I just hate this whole shitshow, this shit circus, this feeling of having my hands tied.
“How the hell do they cut them up?” Weston asks, his question a dry rattle. “Do they even shoot them first?”
“They poison them,” I tell him. “Easy enough when they’re barely being fed in these bastards’ hands. They’ll eat anything. They use shit that isn’t deadly to humans, depending on what they’re after. The bone trade alone is huge. A lion’s skull, intake, fur...that’s worth thousands per cat.”
My gut feels like it’s ready to tear.
I never want to do this kind of fucked up research again.
“Jesus. Tell me it ends there,” Weston growls again.
“Nope. Everything from making mounts to jewelry to crank cures brings in big money,” Faulk answers. “The lion products are often used as substitutes for the tiger bone trade, which gets even more lucrative. That’s where the real princely money is.”
“Holy shit. So we’re thinking this buyer on camera was disappointed to get a lion cub instead of a full-grown tiger?” I ask, the pieces snapping into place in my head.
“Downright pissed would be my guess,” Faulk says. “A cub like that ain’t gonna be good for much more than a mount. Or maybe they can pass it off to some spoiled rich brat in Dubai who wants to show off his exotic pets on Instagram. Those boneheads have their fun and usually wind up flipping the animals when they’re older and they can’t carry them around their yachts like stuffed toys anymore. Then the poor things go to their last buyers, who’ll make damn sure to wring every penny they can out of the bones, along with the hide.”
Silence again.
I trade slow, angry looks with the guys.
Nobody standing here is a newcomer to danger and assholes with bad intentions visiting Dallas. It’s become an exhausting and almost regular occurrence, ever since Drake had his trouble with those Jupiter Oil folks.
Still, this is different, eerie, and dangerous as hell in a way that’s new and unfamiliar to all of us.
Fuck.
“Faulk, just tell us what to do,” I demand darkly, my throat so raw it feels like splinters.
“I have other folks digging, active-duty agents and my old pal James Nobel with Enguard Security out west. Got a few more calls to make, then we’ll put a plan in place.” Faulk looks at me. “One thing I’m guessing I don’t have to repeat is how big a disaster it’d be if Willow and her cat got discovered.”
“Cat?” Weston asks, rubbing his temples like his head might blow up. “What cat?”
My nephew still doesn’t know about Bruce.
“I’ll explain everything in a minute,” I tell him.
“Guys, we’d better watch our asses and tread lightly. That dirty conservation rat being involved says this goes deep, and if we’ve got bad actors from the state up our butts...” He looks at Drake after turning everything over in his head. “We’ll have to get the law and the Feds involved, once we have proof that they can act on.”
“Trouble is, right now with such flimsy evidence, they’d take Willow into custody for stealing a tiger and that would just alert the real crooks behind this. They’d probably have more than enough time to flee the country,” I tell them. “That video proves how ruthless these people are.”
“Tiger? You gotta be fucking joking,” Weston whispers, looking totally lost.
“I wish I were,” I growl back.
“I agree,” Drake says. “That airstrip is out of my jurisdiction, so until we can nail them clean, count me in, any way you need.”
“Same for me and Doc Walton,” Ridge says with a heavy nod. “He told me he’s dealt with this kind of trouble before, but he has to keep it on the down-low to protect his family. Same for us all.”
Everyone agrees, and we talk for a while longer before breaking up to head back to our busy lives.
After the guys leave, I fill Weston in on everything and tell him Willow’s truck can’t be seen.
Not by anyone.
He gets it, and he also agrees to continue covering more of my shifts at the bar, adding he can use the extra money.
I’d gone to the Bobcat to catch up the past few days, mainly so no one starts questioning my unusual absence.
After our meeting today, though, I think it’d be a lot safer for me to be at the house than at the bar. Especially after sundown.
Leaving the garage, I head to Filmore’s grocery store, our one-stop shop for everything.
Aunt Faye made sure the cupboards and freezer were packed to the brim before she left, but we need fresh milk and produce.
Maybe it’s Bruce’s diet rubbing off on me, but I’m suddenly hungry for a huge package of steaks to grill for supper. Willow proved her cooking won’t send us to the ER, but I’ve enjoyed teasing her sweet ass off about it.