Git Yer Gun

PROCK ROYAL had "Dad" written all over him. Literally—someone had taken a sharpie to his uniform shirt and informed the entire world that this Royal had procreated.

Val was not too stressed to laugh at his brother.

"Nice," he said, eyes crinkling. Rory liked that—Val had been grouchy and intense and serious, but the crinkles at his eyes said that wasn't who he was all the time. And Rory had to admit, if there was a time to go serious, keeping your friend's ass out of the fire was it.

"Which one was it?" Val continued, leading Prock to the trailer. "Riley or Kayley?"

Prock—who had the dark hair and brown eyes that were apparently Royal trademarks, along with high cheekbones and a square jaw—was softer around the edges and the middle, but he also had a kind of sweetness in his smile that indicated he lived a very contented life.

"Both," he said, quirking his lean mouth. "Riley did the block printing because ‘DAD' is the only word she knows, and Kayley did the ones with the heart in the middle in place of the a ."

Val's chuckle wasn't the sly or coded one Rory had gotten used to. This was a rich, full sound that told Rory a whole lot about how much Val loved his family.

"Well, wait until Charlie gets older. Boys don't write little hearts—they learn how to spell ‘asshole.'"

"Sal did," Prock replied mildly. "He would write ‘asshole' and put the little heart in the o ."

Val snorted. "True story," he said to Rory. "I was in charge, Sal got mad at me and tried to tell Mom I was an asshole, and she said, ‘You need to treat your brother with love.'"

"So he wrote Val a note," Prock said, picking up the thread. "Dear Val, I love you, even if you are an asshole. And yes, there was a heart in the a and the o ."

Rory laughed outright. "Sounds like a character," he said, grinning.

"He will eat you alive," Val said, and was it Rory's imagination or did his eyes narrow a little, like a man contemplating beating up his beloved little brother if he thought of vamping on Rory?

Or maybe it was wishful thinking.

"He'd try," Rory said mildly, helping Val with the gates in the back. Val led the way up the ramp and unlocked the refrigerator, gesturing for Prock to go in before him.

Prock scowled, took a grim look around the truck, and said, "You got the specs for the product?" in a voice that was completely at odds with the sweet, smiling man who had pulled up in a work van with a purple lion logo proclaiming Royal Treatment HVAC Services.

"Right here," Val said, texting his brother the specs from his phone. "I also found an operator's manual for this unit online, if that will help."

Prock allowed a smile to slip through and rolled his eyes. "Oh my God—ever the big brother. Okay now, I'm going to get to work here." He hefted his box of tools. "Give me an hour to get this in the shape you'll need for crossing into Texas. Your product needs to be colder stat."

"Roger that," Val said, heading for the tail. "Anything you want us to have ready when we're done?"

Prock glanced left and right, like he was telling a secret. "Yeah. Faith has me on this diet? I mean, I need it, but I saw a Frosty's Burgers in that town about ten miles away? Can you take the van and get us some lunch?"

Val laughed and held out his hand for the keys.

"I'm gonna leave Rory here, though," Val said. "I want you to have a wingman in case somebody tries to take advantage of the parked trailer. I've got a really hinky feeling about this, you understand?"

"Roger that," Rory echoed. "I'll take a double cheese, the works."

Val shook his head. "I'm having a chicken sandwich because, oh my God, you two are making me fat just buying for you."

With that he stalked off, leaving Rory to exchange a smile with Val's brother.

"I don't know what he's so concerned about," Rory said, not able to help himself. "He looks fine."

Prock snorted. "I'm the straight brother," he said. "All I can tell you is that Val's a keeper—smart, dependable, funny, kind. Just hasn't seemed to find a guy who knows what he has."

"Mm," Rory said, lifting an eyebrow. "You are not surprised to know I'm in the market?"

Prock gave a smile that was all teeth. "Lucky guess," he said. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to my regular appointments, and I know you guys are working on a timeline."

"I'll pull out a soccer chair and make myself comfy in the shade," Rory said. "Holler if you need me."

Rory made his way down the ramp and did that, pulling the chair out from the compartment Val had indicated when he'd been showing Rory around. The back end of the truck was generating heat, since the truck was idling to power the refrigerator fully without taxing the generator reserves, so Rory parked the chair across the way, under a tree and on the sidewalk, his revolver tucked into a pancake holster against his back, just in case.

Once settled he pulled out his phone and proceeded to play a stupid game, allowing his eyes to scan the parking lot every so often while his lizard brain was occupied.

He was not surprised when he saw a battered pickup truck pull up in the spot next to Val's rig.

Casually he stood and wandered toward the rig until he was leaning up against the tailgate, listening to Prock swearing and rattling inside the trailer.

He stood there, close to the F-450 that still had no business on the semi side of the rest stop and caught the eye of the passenger who was swinging down the step of the crew cab.

"Heya," the guy said, eyeballing Rory warily and then the trailer. "Me and my friend here were wondering if you could direct us to Bakersfield."

Rory's eyebrows rose. "We are on I-5," he said. "I-5 goes north and it goes south. Bakersfield is south. There are at least six-hundred-and-twelve signs, clearly marked, that tell you how to get there. You should consult one of them."

The guy—midsized, thinning light brown hair, pale blue, almost bulging eyes—searched out his companion. The driver of the crew cab truck was bigger—brawnier, wider, only some of it fat but a lot of it power—with a buzz cut of almost white hair and the same pale blue eyes. Rory was put in mind of the girl—Violet—who had big sky-blue eyes herself, and he wondered if these were the brothers she'd been so afraid of.

"Well, you don't need to be rude about it," said the bigger man, pulling the brim of his greasy red ballcap over his reddened face.

"I am not rude," Rory said, his hand resting on the small of his back. "I am suspicious. You two are in the wrong area of the rest stop, and you are getting awfully familiar with my rig."

"Well, sir," said the younger man, "my brother and I had a trailer of ours hijacked off our property this morning. This one looks an awful lot like ours, and we were just wondering if you had the manifest to prove it's yours."

Rory raised his eyebrows and, without saying anything to indicate there was somebody else in the trailer, raised the tailgate, slammed the doors shut, and pulled the locks down, with his back to the men standing behind him to give them a good view of his gun.

He turned around again and said, "I'll show you the manifest when you approach with an officer of the law," before striding to the cab.

The little one made his move first, a clumsy grab for Rory's arm that Rory countered by grabbing the man's hand and pulling him forward, then raising his knee and bouncing the man's chin off it.

The skinny guy went down, the bigger guy charged forward, and Rory pulled his gun, braced his feet, and stared at the bruiser as he stumbled to a screeching halt.

"You two will stay right there," he said. "And like I said, the next time you approach this rig, it had better be with law enforcement."

With that he swung into the cab, belted himself in, and grateful for the many driving classes offered to him when he was in the bureau, backed the rig up smooth as butter.

While he was doing that, he pulled out his phone and hit Val's number.

"Val, hang up with me, call your brother, and explain to him that there were two men, possibly armed, who were threatening to hijack the truck. Then call me back and tell me where the fuck I'm going."

"Fuck, fuck, fuck… go north when you hit the freeway," Val told him. "There's a cut road past the truck stop there that'll get us back south after we find the tracker they probably put on the trailer."

"I'll head there," Rory said. "Call me after you calm Prock down."

"My brother don't scare easy," Val said, grim pride in his voice. "I'll let him know we'll meet him with his van so he can get back to his regularly scheduled life."

NOT ONLY did Prock not scare easy, he also thought on his feet. By the time Rory pulled up behind the truck stop, lowered the ramp, and opened the double doors, Prock had not only fixed the refrigerator well enough to send a blast of cold air out of the truck, he'd also located not one but two trackers, one with the cylinders of insemination straws and one outside the refrigerator unit itself.

"The best I can tell," Prock said, "the cylinders have maintained temperature for the last forty-eight hours, so I'm going to say since they were stocked. But the refrigerator that was supposed to maintain the external temp had been tampered with. The compressor was missing a few small, vital parts, and it would have failed by the end of the day."

"So the hope," Val said, "was that either the two guys who approached Rory would get the shipment back or the cryo-cylinders would fail when the ambient temperature got too hot in the back of the truck."

"Yup," Prock said. "That's my best guess. So, well, good job on hiring someone smart enough to get out of that situation immediately, and…." He pursed his lips.

"Good luck getting the shipment to Austin," Val supplied grimly. "I hear you." He held up a bag that was still steaming in the late-morning breeze. "You did good, little brother. I got you onion rings and extra pickles, like you like it."

Prock took the bag and closed his eyes, sticking his face in the top and inhaling. "You're the best," he breathed reverently before closing the bag with regret. "And now, I'm sorry to say, it's probably best we all eat on the road." He paused then. "Val, where were you planning to refuel?"

Val frowned. "Probably when we hit the panhandle. Why?"

"Because that fridge isn't power efficient. I'm going to suggest you fill up when you hit Arizona, and maybe again when you hit the panhandle. I know it should be able to get you almost to Austin on a full tank, but…."

"But better safe than sorry. Good advice, little brother. Now bro hug me so we can all take off and you can be safe."

Prock did not seem self-conscious in the least to be pulled into a gruff embrace with Val, and he even kissed his brother's cheek before pulling back and shaking Rory's hand.

"You're a clever man, Mr. McCauley. Keep my brother safe, hear?"

"Will do," Rory said. Then he grinned. "And if you can keep that burger off your shirt, I promise neither one of us will breathe a word."

Prock chuckled before taking his tool chest and his lunch to his van and taking off.

As he pulled away, Val let some of his worry settle back down on his shoulders. "Well, Mr. McCauley, your presence already paid for itself. You ready to see what else is waiting for us down the line?"

"Can't wait," Rory said. "But you gotta tell me the truth."

Val arched an eyebrow at him.

"Did you really get a chicken sandwich after all of that?"

Val snorted. "No, but I did avoid getting the double by a hair."

"I like a man who knows moderation," Rory said sagely, and then they both loaded up again.

Val squared his shoulders behind the wheel and checked his gauges before pulling out of the rest stop. They hadn't gone a mile before Rory felt his first yawn building up behind his ears.

"Goddammit!" he muttered, trying to hide the thing next to his shoulder. "I'm sorry. Those things are catching!"

Val chuckled. "What time did you have to leave this morning? Two? You've been up a while on no sleep, am I right?"

"As have you!" Rory protested, but Val shook his head.

"I wasn't bullshitting when I said I needed to get up early the next morning. I was in bed by seven o'clock last night. Blackout curtains are a wonderful thing."

Rory smiled tiredly. "Well, aren't you smart," he mumbled, and Val gestured with his chin.

"Feel free to cop a sleep in the back. You sleep now, and by the time you wake up, we'll both be ready for a stretch and a jog around the rig, and then you can take over."

Rory bit back another yawn. "Sounds like a plan," he said.

"I'll be listening to my audiobook," Val told him. "Clive Cussler. Let me know if it's too loud."

Rory had expected the sleeping area in the back to be claustrophobic and hot, but he realized it was temperature controlled as soon as he stretched out and saw the dial. Val kept it cool back there, and Rory took the time to kick off his boots and store them in the compartment under the bed, as well as shuck his jeans and sweatshirt before he crawled under the blanket and snuggled right in.

As he lay there, closing his eyes against the light seeping in through the curtains, he could hear the measured tones of a skilled audiobook narrator, and he squinted, peering around the cabin. The engine noise was enough to drown out any conversation or music from the front. Where was the noise coming fr—oh!

He spotted the speaker near the temperature control and saw that it came with a volume and a power switch. He'd raised his hand to turn it off when he felt the sonorousness of the voice, coupled with the rumble of the engine and the hum of the road, all of it proving as soporific in the cool, shaded sleeping cabin as it had been in the sunlit, slightly warmer driving compartment.

He lowered his hand inside the covers and closed his eyes. The voice washed over him, telling him about impossible adventures in faraway lands, and he had a moment of feeling as content on a drive as his son had been as a kid.

He closed his eyes and dreamed of being a pirate on a distant sea, listening to the beat of the waves against the hull of the ship.

THE SQUEAL of the air brakes woke him up, and for a moment he thrashed around, disoriented.

Val's voice came through the speaker.

"We're at a rest stop outside of Phoenix to refuel. Get dressed and join me outside—one of us needs to sit with the truck while it's filling up, and the other can go use the can."

"Food?" Rory asked, his stomach rumbling for breakfast at what looked to be eight at night.

"I've got chicken and lettuce wraps in the cooler if you like," Val said through the intercom. "Or you can go get a heart attack on a plate."

Rory felt the heaviness from burgers so close in a row. Normally he tried to eat smart—something about being in Val's presence, maybe, made him want to flash his cowboy creds.

"Something besides red meat sounds good," he admitted, rolling out of bed.

"Meet me outside while I work the fuel hookup."

"Roger that."

Rory was glad he remembered his sweatshirt as he stepped out of the passenger side of the cab. Arizona was a warm state, generally, but an early spring chill could still bite. He yawned and stretched after he hit the ground and walked up to Val, who was waiting for the fuel pump to switch on.

"Go use the bathroom," Val said, nodding to the large minimart. The station he'd chosen had a side built exclusively for semi trucks, as well as a place to park the thing and maybe switch it off for a while. "There's food inside—actually, a sub shop, so we can get something decent. I want to fill up my coffee mug and use the bathroom for a long, glorious minute or two. You go first and meet me at the parking area, then I'll go."

"Keep your eye out," Rory said, meaning it. "I don't think those two fellas felt much like quitting."

Val grunted. "I agree, and I've been watching out for their pickup truck. I think Proctor did us right by finding those trackers. There are a couple of routes to Austin, and I've taken a few side roads to get here."

"Made good time, though," Rory said, glancing around. Phoenix was off in the distance, like a giant cruise ship against the surrounding dark.

"It's a gift," Val said, shrugging. "My dad told me once that driving was like the ultimate videogame. Once you start feeling traffic patterns in your bones, you know how to fit into them and swim with the tide."

"Too bad your rig is so noticeable," Rory said, glancing at the purple, white, and chrome logo on the side. It was, he'd noticed, the same logo his brother had used as a wrap around his van to advertise his HVAC service company.

Val gave him a tired smile. "Reg came up with it. We all started going into business for ourselves, and Reg—who's a really talented artist and dammit, he should go to school so he could make actual money with that shit—put the logo together so we could all use it."

"What does he do instead?" Rory asked.

"IT," Val said on a grunt of disgust. "He's got a small graphic business on the side, but IT pays the bills. He hates it—lives for the side work. Seriously, we've all tried to send him to school, but he insisted we save the money for the baby. It's really spooky. He's the second youngest, but he was old when he was born."

Rory shook his head. "I can't imagine a family with that many kids in it. Seven, right?"

"Yessir." At that moment, the fuel pump clicked, and Val gestured for Rory to go do whatever he needed in the minimart.

RORY MET Val outside with a bag full of mandarin oranges and two chicken subs, no mayo, teriyaki sauce instead. He'd taken a risk, but Val lit up when he heard the menu and asked Rory to put the food inside the cab. He left the engine on idle, and Rory understood that they'd made good enough time to get some stretching and exercise in before they started off again.

Rory was grateful, and as he watched Val jog up toward the minimart, he found himself thinking that Val Royal must be a very good boss.

He also found himself more and more tempted by that stocky, muscular figure, and those quiet, stern smiles. He realized he'd spent seven hours in Val Royal's bed and that sometime soon he'd like to be in there with Val next to him.

He spent their break pacing the line of the semi on the side facing the minimart, his eyes swinging from left to right and back again, his attention focused on people coming out of the minimart and new vehicles coming in, either on the semi side or the standard vehicle side. He was just about wondering when Val would be coming out again when he glanced up at the minimart and stopped short.

Val had obviously emerged from the bathroom into a crowd of four or five other truckers. They had the burly, top-heavy build of men who spent their life on the road using their chest, stomach, and thigh muscles controlling big machinery while not always watching their diets. All the men were standing aggressively, leaning toward Val, and even from this distance Rory could tell the men's expressions weren't pleasant.

Val appeared to be well over it. To Rory's surprise, Val glanced out through the window and shook his head, pointing to the truck emphatically, and Rory read him loud and clear.

Stay. There. Dammit.

Rory got it. And he got why. But that didn't stop him from sucking in a breath and grunting when the first guy—built like a Mac truck in human form, with a long grizzled beard and curly brown hair—swung a fist like a jackhammer at Val's head.

Val ducked, and Rory saw the now-familiar black F-450 pull into the gas station and head directly for the semi.

Rory had just enough time to reach behind the driver's seat and pull the shotgun, and he conceded that Val was going to have to deal with his own problems because Rory now had work to do.