And he wasn't buying it to show off. He was buying it because for 40 years, he'd given everything to the country. And just once, he wanted something that was only his. That morning, he loaded up his old bloodhound, Digger. 12 years old, gray in the muzzle, one ear that never quite stood upright. Digger rode in a sidecar bolted to the bike, sitting up straight like he owned the whole desert.
Tongue out, ears flapping. Roy had rigged a little camera to the dog's collar years ago, just for fun, so he could watch the rides back at night. Digger loved that sidecar more than food. They rode into Flagstaff together to meet the club for a birthday lunch. And that's when it went wrong.
Two sheriff's deputies were parked outside the diner. Young, bored, looking for something to do. One of them, a thick-necked kid named Deputy Brett Hoyt, had a reputation in that county for hassling anybody who looked different. His partner, Deputy Sal Mercer, just went along with whatever Hoyt did. They saw the bike.
They saw the old man. They saw the dog in the sidecar. And Hoyt smiled the kind of smile that means trouble. The stakes, by the way, were bigger than one bike. Roy didn't know it yet, but these two deputies had been shaking down riders on that road for 2 years.
And Roy was about to become the biggest mistake either of them ever made. Hoyt walked over slow, thumbs hooked in his belt, letting his boots scuff the gravel so Roy would hear him coming. Mercer trailed behind, already grinning. "Nice bike," Hoyt said. "Real nice.
Little rich for a man dressed like you, though. " Roy killed the engine. He looked up calm. "Afternoon, Deputy. " "That's your dog?
" "He is. " "He's not restrained proper. That's a violation. " Hoyt leaned down and looked at Digger, who wagged his tail and tried to lick the man's hand. Hoyt jerked back like the dog was diseased.
"And I'm going to need to see registration on this thing. Custom build like this, 10 to 1 it's got stolen parts on it. " Now Roy had spent 40 years watching men lie, and he could smell a shakedown from a mile off. He knew exactly what this was. He'd seen the type in every corner of the country.
A badge worn like a weapon. A man who'd learned that a uniform meant nobody would say no. But he'd also spent 40 years learning that the smart move is almost never the loud one. So he stayed calm. "Everything's registered," Roy said.
"Papers are in the saddlebag. I can show you. " "Don't reach for anything," Mercer snapped, hand dropping to his holster. And that was the tell. These two weren't confused.
They weren't doing their jobs. They'd already decided how this was going to go before they ever walked over. "Sir, I'm going to need you to step off the vehicle. " Hoyt said. "We're impounding it.
Suspicion of transporting stolen goods. You'll get a hearing eventually. " Roy looked at him for a long moment. He could have said his name. Just his name would have done it.
But something in him, call it pride, call it a test, wanted to see how far these two would take it. He wanted to know exactly what kind of men they were. Whether this was a bad day and a bad attitude, or something rotten all the way down. 40 years had taught him the difference mattered, and that the only way to know for sure was to let a man show you. So he got off the bike. He unclipped Digger and set the old dog on the ground beside him, one hand resting on that gray head.
"Where's the impound lot? " Roy asked. "Right over there. " Hoyt jerked his thumb across the street to a fenced gravel yard. "Real convenient.
We'll walk it over ourselves. " And here's the part that still turns my stomach. They didn't tow it careful. Hoyt climbed on the bike, revved it hard, and dumped the clutch on purpose, laying a strip of rubber and nearly dropping the whole thing sideways. Mercer laughed so hard he had to hold his own knees.