What's funny? Dalton's voice was cold. You are. Caleb put the phone down. You really think you're going to get away with this?
You really think nobody knows what you did? I think a lot of people suspect a lot of things, but suspicion ain't proof. And proof's in Arthur's saddlebag, which the Hells Angels have now. Caleb watched Dalton's face go pale. You're done, Sheriff.
You just don't know it yet. Dalton's hand moved to his service weapon. You stupid kid. You have any idea what you've... The rumble of engines cut him off. Distant at first, then growing louder.
Closer. Dalton spun around and his face went slack with shock.
They came over the rise like an army. Not 20 bikes this time, not 50. 230 Hells Angels riding in formation filling the highway from shoulder to shoulder. The sound was apocalyptic, a sustained roar that shook the ground and rattled the shop's windows. Dalton's hand fell away from his gun.
His deputy's car screeched into the lot, but they took one look at the approaching horde and didn't move. The bikes surrounded the lot boxing in Dalton's Crown Vic and the deputy's vehicles. They idled there, a wall of leather and chrome and barely contained violence. Clutch dismounted and walked through the circle of bikes. Behind him came Arthur moving slowly wrapped in bandages but alive and on his feet.
Sheriff Dalton, Clutch said, we need to talk about attempted murder.
Dalton's hand moved back toward his gun, but Arthur's voice stopped him cold. I wouldn't, Sheriff. Not unless you want 230 witnesses to watch you commit suicide by cop. Arthur's voice was weak but steady. Each word cost him, but he pushed through.
Because that's what it'll be. The second you draw, every man here becomes a witness to you pulling a weapon on an unarmed civilian. Dalton's hand froze. His eyes darted between Arthur, Clutch, and the sea of bikers surrounding them. You're supposed to be dead.
Yeah, well, funny thing about that. Arthur took a painful step forward, his hand pressed against his bandaged side. Turns out when you hire cartel hitmen instead of doing your own dirty work, sometimes they miss. Sometimes a 19-year-old kid with more guts than sense keeps you breathing long enough for your brothers to find you. I don't know what you're talking about.
Dalton's voice had gone tight, controlled. I'm investigating a hit-and-run. You were the victim. Was I? Arthur's laugh turned into a cough and Clutch steadied him.
Because I remember seeing your face behind that wheel, Dalton. Clear as day. I remember you looking right at me before you swerved. That’s ridiculous. I was on patrol 20 miles from here.
In your personal vehicle, Clutch pulled out his phone and held up a photo. Black Silverado license plate 7 Alpha Delta 823 registered to you, spotted by three different traffic cameras heading south on Route 87 exactly 17 minutes before Arthur got hit. He swiped to another photo. Here you are at the Chevron station 10 miles north filling up. Time stamp puts you 5 minutes from the crash site.
Dalton's face went white, then red. Those could be doctored. They're not. A new voice cut through the tension. A woman in a gray suit stepped out of an unmarked sedan that had pulled up during the confrontation.