beat-up Ford, a shotgun he’d had as a kid, and two drawers of clothes.
He quickly tamped down on that line of thinking-it was a dark road that led straight to hell. His life had been so
