Chapter 125 Persuasion by Force
The scarred one pulled the rope tight, the nylon biting into Sierra’s wrists as he secured her to the chair’s wooden slats. She winced, but refused to cry out. Behind her, the one with the eye patch knelt to bind her ankles, his gloved hands rough and efficient.
“Comfortable, princess?” Scar asked, stepping back to admire his work. He was built like a refrigerator, all shoulders and no neck, with a jagged white line splitting his upper lip. “Because you’re gonna be sitting here awhile.”
“Let me go,” Sierra said, keeping her voice steady despite the jackhammering of her heart. “Whatever Warren is paying you, I can double it. Triple it.”
Patch laughed, a wet, guttural sound. He rose, cracking his knuckles. “You think this is about money? Sweetheart, Pistol Warren owns people. We’re not mercenaries. We’re believers.”
“Believers in what?” Sierra tugged against the bindings, testing the give. None. “In murder?”
Scar leaned down, his sour breath hot against her cheek. “In the future. In progress. You’re standing in the way of progress, Ms. Quinn. Or sitting, technically.” He straightened, exchanging a look with his partner. “And progress doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Patch circled her slowly, the floorboards creaking under his boots. “You know what I think? I think you’re confused about how this works. You think because you’ve got a prestigious job and a corner office in Manhattan that you’re safe. That the rules protect you.” He stopped in front of her, bending at the waist to meet her eyes. The black patch made his face appear asymmetrical and grotesque. “Out here, the only law is the one with the deepest pockets. And you? You’re just a trespasser on the winning side.”
“I’m not trespassing,” Sierra said, lifting her chin. “I own Sage Ranch. Legally. It’s been in our family for four generations. Warren can’t touch what I own without my signature.”
“See, that’s the problem,” Scar said, moving to a small table where her purse had been dumped. He rifled through it, pulling out her phone, her wallet, and a photograph. “Cute. The Quinn family united against the world.”
“Put that down,” Sierra snapped.
“Or what?” Scar taunted, waving the photo. “You’ll fire me? You’ll sue me?” He laughed and tossed the photo onto the floor, stepping on it with his boot. “Your brother’s in the hospital right now, isn’t he? Room 146, Kingman Regional. Nice view of the parking lot, I hear.”
Sierra’s blood turned to ice. “You stay away from Cody.”
Patch made a tsk-tsk sound. “Hospital’s a dangerous place. So many machines. So many meds. One little mix-up with his medication, one faulty wire on one of those machines…” He mimed an explosion with his fingers. “Tragic. Especially after he’s been doing so good, growing up, being the son Daddy wanted. Shame if all that potential got snuffed out because his big sister wouldn’t play ball.”
“You’re bluffing,” Sierra said, but her voice wavered. “Warren said he’d give me until sunrise.”
“Warren’s a busy man,” Scar said, picking up her phone and scrolling through it. “He delegates. And we’re very good at making problems disappear. Just ask Julian Rossi. Oh, wait, you can’t.” He grinned, the scar tissue stretching. “That slick little operation of his, thinking he could outsmart Pistol? Planes fall out of the sky all the time. Mechanical failure. Pilot error. Happens to billionaires and paupers alike.”
Sierra’s throat tightened. “He was Pistol’s partner.”
“He was an obstacle,” Patch corrected, leaning against the wall, crossing his arms. “Just like you. Just like that cowboy of yours.”
Sierra’s pulse stuttered. “Ryder has nothing to do with this.”
“Ryder Marsh,” Scar drawled, drawing out the syllables like he was tasting fine wine. “Good cattleman. Honest. Hardworking. Stupid as a post when it comes to women, though.” He laughed. “Saw him with Sylvia Ramirez down at the Mercantile last week. Looked real cozy. Buying her coffee. Touching her hand. You know he’s moved on, right? Finally realized you’re never gonna choose him over your precious Manhattan skyline?”
Sierra felt the words like a physical blow, but she refused to show it. “Ryder’s smart. He knows this land. He knows what Warren is.”
“He knows enough to stay out of our way,” Patch said. “But if he doesn’t… well, accidents happen to cowboys, too. Horses fall. Bulls charge. And sometimes, men just vanish into the desert. Wolves get hungry.”
“You’re lying,” Sierra whispered.
“Am I?” Scar dropped the phone back into her bag and walked over, crouching in front of her. His eyes were flat, reptilian. “Let me tell you how this ends if you don’t sign. Your brother dies tonight, quietly, peacefully, a real tragedy. Tomorrow morning, they'll find you out here, hysterical, covered in his blood. You’ll have ‘confessed’ to everything in a neat little suicide note. Pistol will be devastated, of course, but life goes on. As for Ryder…” He smiled, showing too many teeth. “He’ll come looking for you. Men like him always do. And when he does, we’ll be waiting. Sylvia will get a condolence card, of course.”
“No,” Sierra said, tears springing to her eyes despite her resolve. She blinked them back furiously. “Cody’s innocent. He’s trying to change. He’s trying to be better. And Ryder… Ryder never hurt anyone. This is between Warren and me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Patch said, pushing off the wall. He pulled out a butterfly knife, flicking it open with practiced ease. The blade caught the dim light. “It’s between Warren and the minerals under your feet. You’re just… topsoil. And topsoil gets moved aside.”
“Please,” Sierra said, hating the word even as it left her mouth. “I have money. I have connections. I can make you both very wealthy men.”
Scar stood, stretching his back. “See, that’s the thing about corporate bigshots. You think everything’s transactional. But some men aren’t for sale.” He nodded at Patch. “She’s not gonna break easy. Maybe we should help her imagination along. Show her the photos from Cody’s room. The ones we took yesterday. Nice angle on that IV bag, wasn’t it?”
Patch reached into his jacket pocket, producing a smartphone. “Want to see your brother, Sierra? Last pictures you’ll ever have of him breathing. After that, we start on the cowboy. We know where he is. We know where Sylvia lives. We know...”
“Stop,” Sierra begged, her composure cracking. “Please. I’ll sign whatever you want. Just don’t hurt them. Don’t hurt Cody. He’s all I have left.”
Patch paused, the phone halfway out. He looked at Scar. “Hear that? She’s ready to sign.”
Scar shook his head slowly, sadistically. “Nah. She’s lying. They always lie to save their baby brother. But Warren said not to rush. We’ve got hours until sunrise. Let her sit here and think about Ryder’s pretty face. Think about Cody’s heart monitor going flatline. Let her marinate in it.”
He walked to the door, checking his watch. “Besides, the boss might want to say goodbye personally. He likes to watch them break.”
The two men moved to the shadows, whispering, occasionally casting predatory glances her way. Sierra strained against the ropes, desperation clawing at her throat. She thought of Cody, alone in that hospital room, trusting, vulnerable. She thought of Ryder, the way he’d looked at her when they parted in Manhattan, the resignation in his eyes, the way he’d touched his hat and said, “You know where home is, Sierra. When you’re ready.”
She hadn’t been ready. She’d chosen Manhattan, chosen Sterling, Quinn & Spencer, chosen Julian Rossi, chosen the life of a high-profile marketing executive, and the prestige over Ryder Marsh. And now she would die here, tied to a chair, and take them both with her.
A sound outside, the crunch of a boot on gravel, maybe?
Sierra’s head snapped up. The goons went silent, hands moving to weapons.
Had Warren come back early? Wasn’t he going to wait for sunrise? Was he going to finish this now, personally, and her last sight would be his cruel smile?
She heard footsteps, heavy, purposeful, coming fast.
Scar moved to the window, peeking through the blinds. “It’s not Warren,” he hissed.
Patch raised his knife, positioning himself behind the door. “Then who...”
The door exploded inward.
Splinters flew. The bolt ripped from the frame with a scream of metal. Dust motes danced in the sudden shaft of desert moonlight, and silhouetted against the stars, broad shoulders filling the frame, stood Ryder Marsh.