Chapter 123 Obeying the Text Message
Sierra sped toward Sage Ranch, heart pounding against her ribs like a frantic drum. Kingman receded behind her as the interstate gave way to a narrow paved road that turned to gravel before she reached the ranch. She kept her hands clenched around the steering wheel. She had taken a moment to slip out of the Marcella dress and stilettos in the bathroom of Cody’s hospital room, putting on the jeans and Ariat’s she’d brought along.
Her thoughts returned to the hospital room she'd just left. The doctor’s voice had been oddly calming. “Cody’s coma is a good thing,” he had said, his stethoscope ticking like a metronome. “The lack of external stimuli is actually a blessing; it gives his brain the chance to repair the trauma from the accident. We’ve seen patients emerge stronger after a few days of this sort of protective shutdown.” He glanced at the monitor, the soft beeping a reminder of fragile life. “We don’t have a precise timeline for when he’ll wake up, could be hours, could be days. What I can recommend is that you get some rest, Sierra. Stress isn’t good for either of you right now.”
She swallowed the words, feeling them settle like sand in her throat. A part of her wanted to stay, to stare at the still‑still form of her brother, to whisper apologies for all the reckless choices that seemed to have led them here. But another part, sharper, colder, reminded her of the text that had buzzed on her phone:
Be at the ranch by noon.
Whoever was behind it held no patience for hesitation. She could not risk further disobedience; the threat hanging over Cody was too real, too personal. A little before noon, she had slipped out of the hospital, the sterile corridors fading behind her as she’d stepped into the glaring desert sun, the soft thud of her shoes against the asphalt.
Could it be a hoax? The question fluttered in her mind like a moth against a fluorescent bulb. It didn’t feel like one. She forced herself to consider the most plausible source: the Scotsman. He’d been a shadowy figure in her life for months, meeting her in the dim back rooms of London cafés, always speaking in half‑sentences about his employer. This omnipresent, powerful entity seemed to have a hand in everything from real‑estate deals to clandestine black ops. He’d warned her, with a thin grin, that meddling in Julian’s affairs, his land acquisitions around Kingman, could cost her the ranch and, more importantly, her place at Sterling, Quinn & Spencer. He’d never been violent, never hinted at physically harming her in any way. Yet the gravity of his warning, the way his eyes lingered on hers, made the hairs on her arms stand up. She told herself she was being paranoid, that the Scotsman’s ire was merely bureaucratic, not murderous. Still, the desert breeze seemed to whisper his name as she drove.
She drove into the ranchyard at Sage Ranch just as the sun reached its zenith, a blaze of gold spilling across the scrubland. A soft breeze drifted in from the open plains, carrying the unmistakable scent of sage and dust, dry, earthy, a promise of anonymity that felt oddly comforting after the claustrophobia of the hospital. The ranch’s wooden porch stretched out like a weathered welcome mat, its boards darkened by years of sun and foot traffic. Sierra stepped out of the SUV, her Ariats crunching on the gravel and then taking a softer tone as she ascended the steps onto the porch. She crossed it, feeling the familiar boards under her feet, each one a reminder of a life she’d had and its contrast to the one she’d built amongst Manhattan’s glass towers.
Inside, the house was a quiet tableau of late‑century desert charm. Sunlight filtered through half‑drawn blinds, casting latticework patterns on the hardwood floor. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light, tiny planets orbiting invisible suns. The living room was cluttered, a testament to the way Cody lived. She glanced toward a faded photograph of her father standing beside a young Cody, both grinning with arms around each other. Everything seemed normal.
She inhaled the scent of cedar from the mantle, the faint perfume of her own fading cologne mingling with the house’s lingering aroma. A floorboard near the doorway let out a soft protest, a groan that seemed out of place in the otherwise hushed environment. The Scotsman had arrived. She turned toward the sound.
The doorway framed a figure that made her breath catch.
Not the Scotsman. A stranger.
He was tall, his silhouette cut sharply by the light of midday. A dark patch covered one eye. He stood there without a weapon in his hand, but his presence radiated a menace that made Sierra’s skin prickle. His visage was too brutal, too raw. There was something animalistic in the way his left hand rested lightly on the door frame.
Panic surged. “Who are you?” Sierra demanded, her voice high, barely a whisper against the ticking of an old wall clock she hadn’t noticed before. The man’s mouth twitched, a smile that didn’t reach his covered eye. Without another word, he lunged.
Sierra turned on her heel, attempting a sprint toward the back door. Her heart hammered, each beat echoing the frantic rhythm of her footsteps The man’s strides were long and efficient, closing the distance in three swift steps. He grabbed her shoulder with a grip that pinched the skin, his fingers digging into her flesh. A cold cloth was forced over her mouth and nose. The sweet, cloying scent of chloroform filled her nostrils, thick and suffocating, and her vision blurred into a swirling vortex of grey. Darkness swallowed her scream.
Her body went limp, the world dissolving into a black void as the drug took hold. The last thing she felt was the man’s fingers tightening on her wrist, a whisper of leather against her skin.
When consciousness returned, it did so in a jarring, disorienting splash of cold water and rough rope. Sierra groaned, a harsh sound that reverberated off the thin walls of a cramped trailer. Her wrists were bound to a chair, the ropes biting into her skin. The trailer’s interior was a dim, cramped space: a single flickering fluorescent bulb hung low, casting a sickly amber glow over stained, musty carpet. The air was stale, causing her stomach to lurch. She held back the urge to vomit.
A voice sliced through the silence, low and familiar yet impossible to place. It had an arrogant tone she’d heard before. A disgruntled client? “I had hoped you would die along with Julian when his jet went down. Since you didn’t, and because you didn’t follow my instructions, we’ll have to do this the hard way.” The speaker’s words hung in the stale air like a poisoned promise, each syllable a reminder that the game she’d been forced into taken a new, terrifying turn.