The deputy’s expression changed.
Ethan held the phone higher.
“You want the truth, Deputy?”
His voice remained steady.
“I’ve got the truth recorded.”
“All of it.”
Then he said the sentence that made the entire lot go still.
“The question is whether the people who pay your department want you to hear it.”
The deputy stared at him.
Nobody spoke.
Then, somewhere far down the highway, another engine became audible.
Not a motorcycle.
Something heavier.
Something official.
The sound grew closer.
Heads turned toward the road.
A black sedan appeared.
Government plates.
It entered the lot and stopped.
A woman stepped out.
She was in her fifties.
Sharp suit.
Badge clipped at her belt.
Leather folder beneath one arm.
She took one look at the scene.
Two hundred bikers.
One nervous deputy.
Jack Sullivan.
And a thin blond kid holding up a phone.
She did not slow down.
“Everybody stay exactly where you are.”
The deputy looked toward her.
“Deputy, put the notepad away.”
His mouth opened.
“Ma’am, I got a call about a hostage.”
“You got a call from a man named Marcus Vane.”
The deputy stopped.
The woman opened the folder.
“Marcus Vane works for Caldwell Development.”
She looked toward Ethan.
“He placed that call four hours after assaulting a young man on this property.”
The deputy glanced toward Ethan.
The woman continued.
“I’m Agent Karen Doyle.”
She held up her identification.
“Financial Crimes Task Force.”
Jack’s expression changed.
“We’ve had Caldwell under investigation for fourteen months.”
A murmur moved through the riders.
Doyle looked toward Ethan’s box.
“And I’d bet my pension that the kid with the phone has more on Caldwell in that little box than I’ve gotten with three subpoenas.”
The entire lot turned toward Ethan.
Ethan looked at Jack.
Jack looked like a man watching the floor fall away beneath a day that had already fallen apart twice.
“Fourteen months?” Jack asked slowly.
“Fourteen months,” Doyle confirmed.
She opened the folder.
“Land fraud.”
“Forged easements.”
“Intimidation.”
She flipped to another page.
“Two suspicious fires across this county that the insurance company is very interested in.”
Jack’s jaw hardened.
“The problem,” Doyle continued, “is that everybody Caldwell touches gets scared.”
“Witnesses recant.”
“Records disappear.”
“People decide they don’t remember what happened.”
She looked at Ethan.
“Until about three weeks ago.”
Ethan frowned.
“A customer of yours came into my office.”
Jack looked surprised.
“Who?”
“Mr. Hollis.”
Jack knew the name immediately.
“The feed store?”
Doyle nodded.
“He told me something interesting.”
She turned toward Ethan.
“He said, and I quote, ‘There’s a kid out at Sullivan’s garage who told me to write down what they did to me.’”
Ethan went still.
Doyle continued.