Jack walked toward her.
"You all right?"
"No."
"Fair."
Chloe looked toward the motorcycle.
"I destroyed his bike."
Jack followed her gaze.
"No."
"I rode it until it broke."
Jack crouched beside the Shovelhead.
"You brought it back."
Chloe looked confused.
"This thing disappeared three years ago."
Jack touched the tank.
"We searched hundreds of miles."
His thumb moved across rust.
"Preacher built half this bike himself."
"Was he really your brother?"
"Not by blood."
Jack looked toward Chloe.
"Sometimes that's not what decides family."
Sirens appeared in the distance.
Different vehicles.
Unmarked.
State units.
Federal agents would take longer, but state police had been ordered to secure the scene independently.
Jack reached into his vest.
He removed a thick roll of bills.
He counted.
Then handed it to Chloe.
She stared.
"What is that?"
"Five grand."
Chloe stepped backward.
"No."
"Yes."
"I can't."
"You paid forty."
"That doesn't make this mine."
"It's not payment for the motorcycle."
"Then what?"
Jack looked at the Shovelhead.
"You brought our brother home."
Chloe shook her head.
"I was running away."
"Sometimes the road doesn't care why you're on it."
She stared at the money.
"I don't want charity."
Jack smiled.
"Good."
He pushed the bills into her hand.
"Think of it as forty-dollar refund plus interest."
Chloe almost laughed.
Almost.
"What am I supposed to do with this?"
"Get somewhere safe."
She looked east.
"Nevada."
"Then Nevada."
Jack called toward the group.
"Miller."
A rider in his thirties stepped forward.
He had a shaved head, dark beard, and a calmer expression than most.
"Yeah?"
"State line."
Miller nodded.
"Got it."
Jack looked at Chloe.
"Ride with him."
Chloe studied the motorcycle.
A clean custom chopper.
Nothing like Preacher's rusted machine.
"You sure?"
Miller smiled.
"I promise this one has suspension."
Chloe looked back toward Richard.
State patrol vehicles were approaching now.
He sat against the front of his SUV.
Hands secured.
Uniform covered in dust.
He looked small.
Chloe walked toward him.
Jack did not follow.
Neither did anyone else.
She stopped six feet away.
Richard looked up.
"Chloe."
She said nothing.
"I was angry."
No response.
"I drank too much."
Nothing.
"I didn't mean everything."
Chloe stared at him.
"Please."
She finally spoke.
"You know what the worst part was?"
Richard's mouth moved, but no answer came.
"It wasn't when you hit me."
Chloe's voice remained steady.
"It wasn't being locked in my room."
She tightened her fingers around the money.
"It was knowing everybody believed the badge before they believed me."
Richard looked away.
"You made me think there was nowhere I could go."
Her eyes filled.
"You were wrong."
Chloe turned.
She did not look back again.
Federal agents arrived before dawn.
The scene expanded rapidly.
Preacher's motorcycle was photographed where it had stopped.
The tank was removed carefully.
The bullet remained embedded.
The hidden compartment was documented.
Richard's service weapon was taken for ballistic testing.
Within forty-eight hours, preliminary testing connected the weapon's barrel characteristics to the recovered projectile strongly enough to expand the investigation.
Then records started collapsing around Richard Croft.
Bank deposits.
Phone logs.