“Smart move,” Quint told him as Boone struggled upright in the chair and appeared on the verge of launching himself at Quint again.
With an almost noiseless whirr, Max rolled his wheelchair from behind the desk and glided between them. “Stay where you are,” he told Boone, a curl of disgust on his lip, “before he makes a fool of you again.” His hand manipulated the control stick, squaring his chair around to face Quint. “What is it you want, Echohawk?” he asked in a perfectly reasonable voice.
Before answering, Quint pointedly divided his glance between the man behind the desk and the brunette poised in the doorway. “You might prefer to have this conversation take place in private.”
The touch of his glance seemed to loosen the brunette’s tongue. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rutledge. I tried to stop him—”
“That will be all, Miss Bridges,” Max told her, then directed a look at the third man. “Close the door on your way out, Edwards.”
Silence reigned while the two exited the office. During it, Max Rutledge settled more comfortably in his wheelchair and viewed Quint with a look of great tolerance. Boone displayed no such control, pushing himself out of his chair and pacing over to a floor-to-ceiling window, his body rigid in anger and resentment.
With the click of the door latch, Max assumed charge of the meeting. “Now what is it that’s so all-fired important to talk about?” He smiled in amused indulgence.
“It isn’t so much what we have to talk about, Max,” Quint responded with a cool smile of his own, “as it is what I have to tell you.”
“And what might that be?”
“So far you’ve been dealing all the hands in this game, and I’ve played them as they came. But not anymore,” Quint stated. “I’m taking over the deck. From now on, I’ll do the dealing, and you aren’t going to like the cards.”
Massive shoulders lifted in a vague shrug of indifference. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“In that case we’ll start with the most recent one. Anthrax.”
The reaction from Boone was instant. He spun from the window, a look of rage on his face. “Damn it, I told you that was a pack of lies. She made up that whole thing as a way to get back at us! Why the hell do you think I hit her?”
Quint never so much as glanced in Boone’s direction, choosing instead to observe the sharp, assessing look Max gave him, and the tightening line of displeasure around his mouth.
“You see, Max, I know you infected those cows with anthrax.” Quint stated it as a fact. “I didn’t need Dallas to tell me that Boone had admitted it to her.”
To Max’s credit he showed no reaction to that statement, probably anticipating it.
“Yesterday”—Quint stressed the word—“I put a team of investigators on it, all pros. They’ll find out where you got the bacteria, who gave it to you, and any middleman you may have used.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Max scoffed. “I had nothing to do with your cattle dying of anthrax.”
“Yes, you did. And I’ll prove it. Want to know why?” His smile of challenge was full of confidence.
There was an involuntary twitch of a muscle in a gaunt cheek, but Max offered no reply, choosing instead to match Quint stare for stare.
“I’ll tell you why.” Quint leaned down and braced his hands on the wheelchair’s armrests, pushing his face close to Max and destroying any illusion Max might have entertained that his wheelchair was some kind of throne. Fury and loathing warred in the glaring look Max gave him.
“You’ve been the he-bull around here too long. That breeds overconfidence every time. And that means you’ve made a mistake somewhere. Anthrax is an ugly word, Max, and your son has already tied you to it. People who would have kept their mouths shut in the past might be inclined to talk now.”
“You’re talking nonsense,” Max insisted, not quite able to pull off a tone of utter indifference.
“Am I?” Quint challenged, with a cold smile of certainty. “Right now your mind is racing, cataloguing everyone who knew or could have known about the anthrax, wondering if any of them let something slip—or might, if questioned, like your son did. You’re even wondering if there’s someone you can pay to take the fall for this. But you don’t dare approach them to make sure there aren’t any more leaks, for fear that you would lead my investigators right to them. And you would. But don’t think that’s your only worry. The team has orders to look into all your dealings. And we both know they’ll find something, because your hands are dirty, Max.”
“Are you finished?” His temper shortening, Max all but spat the words.
“Not quite,” Quint replied, peripherally aware of Boone watching the exchange with a kind of shock. “I’ll make you a deal, Max.”
“A deal? You stand there and threaten me, then have the nerve to offer me a deal?” His forceful voice trembled with suppressed rage.
“Isn’t that the way you work, Max?” Quint countered. “You make all your threats, then offer an alternative. That’s all I’m doing. And just like you, I’ll carry out my threats if it’s necessary—and it’ll be the Rutledge name smeared all over the headlines.” He paused as Max ripped his gaze away from him. “Are you finding it hard to swallow some of your own medicine?”
“What are the terms?” Max growled.
“The terms are simple: back off.” The steel in Quint’s voice matched the steel in his eyes. “Back off from the Cee Bar and the Calders.”