Drake Larkin straggles in with me, parking his police cruiser off to the side. He’s a country boy to the bone with his dirty blond hair and rogue blue eyes, and probably a shoe-in to be sheriff whenever old Rodney Wallace decides to hang it up. Nobody better I’d rather have at this church session.
Then there’s my nephew. Weston McKnight looks a lot like I did when I was over ten years younger, except with lighter hair and a set of dark-blue eyes set in his head like storm clouds. He’s damn near dripping grease and oil from black streaks across his arms.
Sometimes I wonder about him, coming back from overseas just a few years ago. He enlisted young and saw some shit, barely made it home in one piece.
And even if he still greets me every time with that shit-eating family grin, I think there’s a few shadows behind his face.
A boy like him should be dating, hitting the range or hiking the trails, not playing workaholic. But all he really does is hang out in his garage like a loner when he’s not picking up part-time shifts at my bar, taking every local repair job and broken-down outsider he can tow to his place.
Sure, he’s building himself a good living, but what the hell happened to a young dude having fun?
No time for that today, though.
Not with a mess of trouble caused by fuckwits who like to make their coin off butchering beautiful, rare animals.
I’m just hoping Faulkner—who always winds up being the mastermind in these situations—lays down a plan we can get moving on ASAP.
If there’s anything I hate with stakes this high, it’s waiting.
I’ve never been caught up in something like this before, but dammit, I’m at my limit.
If he’s still up in his head, telling us it’ll be another week or two, then I’ll come up with my own fix.
I can’t leave Willow high and dry for another week, or those poor critters suffering at that outpost of hell in Minot.
Seeing that baby lion treated like a slab of fucking meat shanked me in the guts. Same with knowing beyond all doubt there’s a goddamn dirty conservation officer enabling it all.
The world is an ugly-ass place.
I’ve known it for years, but I still can’t fathom what kind of debased turd wants to make money off dragging animals around to be slaughtered.
There’s evil, and then there’s total devilry.
I saved the video footage on a jump drive and regretfully jacked it into the computer in Weston’s office, where we all gather so the rest of the guys can have a look.
Having already seen enough of that shit for this lifetime, Faulk and I stand back while the others take it in.
A few shoulders tighten. Hands reach up, scratching at their heads. Then our friends turn their eyes on us.
“What the shit?” Weston says, his blue gaze looking a shade paler as he meets my eyes. “Uncle Grady...was that a baby lion?”
“Yes,” Faulk answers for me. “A very endangered one, and proof of everything I suspected, I reckon. This is a pretty sophisticated black-market animal ring. They steal their products from all across the U.S.A. Zoos, shady sanctuaries, and distressed rescue centers are being shut down all the time and can’t keep their exotics any longer. They step in with quick cash, get the critters for free, and usually don’t spend more than a few months on upkeep before flipping ’em for a fat profit to sicko buyers.”
“What the fuck?” Drake snarls, stepping forward. “You guys should’ve come straight to the sheriff’s office, we could—”
“Yeah, there’s a problem with that. They’ve got insiders helping them, like I said,” I tell him calmly. “If that was an option, you know I would’ve jumped on it.”
I expected the shot to the heart, seeing Drake upset, but I still don’t like it. He’s a hardcore animal lover thanks to his wife, Bella. Owning Edison the horse, the biggest celebrity this town’s ever likely to have—Ridge included—does something special to a man.
“Faulk?” I gesture for him to continue.
“Right. So, like I was saying, these damn illegal wranglers keep some rare animals for show, some for history, and some for steady funding. The donations and grants filtering in from conservation groups help pad their real moneymaking operation. That’s where the others go, sad to say. Lions, tigers, leopards, monkeys of every kind, even elephants and giraffes get shipped off to be killed or treated like toys. Every so often some rich fuck in a place where it’s legal to own big cats as pets will keep them alive, but most of ’em aren’t so lucky. Soon as there’s a buyer, the critters are off to meet their fate, and she’s usually a real bitch to them.”
Faulk sighs, his breath like raw sandpaper.
Doesn’t that say it all?
Slowly, I glance around the room, taking in the tense, dark faces of men who are just starting to feel it.
The same mental torture I’ve experienced for weeks, wishing like hell I could charge in and end this, but having to check my own courage—or would-be stupidity.
“Faulk, how do you make something alive that weighs hundreds of pounds just up and disappear?” Ridge practically spits his words. “I saw the plane, but hell. A model that small has to make regular stops for fuel if it’s heading across country. How do they keep it under wraps?”
Faulk shifts his weight, sliding his hands together and cracking his knuckles.
“That’s where it gets interesting. I ran the numbers off the side of that plane days ago, and it’s out of Canada. Registered to a guy who lives somewhere on Vancouver Island. Didn’t have an American flight plan that night.”
“Canada?” Drake echoes. “That makes this crap international.”
“Sure does,” Faulk answers. “From what I’ve gathered, their cargo heads up to Canada, and then they put them on ships or long-haul flights to Asia. Big cat trade and more is legal in lots of places, sad to say. Exotic carcasses turn up all the time missing body parts. Won’t say more because I don’t want you guys puking.”
A few tired curses fly around the room.
I make a mental note to ask Willow about what she’s seen with poachers in Africa, but only for a moment.
Talk about a stupid move.
She had her heart ripped in half the night that cub vanished into the ether. Unless there’s critical intel involved, I’m not keen on squeezing her feelings out again.
I just hate this whole shitshow, this shit circus, this feeling of having my hands tied.
“How the hell do they cut them up?” Weston asks, his question a dry rattle. “Do they even shoot them first?”
“They poison them,” I tell him. “Easy enough when they’re barely being fed in these bastards’ hands. They’ll eat anything. They use shit that isn’t deadly to humans, depending on what they’re after. The bone trade alone is huge. A lion’s skull, intake, fur...that’s worth thousands per cat.”
My gut feels like it’s ready to tear.
I never want to do this kind of fucked up research again.
“Jesus. Tell me it ends there,” Weston growls again.
“Nope. Everything from making mounts to jewelry to crank cures brings in big money,” Faulk answers. “The lion products are often used as substitutes for the tiger bone trade, which gets even more lucrative. That’s where the real princely money is.”