Two undercover cops, posing as a couple at a posh Florida resort, have a love/hate relationship that could get them killed before they find the secret gambling den they're hunting. Things get more dangerous when the murderous villain's wife recogniz...
Greg Halstead skidded into the calf-roping launch chute and jumped into the saddle of a horse held by a nervous wrangler.
" 'Bout gave you up!" the wrangler said.
"Let 'er rip!" Greg barked.
The chute slammed open, a calf bolted into the muddy arena, and Greg's horse lunged in pursuit. Greg swung his lariat with determination and let it fly.
A quarter-hour later, Greg walked into the sharp shooters' cage, wearing the mud splatters he received in the calf-roping event.
Stavros was waiting for him and handed Greg ear protectors, safety goggles, and pistol. "Well? Did you see McCaskill?"
"No," Greg said, checking the pistol's readiness. "He was shooting while I was roping. I beat his ropin' score by half a point. How'd he shoot?"
"Ninety-seven percent."
"Dang!"
"I know! Four more points and it woulda been a perfect hunnerd!"
Greg sent Stavros a strange look. Before he could say anything, he received a Ready signal from the judges and moved to take aim at the distant targets.
Greg began firing.
After the sharp shooting event had ended, Greg and Stavros downed a quick energy drink. Stavros, who was not competing, did not really need the extra energy, but he hated to let a friend drink alone. Ever.
Greg and Stavros were walking briskly toward the rear entrance of the saddle bronc chutes when they heard the stentorian announcer.
"Final event of the day, ladies and gentlemen, and we're down to a 'two-man' race, so to speak, for Best All-Round Cowboy.
"Going into the saddle bronc riding, score is tied between Newcomer, Terry McCaskill, who placed first in steer riding and barrel racing, and defending champ, Greg Halstead, who just barely edged Terry out of first place in calf roping and sharp shooting.
"And here comes Terry McCaskill on Cyclone!"
Greg and Stavros climbed up the nearest chute in time to see a mud-encrusted, skinny rider explode from a distant chute on a horse jumping insanely in all directions at once. The animal seemed desperate to be rid of the human on its back.
The rider swayed with the horse, raking its flanks with muddy boots, counterbalancing with one free hand.
Greg counted the seconds of the ride, "One ... two ... three ... four ... five ... six ...sev—Whoa!"
At nearly seven seconds, by Greg's count, McCaskill's pants parted from the saddle. Terry somersaulted into the air and splashed into the muck of the arena floor. Her hat remained miraculously in place. Eight seconds would have given McCaskill a perfect score.
The crowd in the stands cheered, whooped, stomped, and applauded.
The announcer blared, "Awww, too bad, Terry! Old Cyclone claims another victim. Let's give a brave rider a big hand, folks."
McCaskill slogged out of the mud, waved to the stands, and left the area.
Moments later, in a different chute, Greg adjusted himself in the saddle of a mean-looking cayoose. Stavros leaned past the wrangler in charge to tell Greg, "You hang on for eight seconds and it's all yours, man! Four years! Undefeated!"
"Ready?" the wrangler said.
"Let 'er rip!"
The chute opened. Greg's horse crawfished eight feet off the ground, gyrating in all directions, then pounded to earth with teeth-breaking intensity, first on front feet with rear high in the air, then on rear legs, with front feet directed to heaven. This animal would do anything to get this smelly cowboy off its back.
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