And then, I turned to the page dated August of two years prior.
Thomas Vance – Escaped.
Stipend maintained.
Beneath it, scrawled in cold, dark ink, was a singular note: Tractor expense – eastern field. It was a cruel, coded euphemism for burying a murdered child.
I had the proof. I had everything I needed to burn George Miller’s empire to the absolute ground.
I shoved the ledger into the back of my jeans, securing it beneath my belt and leather jacket. I turned to leave the office.
Suddenly, the blinding glare of fluorescent lights flooded the entire barn. The harsh humming sound of industrial light ballasts filled the air.
I froze, blinded.
Standing in the doorway of the barn, twenty yards away, was Deputy Rollins, his service weapon drawn and aimed directly at my chest. Next to him stood George Miller, holding his retrieved shotgun, his face contorted in a mask of pure, sadistic triumph.
But what made my entire world shatter was what George was holding in his other hand.
Suspended brutally by the back of his shirt, dangling helplessly above the concrete floor, was Peter.
“You really are a stupid son of a bitch, aren’t you, Hawk?” George spat, his voice echoing violently through the massive barn. He tossed Peter forward. The boy hit the concrete hard, curling instantly into a ball, weeping uncontrollably. “Did you really think I wouldn’t have motion sensors on the perimeter of my own damn property?”
I slowly lowered my hands, staring down the barrel of the gun. We hadn’t snuck in while they were hunting us. They had come back, waited for the alert, and let me trap myself perfectly inside a box.
I was completely cornered, the evidence on me, and Peter was back in the hands of the monster.
CHAPTER 4
The oppressive glare of the fluorescent lights illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air of the cavernous barn, casting long, sharp shadows across the concrete floor. The silence following George’s words was heavy, suffocating, broken only by the soft, ragged sound of Peter crying in a heap near George’s heavy boots.
“I admire your courage, I really do,” George sneered, walking slowly forward, the pump-action shotgun resting casually against his hip. Rollins stayed close behind, keeping his service pistol trained firmly on my chest. “Most men would have kept riding down that highway, let a dirty kid tumble out of their memory. But not you. You had to play the hero.”
“Hero?” I replied, my voice steady, keeping my hands fully visible. My muscles were coiled so tight they ached, mentally measuring the exact distance between me and the deputy’s gun. Twenty yards. Too far to rush without taking a bullet. “There’s nothing heroic about this, George. You’re running a slave camp under the protection of a corrupt cop. You’re pocketing state money and working orphaned kids to the bone.”
George laughed, a sharp, abrasive sound. “I’m providing a service. The state throws away the broken ones, the kids nobody wants. I take them in. I feed them. I teach them the value of hard work. The government pays me a pittance for the privilege, so they can pretend they care. The crop yields? That’s just a secondary benefit of good discipline.”
“And Thomas Vance?” I challenged, my voice cutting through his twisted justification like a knife. I watched his eyes flinch briefly at the name. “Was crushing his skull with a shovel part of your discipline program?”
The smile dropped completely from George’s face. His eyes turned into cold, black marbles of absolute hatred. He racked the shotgun loudly.
“Thomas made the mistake of thinking he could threaten my livelihood,” George growled, stopping ten feet away. “He stole my ledger. He thought he could walk into town and talk to a judge. He was a thief and a liar, just like the rest of them. And now, you’ve made the exact same mistake.”
George glanced down at Peter, raising his heavy boot as if preparing to kick the small boy.
“Wait,” I yelled quickly, throwing my hands up slightly. “You want the ledger back? It’s in my jacket. Just let the kid go. He doesn’t know anything.”
Rollins scoffed, keeping his sights fixed perfectly on center mass. “We’re not making deals, biker. You’re holding stolen property, you’re an armed fugitive, and you forcefully entered private property at night. When I shoot you, it goes down as a textbook justified shooting. The boy tripped and fell into a piece of heavy machinery in the confusion. Tragic accident.”