Platinum Cowboy

Sweat trickled down his jaw. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t have happened.

Akeem caught his eye as he approached, the devastation on his face mirroring Flint’s. They were supposed to be celebrating their latest venture tonight, not mourning Viktor’s death. Although Flint’s five-hundredacre ranch bred and trained thoroughbreds, quarter horses and beef cattle, Akeem had convinced him to try his hand at Arabians, and he was expecting the shipment within the hour. Jackson’s company Champion Enterprises had handled the arrangements.

Flint always met his shipments in person.

He claimed a chair across from Akeem, with Jackson on his right. In the midst of the crowded airport terminal, the strained silence grew tense. No one wanted to speak.

Saying the words out loud would make it all too real.

Flint lifted the pitcher and filled the three mugs, then watched the head on the beer fizzle as he contemplated what to say.

“I can’t believe it,” he finally said.

Akeem scraped his hand over his chin. “The country isn’t releasing any details.”

“Do you think the rebels in Rasnovia killed the royal family?” Jackson asked in a gravelly voice.

Flint shrugged. “That would be my guess. Once the democracy was established, the royal family had intended to stay on as ambassadors.”

Viktor had been an icon to his country; he’d worked diligently to repair Rasnovia’s infrastructure and jumpstart its economy.

The Aggie Four had also invested in Rasnovia’s businesses. But money wasn’t the issue tonight. Their friend’s death was all that mattered.

Flint raised his mug to toast their departed buddy, and Jackson and Akeem followed, but then Flint’s cell phone trilled.

His pilot. He connected the call, frowning at the sound of static popping over the line.

“Reuben?”

“T-trouble,” Reuben said in a choked voice. “Help…”

Flint’s heart pounded, and he lurched up. “I’ll be right there.”

“What is it?” Jackson asked.

“Something’s wrong. Let’s go.” He tossed some cash on the table to pay for the beer; then the three of them raced toward security.

Joey Stamos, the chief of security, met them at the gate and transported them to the plane, which had already taxied up to the loading dock. The runway lights had been cut as well as the exterior lights, pitching the plane into total darkness.

“What the hell is happening?” Jackson muttered.

“You think someone’s trying to steal the Arabians?” Akeem asked.

Flint cursed. “Over my dead body.”

Suddenly all hell broke loose, and gunfire exploded outside. The security guards at the loading dock scurried into action, crouching down as they surrounded the plane.

“Stay down and inside!” Stamos ordered as he slid from the vehicle.

Flint reached for the door handle, but Stamos grabbed his arm. “I mean it, McKade. Those are automatic weapons.”

Dammit, Stamos was right. He hadn’t exactly come packing to the airport.

Another round of bullets pinged back and forth. The guards exchanged fire, their bullets pelting metal, dust flying, for what seemed like hours as Flint and his friends waited.

Finally, things settled down, and Stamos returned. “It’s clear, but not good.”

Flint imagined the worst as he climbed out of the vehicle. “I have to see.”

Stamos put a hand to his chest to stop him. “No, wait on CSI.”

“Stamos, those are my people in there,” Flint growled. “And I have to check the Arabians.”

Stamos finally nodded but ordered Jackson and Akeem to remain behind and wait for the local police and forensic team.

Fear and anger gnawed at Flint as he followed Stamos to the plane and climbed on board.

The moment he stepped up to the cockpit, the coppery scent of blood assaulted him. Then he glanced inside, and his chest clenched at the sight of the bloody massacre. His pilot had been shot in the head at close range, his blood and brain matter splattered across the instrument panel.

He spun around, fury churning through him, then spotted two ranch hands sprawled on the floor, dead in the galley. One was an older guy he’d known for years. The other was a young man, but his face had been shattered during the massacre and was unrecognizable. Multiple gunshot wounds marked their chests and limbs, their blood running like a river down the aisle.

Choking back bile, he sidestepped the bodies and rushed to the stalls to check the horses.

Normally sedated, now they were kicking and whinnying madly, the small plane rocking with the force.

“Shh, guys. It’s over.” He gently soothed the animals, scrutinizing each one for injuries, but thankfully, they appeared to be unharmed.

“We got the shooters,” Stamos said as he came up behind Flint. “There were two, both with heavy artillery.”

Flint’s jaw tightened. “I want to question them.”

Stamos shook his head. “Too late. They’re dead.”

Flint fisted his hands, wanting to pound something. A dozen questions raced through his head. Questions the cops would ask. Questions he wanted the answers to himself.

Who were the shooters? Had they been working alone, or had someone else orchestrated this attack?

“Looks like someone either wanted the horses or wanted to hurt your business,” Stamos said quietly.

Flint nodded. Damn right, they had. And he’d find out who had endangered his Arabians and killed his men.

Then the SOBs would pay.

DR. LORA LEIGH WHITTAKER hated Flint McKade.

Yet here she was, driving past the giant live oaks flanking the private road to the Diamondback Ranch—McKade’s mega-conglomerate estate—to work for him. He’d named the huge operation after his prized stallion, Diamondback Jack, a thoroughbred that had won him millions in races and stud fees, and not, as she’d first thought, after the diamondback rattlers so prominent on the rugged Texan land.

Bitterness swelled inside her. He was a snake himself. Always coiled and ready to strike and take advantage of the small-time ranchers.