Trapped in an Iron Cage by His Outlaw Brother, an Ex-Con Tracker and His Wife Risk $2.5 Million in Underworld Gold and Their Lives through Explosive Hidden Traps and Paternity Betrayals
Boyd’s rage was a force, cold and controlled. The two men with him, sensing a shift in the wind, shuffled their feet.
“You’re coming with me, Silas,” Boyd announced, his voice carrying just enough authority to be heard, but with a hidden meaning I understood. “And the woman.”
He looked at Maeve, his expression grim but no longer hostile. One of Eli’s men moved to grab my arm, but Boyd intercepted him with a curt nod.
“I’ll handle him. You two, secure the perimeter. Don’t let anyone else near Croft’s office.”
The men, still confused but accustomed to following Boyd’s orders, left. Boyd pulled a coil of rope from his belt.
“This is going to look real,” he muttered, starting to bind my wrists. “Eli won’t expect anything less.”
He tied me tightly, but not painfully. He even added a piece of cloth to my mouth, making it seem like I was gagged, though I could still speak if I needed to. Maeve, pale but resolute, watched him work.
“Maeve, you know what to do,” I instructed, my voice muffled by the gag, but clear enough for her. “Wait for my signal. The saloon’s main support beam. That’s the target.”
She nodded, a fierce spark in her eyes. Her role in this final act was crucial.
Boyd gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod, a silent promise of protection. Then, he grabbed my arm and dragged me out of Croft’s office. The journey back to the Rattlesnake Saloon was a spectacle. Boyd marched me through the dusty plaza, my hands bound, my head down, like a defeated animal.
“We got him!” Boyd roared, as we approached the saloon. “Silas Rudd, caught trying to flee!”
A cheer went up from the assembled men. Eli’s captains, rough-looking men with a lifetime of questionable dealings etched on their faces, were gathered in the main room of the saloon. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the smell of cheap whiskey.
Eli himself stood by the bar, a triumphant smirk on his face, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He looked like a king on his throne.
“Well, well, well,” Eli drawled, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Look what the desert wind blew in. My little brother, back for his reckoning.”
He savored the moment, relishing in my apparent defeat. He hadn’t just gathered his captains for a celebration; he’d called in Don Alvarez’s emissaries as well, two stern-faced men in dark suits, seated at a table near the back, observing everything. They were here to witness the “justice” and ensure the local syndicate was under control.
This was it. The perfect trap. Eli, surrounded by his entire court, confident in his victory, unaware of the viper he had brought into his own den. My eyes met Boyd’s for a fleeting moment. He had positioned me directly in front of the table where Alvarez’s men sat.
The stage was set.
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