"My father."
Boyd laughed.
"Why?"
"Because he can verify everything."
"You don't need your daddy to explain a motorcycle."
"I know."
She kept her voice calm.
"But please."
One phone call.
That was all she asked for.
The older officer laughed too.
Delaney looked at him.
"Sir, I'm not threatening you."
"I know."
"I'm just asking you to call him."
Boyd reached for his handcuffs.
Delaney's stomach tightened.
She knew.
She knew exactly what was coming.
She closed her eyes.
Then felt the officer grab her wrist.
Metal snapped shut.
The second cuff followed.
And the moment the cuffs locked around her wrists, Delaney understood something.
Her father was going to find out.
The only question was what he would do when he did.
The Tracker
Forty miles away, a large diesel truck moved through the rain.
The engine growled beneath the hood.
Inside the cab sat a man with gray hair and a thick beard.
His name was Cila's Cross.
To strangers, he looked intimidating.
To his daughter, he was simply Dad.
A German Shepherd sat in the passenger seat.
The dog's name was Diesel.
Ninety pounds of muscle, instinct, and loyalty.
Diesel had been Delaney's dog since he was a puppy.
He knew the sound of her motorcycle.
He knew her scent.
He knew the sound of her father's truck.
And he knew when something was wrong.
Cila's Cross was driving with one hand on the wheel.
A cup of coffee sat in the console.
He had been on the road for nearly an hour.
Then his phone lit up.
He glanced at it.
It wasn't a call.
It was an alert.
The motorcycle tracker.
Cila had installed it when he gave Delaney the bike.
She had complained at the time.
"Dad, I'm not a child."
"I know."
"Then why?"
"Because you're my daughter."
"That's not an answer."
"It is when you're a father."
She had rolled her eyes.
But she had accepted it.
Now that small device was telling Cila something was wrong.
The motorcycle had stopped.
The engine had been off for six minutes.
Six minutes at a traffic light was impossible.
Cila slowed.
He looked at the screen.
The location showed an intersection outside Barstow.
He knew the area.
He also knew Delaney.
She wouldn't simply sit somewhere for six minutes without calling.
He picked up his phone.
Called her.
No answer.
He called again.
Nothing.
Diesel lifted his head.
Cila looked at the dog.
"Something's wrong."
Diesel stared through the windshield.
Cila made another call.
This time, it was to a different number.
The person on the other end answered immediately.
"Yeah?"
"Where are you?"
"Garage."
"Get everybody ready."
There was a pause.
"Problem?"
"My daughter's stopped on Highway access near Barstow."
Another pause.
"Is she hurt?"
"I don't know."
That was enough.
The voice changed.
"How many?"
"Everyone who can ride."
"On it."
Cila ended the call.
He put his phone down.
His right foot pressed gently against the accelerator.
The diesel engine responded.
The truck surged forward.
Diesel stood on the passenger seat.
Cila looked at the dog.
"Stay."
Diesel remained standing.
Cila knew what that meant.
The dog knew something was wrong too.
Cila had spent fifteen years as the road captain of his local motorcycle charter.
The road captain was responsible for the riders.
The route.
The formation.
The safety.
The pace.
The communication.
A mistake involving one rider could affect everyone.
Cila had learned discipline over decades.
He knew how quickly anger could turn into stupidity.
He also knew the difference between showing strength and losing control.
He didn't know what had happened to Delaney.
But he knew one thing.
He would find out.
At the intersection, the tow truck arrived.
Delaney was still cuffed.
Officer Boyd was standing beside her.
Officer Delgado leaned against the patrol vehicle.
A supervisor had arrived.
Sergeant Powell.
Powell was older.
Calmer.
He looked at situations instead of personalities.
He listened to Boyd explain the stop.
Then he asked one question.
"Plate?"
"Clean."
"VIN?"
"We haven't verified it yet."
Powell frowned.
"Then verify it."
Boyd looked irritated.
"Sergeant, I believe—"
"I didn't ask what you believe."
Powell looked at the motorcycle.
"I asked whether you verified the VIN."
Boyd said nothing.
Powell walked over to Delaney.
He checked the cuffs.
They were too tight.
He loosened them.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"Want to sit in my car?"
"No, thank you."
Powell nodded.
"All right."
The rain had weakened to a mist.
The tow driver approached the motorcycle.
He crouched.
Then stopped.
His face changed.
He stood.
He stared at the small decal on the motorcycle.
Red.
White.
Wings.
A skull.
He backed away.
Powell noticed.
"What?"
The tow driver looked at him.
"That's Cila's Cross's kid's bike."
Powell stared.
"You're sure?"
"I've seen her ride it."
Powell looked toward Delaney.
Then toward the highway.
Something was coming.
At first it was almost impossible to hear.
A low vibration.
Then a deeper hum.
The tow driver looked toward the rise.
Powell did too.
Boyd turned.
"What is that?"
The sound grew.