It was the complete, terrifying truth. Rollins was the law in this county. He would sign the report, and the world would accept it. George was protected by layers of bureaucratic corruption, his wealth buying his absolute immunity.
But Rollins didn’t know one crucial detail.
He didn’t know that when I had retreated into the woods hours ago and checked my phone, before realizing the battery was dead, I had actually managed to secure one single bar of signal for exactly forty-five seconds.
I hadn’t searched the internet for Thomas Vance in the woods. I had searched it back at the abandoned barn.
In those precious seconds in the woods, I had dialed a number. Not 911, which would route directly to Oakhaven County dispatch, right back into Rollins’ hands. I dialed a personal favor. An old friend I used to ride with who eventually straightened his life out and joined the Texas Department of Public Safety, operating out of the State Trooper barracks three counties over.
I told him exactly what was happening, exactly where I was going, and that a local sheriff’s deputy was directly involved in a homicide cover-up.
I just needed to keep them talking.
“You think a bullet is going to solve your problem, Rollins?” I said, taking half a step toward the deputy, forcing his attention squarely onto me. “If you shoot me, there’s an investigation. Blood spatter. Ballistics. State investigators will comb every inch of this farm. You really think George has hidden everything well enough?”
“Shut up,” Rollins snapped, his finger tightening visibly on the trigger.
“You think they won’t search the eastern field by the silo?” I continued, my voice echoing loudly in the enclosed space. “Because I know that’s where Thomas is buried. I know he’s beneath the dead cottonwood tree.”
George’s face paled abruptly. He turned sharply to glare at Peter. “You little rat!” he roared, raising the butt of his shotgun to strike the terrified boy.
That was the opening I had been waiting for.
George’s violent distraction caused Rollins to briefly shift his gaze away from me. In a fraction of a second, I reached to my side, grabbed a heavy, rusty, ten-pound metal pipe wrench resting on a nearby wooden workbench, and hurled it with absolutely devastating force directly at Rollins’s head.
The wrench tumbled violently through the air. Rollins turned back just in time to catch the heavy steel tool directly in his chest. He gasped violently, the wind completely knocked out of him, his pistol discharging wildly into the barn ceiling, blowing a hole in the tin roof.
I exploded forward, closing the ten-foot gap in two massive strides.
George swung the barrel of the shotgun toward me, his face twisted in panic. I didn’t try to grab the gun. I lowered my shoulder, channeled every ounce of forward momentum I possessed, and hit the large man squarely in his midsection like a freight train.
We both crashed violently into the concrete floor. The shotgun flew from his hands, sliding loudly under a nearby tractor.
George was older, but he possessed an incredible, terrifying farmer’s strength. He rolled over quickly, mounting my chest, and drove a brutal, callused fist directly into my jaw. My vision swam in a flash of white light. I tasted copper as blood filled my mouth. He raised both hands, interlocking his fingers into a heavy hammer-fist, bringing it down viciously toward my face.
I rolled hard to the right, letting his fists smash harmlessly into the concrete. I threw my right arm around his thick neck, locking him into a brutal chokehold from behind. We scrambled wildly on the floor, surrounded by dust and machinery, grunting like wild animals. I clamped my legs around his waist, tightening the choke, burying my face into his shoulder to protect against his flailing elbows.
“You don’t get to hurt them anymore!” I roared, the pent-up rage of twenty years pouring into my arms as I squeezed.
George thrashed violently, his heavy hands tearing at my thick leather jacket, scratching at my forearms. He gasped for air, his face turning a deep shade of purple. He fought with everything he had, the panicked thrashing of a predator realizing it was finally trapped. But I refused to let go. For my brother. For Thomas. For Peter. I held on.
Within thirty seconds, his frantic thrashing slowed. His heavy hands went limp. I squeezed for three more seconds to ensure he was out, then threw his heavy body to the side, collapsing back onto the concrete floor, panting heavily.
I sat up just in time to see Rollins crawling toward his dropped pistol.
Before he could reach the grip, a small, dirty boot stepped squarely onto his wrist.
Peter stood over the deputy, holding a heavy metal crowbar he had retrieved from the workbench. He didn’t look terrified anymore. He looked entirely resolved.