Rachel never believed it.
She and her brother, Mason, started investigating.
Three weeks ago Mason disappeared.
Rachel had been captured two days later.
She escaped when the vehicle transporting her stopped during a storm.
“They'll come back,” she said.
“For the ledger?”
Rachel looked at him.
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because I know where it is.”
Caleb's bank account contained eighty-six dollars.
The electric bill was one hundred twelve.
Rachel needed antibiotics.
Caleb sold a nearly new torque wrench to another mechanic for forty dollars.
He told Rachel somebody had paid an old debt.
She didn't believe him.
“You're losing money because of me.”
“I was losing money before you got here.”
“You sold something.”
Caleb glanced toward the empty hook where the wrench had been.
“I have other tools.”
She crossed her arms.
“That was your best torque wrench.”
“Now you're criticizing my financial decisions?”
“You gave me your food for two weeks.”
“I've eaten.”
“You eat crackers when you think I'm asleep.”
Caleb frowned.
“Stop watching me sleep.”
Rachel laughed again.
It made the sacrifice seem smaller.
Later that afternoon, a dark blue pickup entered the property.
Caleb watched it approach through the garage door.
Two men stepped out.
Neither needed repairs.
Caleb knew immediately.
One wore expensive boots too clean for the desert. The other had a heavy jacket despite the warmth.
“Afternoon,” the first man said.
“What can I do for you?”
“We're looking for someone.”
“This is a repair shop.”
“You see many travelers.”
“Mostly people with broken cars.”
The man's smile disappeared.
“Young woman. Brown hair. Maybe injured.”
Caleb wiped grease from his hands.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
The second man walked toward the garage.
Caleb moved sideways and blocked him.
“Customers stay up front.”
“We aren't customers.”
“Then you should probably leave.”
For several seconds nobody moved.
The first man's eyes traveled across the garage.
A woman's sneaker was visible beneath a workbench.
Rachel's sneaker.
Caleb stepped directly into the man's line of sight.
The man smiled again.
“Mind if we check your bathroom?”
“Yes.”
He reached into his coat.
Caleb lifted a steel breaker bar from the bench.
“Whatever you're reaching for,” Caleb said quietly, “think carefully.”
The men exchanged glances.
Finally the first man removed his hand.
“Sorry to bother you.”
They returned to the truck.
Before leaving, the driver lowered his window.
“If you see her, call this number.”
He tossed a card onto the dirt.
Caleb waited until they disappeared.
Rachel emerged from beneath the hydraulic lift.
Her face had gone pale.
“They work for him.”
“For who?”
“Victor Dane.”
Caleb had heard the name.
Dane Logistics owned warehouses across Nevada, Arizona, and California. Victor Dane appeared in business magazines shaking hands with governors and donating money to hospitals.
“He knows you're alive?”
“He knows I'm missing.”
Caleb picked up the card.
There was no company name.
Only a phone number.
“We need help.”
“No police.”
“I didn't say police.”
“Who else?”
Caleb looked at the silver hawk tattoo again.
“Your father's people.”
Rachel shook her head fiercely.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because Mason tried.”
“What happened?”
“He called someone in the Saints. Two days later he disappeared.”
“You think one of them betrayed him?”
“I know someone did.”
That changed everything.
The people Rachel should have trusted most might include the very person hunting her.
Caleb tore the card in half.
“All right.”
Rachel watched him.
“What?”
“No police. No bikers.”
“Then what?”
Caleb looked around his half-empty garage.
At the unpaid bills.
At the missing torque wrench.
At the young woman who had somehow walked out of the desert and into his life.
“We figure out who we can trust.”
Rachel finally told Caleb the whole story.
Her father, Thomas Vale, had ridden with the Silver Saints for thirty-one years.
The Saints weren't saints in the religious sense.
They were welders, veterans, electricians, farmers, truckers, and mechanics bonded by motorcycles and loyalty.
Thomas had been one of the oldest chapter captains.
Six months earlier, his motorcycle went over a canyon barrier at night.
Police found no skid marks.
The official explanation was fatigue.
Mason Vale disagreed.
While clearing their father's workshop, Mason found a hidden flash drive.
It contained photographs of shipping manifests, warehouse schedules, bank transfers, and license plates.
Victor Dane's company appeared repeatedly.
So did the names of law enforcement officers, county officials, and private security contractors.
Thomas had apparently been gathering evidence for months.
Mason copied everything.
Then he contacted three people.
One was a federal investigator.
One was an old friend.
One was a senior Silver Saints member named Russell Pike.
Forty-eight hours later, Mason vanished.
“Russell said Mason never contacted him,” Rachel explained.
“You believed him?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“My brother always recorded important calls.”
“Do you have the recording?”
Rachel nodded.
“Where?”
“With the ledger.”
Caleb studied her.
“That's what you've been calling it, but there's more than a ledger.”
“Everything my father collected. Everything Mason added.”
“And nobody knows where?”
“Mason and me.”
“If he's alive.”
Rachel's jaw tightened.
“He's alive.”
Caleb didn't challenge her.
He knew what hope looked like when it was the only thing keeping someone upright.
That evening they drove an old customer car to a deserted self-storage facility thirty miles away.
Rachel had hidden a key beneath a roadside marker before she was captured.
The storage unit contained nothing but an old motorcycle.
It was her father's.
A black touring bike covered beneath a gray sheet.
Rachel placed her hand on the fuel tank.
Caleb saw her eyes fill.
“My dad said motorcycles make people think riders are trying to escape something.”
“What was he escaping?”
“He said he wasn't escaping. He was trying to get somewhere before his courage changed its mind.”
Caleb smiled.
“I would've liked him.”
Rachel opened a compartment beneath the seat.
Inside was a small waterproof box.
Empty.
Her expression collapsed.
“No.”
She searched again.
Nothing.
“The drive was here.”
“Could Mason have moved it?”
“He didn't know this key existed.”
A sound came from outside.
Tires.
Caleb turned off the flashlight.
A vehicle stopped near the office.
Then another.
Rachel whispered, “They found us.”
Caleb scanned the unit.
One entrance.
No rear door.
He uncovered the motorcycle.
“Does this run?”
“It hasn't moved in six months.”
“That's not what I asked.”
Caleb checked the fuel.
Turned the ignition.
Dead battery.
He grabbed a portable jumper from the shelf.
“You carry that around?”
“Mechanic.”
Footsteps approached.
Caleb connected the leads.
The motorcycle coughed.
Again.
Footsteps grew louder.
Rachel climbed on.
The engine roared to life.
The storage door began to rise from outside.
Caleb jumped behind Rachel.
“Go!”
The motorcycle exploded forward beneath the opening door.
A man jumped aside.
Rachel accelerated between two SUVs, scraped a mirror, and shot through the gate.