“When?”
“This afternoon.”
“What was it doing there?”
“Tow truck found it in a wash.”
Jack’s eyes moved toward the Shovelhead.
“Who are you?”
“Chloe Sanders.”
“Why are you riding a dead man’s motorcycle across the Mojave at midnight, Chloe Sanders?”
She stared at him.
Because there was no reason to lie anymore.
“I’m running.”
“From?”
“My stepfather.”
Jack waited.
“Richard Croft.”
Several men moved immediately.
Not toward Chloe.
Just a subtle tightening.
The sergeant-at-arms turned to Jack.
Jack’s expression hardened.
“Deputy Richard Croft?”
Chloe nodded.
“He’s looking for me.”
Jack looked at the bruise along her jaw.
“He do that?”
“Yes.”
“And the ribs?”
Chloe said nothing.
That was enough.
Jack looked down at Preacher’s vest.
Then toward the motorcycle.
“How much do you know about this bike?”
“Nothing.”
“About Preacher?”
“Nothing.”
Jack walked toward the Shovelhead.
“Three years ago, Dominic Hayes rode out of Nevada on that machine.”
He placed one hand on the rusted tank.
“He was president of our charter.”
Nobody interrupted.
“He disappeared on this highway.”
Jack’s voice became quieter.
“County investigators told us he crashed after drinking.”
Chloe listened.
“They claimed the motorcycle went into a gorge.”
The sergeant-at-arms spat into the dirt.
“No body.”
Jack nodded.
“No bike.”
He looked at Chloe.
“Just paperwork telling us to stop looking.”
Chloe stared at the rusted Harley.
“It wasn’t in a gorge.”
“No.”
Jack crouched beside it.
His flashlight moved along the frame.
“You said a tow truck found it in a dry wash?”
“Yes.”
“Three days ago.”
“Yes.”
Jack examined the tank.
A large section had been covered in body filler and fake oxidation.
He touched it.
“Somebody wanted this machine to look dead.”
The sergeant-at-arms stepped closer.
“Jack.”
“I see it.”
Jack took a small tool from his kit and began carefully working loose a damaged layer of filler near the lower tank mount.
He did not hack at it.
He exposed only enough to see metal underneath.
The surface told a different story.
Not ordinary crash damage.
A deformed section.
A strike.
Jack stopped.
There was something embedded in the metal.
Flattened.
Darkened by age.
A projectile.
Nobody spoke.
Jack aimed his flashlight.
The sergeant-at-arms swore under his breath.
Chloe stepped closer despite herself.
“Is that...?”
“Yes.”
Jack did not touch it.
His entire demeanor changed.
“No one touches anything else.”
One of the riders asked:
“You think Preacher was shot?”
Jack looked at the bike.
“I think we finally have evidence somebody lied.”
That distinction mattered.
He did not claim to know who fired.
He did not claim the projectile could immediately prove murder.
But everyone standing there understood the implication.
Preacher’s motorcycle had not simply vanished into a gorge.
Someone had concealed it.
Someone had damaged identifying marks.
Someone had covered visible evidence.
And Richard Croft had been involved in the original investigation.
Chloe felt sick.