“That’s avoiding getting murdered.”
Dean accepted the distinction.
The abandoned railway maintenance path climbed behind the ridge, hidden from the highway by pine trees.
Thirty minutes later, Mason could see the bridge below.
The operation was more sophisticated than Caleb had described.
The attackers had created two stopping points. Spiked chains lay across the road near the curve. A delivery van farther ahead blocked most of the opposite lane.
Anyone entering would be forced to slow.
Then trapped.
Mason counted the gunmen.
Thirteen.
Exactly as the drone showed.
One stood near the north embankment.
Two guarded the vehicles.
Another man appeared to be giving orders.
He was tall and gray-haired, wearing a dark jacket despite the warm evening.
Mason recognized him.
Victor Danner.
The name from Caleb's paper.
Mason had seen Danner once before.
Three months earlier, he had attended a private fundraiser for Mayor Caldwell at the Ridgeview Country Club.
Officially Danner owned a security-consulting business.
Unofficially, people whispered that his company handled problems nobody wanted documented.
Mason photographed him through a telephoto lens.
Dean whispered, “That's our connection.”
“Not enough.”
“You think he'll confess?”
“No.”
Mason pointed at the man's pocket.
“But his phone might.”
For twenty minutes they watched.
Then an unexpected sound came through the trees.
Sirens.
Mason frowned.
Several police cruisers approached from the east.
For a moment, he thought law enforcement had somehow discovered the ambush.
Then the cruisers slowed near the bridge.
Nobody got out.
One officer lowered his window.
Victor Danner walked to him.
They spoke for less than a minute.
Then the police cars continued away.
Dean stared at Mason.
“You got that?”
Mason held up his phone.
Everything had been recorded.
The conspiracy had just become larger.
A legitimate police patrol had approached an illegal roadblock containing armed men.
Instead of intervening, officers had spoken casually to their leader and left.
“This isn't just Caldwell,” Dean whispered.
“No.”
Mason watched the disappearing police lights.
“This town has a disease.”
Below them, Danner checked his watch.
The Riders were now twenty minutes late.
The attackers became restless.
One man walked toward the road.
Another began making a phone call.
Mason's own phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
He answered without speaking.
A distorted voice said, “Mr. Hale?”
Mason motioned for everyone to remain silent.
“Yes.”
“You changed your route.”
It was not a question.
Mason stared down at Danner.
The security contractor was holding a phone.
“Looks that way,” Mason said.
“You should have continued toward Blackwood.”
“Traffic looked bad.”
A pause.
Then Danner laughed quietly.
“You think this is clever?”
“I think putting armed men under a bridge is dramatic.”
Silence.
“You're watching us,” Danner said.
Mason realized instantly that denying it would be useless.
“Maybe.”
Danner looked up toward the ridge.
“Then listen carefully. This does not concern your club. Walk away.”
“You were preparing to kill us.”
“An unfortunate misunderstanding.”
“With rifles?”
Another pause.
Then Danner's tone hardened.
“You people started digging into matters beyond your understanding.”
“The pension fund?”
“Forget the pension fund.”
“Why?”
“Because every person who keeps asking questions creates another problem.”
Mason's phone was recording.
He almost smiled.
“Who told you to solve the problem?”
Danner did not answer.
“Mayor Caldwell?”
The call disconnected.
Dean whispered, “Please tell me you recorded that.”
Mason showed him the screen.
“Every word.”
They had enough to contact federal authorities.
But before Mason could decide the next move, one attacker shouted.
A young man was pointing toward the trees.
The drone.
They had spotted it.
Everything changed.
Danner yelled an order.
Two men rushed toward the hillside.
Mason whispered, “Move.”
The Riders withdrew through the trees.
They had no intention of engaging an armed group.
But the gunmen knew someone was above them now.
Branches snapped below.
Mason and Dean reached the old maintenance path.
Then came a gunshot.
The sound cracked across the ridge.
Another followed.
Mason dropped behind a stone drainage wall.
“Everybody good?”
Voices answered.
Yes.
Another bullet struck a tree.
“They're shooting blind,” Dean said.
“Keep moving.”
The Riders separated into pairs, following different paths toward the motorcycles.
Mason was nearly at the lower trail when headlights appeared at the far end.
Police.
Three vehicles.
Their escape route had been blocked.
A voice boomed through a loudspeaker.
“Black River Riders, come out with your hands visible.”
Dean looked at Mason.
“How did they know where we were?”
Mason thought of Danner.
Then of the patrol car that had stopped by the bridge.
The answer was obvious.
“They're part of it.”
The police voice continued.
“You are surrounded. Drop all weapons.”
Mason checked his phone.
No cellular signal.
Someone might have deployed a jammer around the bridge.
A sophisticated one.
“This was bigger than an ambush,” Dean said.
Mason agreed.
The plan was not simply to kill them.
It was to create a story.
Armed bikers involved in a violent confrontation.
Police arrive.
Evidence disappears.
Dead men cannot explain what happened.
Mason searched the dark woods.
Then he remembered something.
The abandoned factory.
Caleb had entered through the west side.
A drainage tunnel connected the factory grounds to the hillside.
Mason had explored it as a teenager.
“Follow me.”
They moved downhill rather than toward their motorcycles.
The tunnel was still there.
Half collapsed.
Full of muddy water.
But passable.
One by one, eleven men crawled through darkness while police searched the woods above them.
Twenty-five minutes later, Mason pushed open a rusted grate behind Harrow Furniture Works.
The Riders emerged inside the factory complex.
Dean wiped mud from his face.
“Remind me why motorcycles are supposed to represent freedom.”
Mason almost laughed.
Then he heard something.
A car door.
They froze.
Through a broken factory window, Mason saw a man standing beside a black sedan.
The man was wearing a police uniform.
Captain Franklin Ross.
Blackwood's senior patrol commander.
Ross opened the trunk.
Inside were boxes.
He handed one to Victor Danner.
Mason raised his phone and recorded.
Danner opened the box.
Bundles of cash.
Hundreds of thousands of dollars, perhaps more.
Captain Ross said something Mason couldn't hear.
Danner nodded.
Then Ross spoke louder.
“The mayor wants everyone moved before midnight.”
Mason's heartbeat slowed.
Dean heard it too.
Danner closed the trunk.
“What about the kid?”
Mason stopped breathing.
Ross responded.
“We haven't found him.”
Danner's expression hardened.
“You find him. He heard everything.”
Mason's eyes changed.
Until that moment, this had been about corruption.
Money.
Attempted murder.
Political power.
Now it was personal.
A ten-year-old child had accidentally become a witness.
And the people controlling Blackwood knew his name.
Mason waited until both vehicles left.
Then he stood.
“We're going home.”
Dean looked toward the road.
“Police are searching for us.”
“They're searching in the wrong place.”
“What happens when they figure it out?”
Mason pulled out his phone.
The signal had returned.
He had seventeen missed calls.
One was from the clubhouse.
Three were from his lawyer.
Two were from an unfamiliar Washington-area number.
And eleven were from Caleb's mother.
Mason selected the clubhouse first.
A rider answered immediately.
“Mason?”
“Is Caleb there?”
A pause.
Then the words Mason feared.
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“His mother came and got him twenty minutes ago.”
Mason closed his eyes.
“Who told her he was here?”
“We thought you did.”
Mason looked at Dean.
“Get everyone moving.”
He was already dialing Caleb's mother.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Mr. Hale?”
“Where are you?”
“In my car.”
“Is Caleb with you?”
“Yes.”
“Listen carefully. Do not drive home.”