"They asked about Thomas."
"Did you tell them anything?"
"No."
"What did they say?"
"They said they knew Thomas left something behind."
Jackson stared at her.
"Did he?"
Beatrice hesitated.
Then nodded.
"Yes."
"What?"
"I don't know."
"Beatrice."
She looked at him.
"I swear."
"He never told you?"
"He told me one thing."
"What?"
"If anything happens to me, don't trust anyone who says it was an accident."
Jackson was silent.
Then Beatrice reached into her jacket.
She pulled out a small key.
It was old.
Brass.
Stamped with a number.
17.
"What is that?"
"Thomas gave it to me two weeks before he died."
"What does it open?"
"I don't know."
"Where did you find it?"
"It was hidden in his motorcycle."
Jackson's eyes narrowed.
"The old Harley?"
She nodded.
"Where?"
"Under the seat."
Jackson looked at the ceiling.
Nine years.
The motorcycle had sat untouched.
Maybe Thomas had hidden something inside it.
They returned to Dusty Ridge before dawn.
The diner was closed.
Jackson walked around back.
The old Harley was still there.
He crouched beside it.
"Bring me a flashlight."
Beatrice did.
Jackson removed the seat.
Nothing.
He opened the saddlebags.
Empty.
He examined the frame.
Then the fuel tank.
"Wait."
"What?"
He tapped the tank.
It sounded different in one spot.
He removed the tank.
Beneath it was a metal box.
Locked.
Beatrice handed him the key.
Jackson inserted it.
Click.
The box opened.
Inside was a notebook.
A flash drive.
And several photographs.
Beatrice covered her mouth.
"Thomas."
Jackson opened the notebook.
The first page contained a sentence.
If you're reading this, I'm dead.
The second:
I wasn't killed because I knew too much. I was killed because I knew where the money went.
Jackson turned the pages.
There were account numbers.
Dates.
Payments.
Names.
Millions of dollars.
Then something unexpected.
A list of motorcycle club members.
Jackson stared.
"What's wrong?"
"Thomas was tracking someone in my club."
"Your club?"
He showed her the page.
One name was circled.
JACKSON REEVES.
Jackson felt cold.
"I never met Thomas."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
Then he remembered.
A bar in Reno.
Nine years earlier.
A man named Thomas Holloway had approached him.
Asked about a shipment.
Jackson had refused to talk.
He had forgotten the encounter.
Now he remembered Thomas's face.
Beatrice looked at him.
"You knew him."
"Once."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't remember."
She stared.
Then her eyes filled with tears.
"My husband came to you for help."
"I didn't know."
"You could have saved him."
Jackson flinched.
She immediately regretted the words.
"I didn't mean—"
"Maybe you did."
He closed the notebook.
"I'm sorry."
The silence between them became heavy.
Then an engine sounded outside.
Both looked toward the window.
Black SUV.
Again.
Jackson closed the box.
"Take the notebook."
"What?"
"Now."
"What are you going to do?"
"Get you out."
The back door opened.
Three men entered.
Jackson moved.
The first man swung.
Jackson blocked.
The second grabbed Beatrice.
She screamed.
Jackson hit the man's wrist.
The notebook fell.
The third man picked it up.
Jackson lunged.
The man ran.
Beatrice grabbed a heavy coffee pot and struck the first man's shoulder.
He stumbled.
Jackson finished the fight.
Seconds later, all three men were down.
Beatrice stared at him.
"Are you all right?"
Jackson nodded.
"Are you?"
She looked at the broken coffee pot.
"I think so."
He looked toward the door.
"Where's the notebook?"
Beatrice's face changed.
The third man had escaped.
With it.
Jackson clenched his fists.
Then he heard footsteps outside.
Dozens of them.
He looked at Beatrice.
"Time to move."
The Road Back
Jackson and Beatrice escaped through the kitchen.
They reached the motorcycle.
Jackson started it.
Beatrice climbed behind him.
"Where are we going?"
"Out of town."
"Where?"
"I know a place."
They rode north.
Behind them, three vehicles followed.
Jackson watched them in his mirrors.
"How many?"
"Three."
"Can we lose them?"
"We can try."
He accelerated.
The Road King surged forward.
Beatrice tightened her arms around him.
They left the highway.
The desert swallowed them.
Jackson knew these roads.
Years of riding had taught him where pavement ended and survival began.
He turned onto an old mining road.
The vehicles followed.
Then one dropped back.
Another hit a ditch.
The third continued.
Jackson accelerated.
The road narrowed.
Rocks struck the motorcycle.
Beatrice screamed.
Jackson kept control.
Finally, they reached an abandoned gas station.
He stopped behind the building.
"Stay here."
"What are you doing?"
"I'm going to see who they are."
"No."
"Beatrice—"
"I'm coming."
"You could get hurt."
She stared at him.
"I already lost my husband."
Jackson stopped.
"I won't lose another person because I was too afraid to move."
He nodded.
They approached the vehicle together.
It was empty.
The driver's door was open.
Inside, Jackson found a phone.
He picked it up.
A message appeared.
GET THE WOMAN. KILL THE BIKER.
Beatrice read it.
Her face went pale.
"They're going to kill you."
Jackson handed her the phone.
"They're going to try."
"That's not funny."
"I'm not joking."
He looked at the horizon.
"We need help."
"Who?"
"My brothers."
The motorcycle club.
Jackson made one call.
Within thirty minutes, headlights appeared.
Five motorcycles came over the ridge.
Then three more.
Eight riders stopped beside Jackson.
The largest man removed his helmet.
"What's going on?"
Jackson pointed toward Beatrice.
"Her husband was murdered."
The man looked at her.
"Who?"
"Thomas Holloway."
The man recognized the name.
"Nine years ago?"
Jackson nodded.
The man cursed.
"That case was closed."
"It shouldn't have been."
Jackson handed him the flash drive.
"Thomas left this."
The rider looked at it.
"You sure?"
"No."
"Then we're in trouble."
Beatrice stepped forward.
"Please."
The rider looked at her.
"What do you need?"
"Justice."
He smiled.
"That's expensive."
She looked frightened.
He laughed.
"Don't worry."
He turned toward Jackson.
"You brought us a problem."
Jackson nodded.
"I did."
"Then we'll help you solve it."
The club moved.
They returned to Dusty Ridge.
But this time they didn't hide.
They entered the sheriff's office.
Sheriff Elena Ramirez looked up.
She had been in office for eleven years.