He was looking at the damaged brake line sealed inside a clear evidence photograph Flash had printed.
Sophie climbed onto the bench beside him.
"You look sad."
"Do I?"
"Yes."
"Thought I looked scary."
"You can be both."
Marcus nodded.
"Fair."
She looked at the photograph.
"That's the part?"
"Yeah."
"The brake thing?"
"Yeah."
"Do you still have it?"
"Police do."
Sophie swung her legs beneath the bench.
"Are the bad people going to jail?"
"I don't know."
"But you're stopping them."
"We're trying."
She thought about that.
"My dad said trying is what people say when they don't know if something will work."
Marcus smiled.
"Your dad really had an answer for everything."
"Mostly."
She looked toward him.
"Did your dad die too?"
Marcus's smile disappeared.
"No."
"Where is he?"
"Don't know."
"Why?"
Marcus hesitated.
Nobody had asked him that so directly in years.
"He left when I was thirteen."
"Like ran away?"
"Kind of."
"Did you miss him?"
"At first."
"What happened after?"
Marcus leaned against the bench.
"My mom worked."
"Doing what?"
"Everything."
"That's not a job."
"It was for her."
He looked toward the parking lot.
"She cleaned offices at night. Worked cafeteria mornings. Sometimes factory shifts."
"Did you help?"
"Not enough."
Sophie frowned.
"You were thirteen."
Marcus looked at her.
Children had an irritating way of simplifying guilt.
He nodded.
"Maybe."
"Is that why you help people now?"
"Maybe."
"You say maybe a lot."
"You ask dangerous questions."
Sophie leaned against him.
Marcus went rigid for half a second.
Then relaxed.
"My daddy said people are like motorcycles."
Marcus looked down.
"That sounds insulting."
"No."
She smiled.
"He said if you hear a strange noise, don't ignore it because small problems become big problems."
Marcus considered that.
"I like that."
"He also said old engines can run forever if somebody takes care of them."
"Was he talking about himself?"
"Mom said he acted old."
Marcus laughed.
Sophie rested her head against his arm.
"You're kind of old."
"I'm forty-eight."
"Exactly."
Marcus stared forward.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
Then Sophie whispered, "I'm glad you didn't start your bike."
Marcus looked toward her.
"So am I."
The federal investigation moved quietly for the next month.
Quietly did not mean safely.
Jessica and her sisters were relocated temporarily.
Teresa Ortiz received anonymous threats.
Carlos Méndez, a Harmon construction worker who agreed to testify about safety violations, found a dead dog left outside his apartment.
It was not his dog.
That somehow made it worse.
The Desert Kings volunteered to help with transportation and security only when investigators approved.
Marcus insisted.
No freelancing.
No retaliation.
The club's discipline became part of the reason federal agents eventually trusted them.
Snake hated admitting that.
Then Harmon made its biggest mistake.
Four armed men arrived at the clubhouse one rainy Thursday night.
They claimed they wanted to talk.
Marcus had cameras recording every exterior angle by then.
The men entered the gated lot wearing suits under raincoats.
One lifted his jacket enough to show a pistol.