The deputy swallowed hard, taking a half-step backward as I approached. "Yes, sir. Just protocol. Wanted to make sure everything was... quiet."
I looked at the kid’s eyes. He was lying, and he wasn't good at it. He was looking at the motorcycles, expecting them to be charred, twisted metal. He was sent here to verify the kill.
"Everything is perfectly quiet, Deputy," I said, stopping a few feet away from him. I didn't raise my voice, but I let the menace bleed into my tone. "In fact, it's a miracle we didn't go for a ride this morning. We found some interesting hardware attached to our bikes."
The deputy’s eyes darted toward the picnic table. I saw the flash of recognition. He knew what those boxes were.
"I... I should go report that," the kid stammered, turning quickly back toward his cruiser.
"You aren't going anywhere," I said.
I nodded to two of my men standing near the porch. Before the deputy could reach for his radio, massive arms wrapped around him, pinning his hands to his sides. They disarmed him in seconds, tossing his service pistol onto the dirt.
"Hey! You can't do this! This is assaulting an officer!" the kid yelled, struggling weakly.
"Bring him to the back room," I ordered, my eyes locked on the sheriff's cruiser. "And put his vehicle in the garage out of sight."
As they dragged the protesting deputy inside, Gator limped over to me, looking agitated.
"Vance, you're crossing a serious line grabbing a cop," Gator warned, his voice low. "Miller will bring the whole state police tactical team down on our heads for this."
I turned and looked Gator dead in the eyes. I looked for any sign of deception, any flicker of guilt. But Gator's face was a mask of genuine concern for the club.
"Someone tried to murder thirty-eight of our brothers last night, Gator," I said, my voice dangerously soft. "Someone the dogs knew. Someone with a key to the gate. Someone who walks with a limp and smells like cherry tobacco."
Gator froze. The color drained from his face. He looked at me, then down at his own bad leg, then back up.
"Vance..." Gator whispered, his eyes wide. "You don't think... I didn't do this. I swear on my life, brother. I was on watch, yes. But I passed out. I woke up with a headache that felt like a sledgehammer. Somebody slipped something into my coffee."
It was a believable excuse. Almost too believable.
"Give me your keys," I demanded, holding out my hand.
Gator hesitated, then reached into his heavy leather pocket and pulled out his keyring. He dropped it into my palm.
I sifted through the keys. The small silver key for the Master padlock on the side gate was gone.
"Where is it?" I asked, my voice rising in volume.
"I... I don't know," Gator stammered, patting his pockets frantically. "It was there last night. Vance, you gotta believe me. Someone set me up."
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe the man who had ridden by my side for fifteen years hadn't sold us out. But the evidence was overwhelming, and the stakes were too high.
"Take his cut," I ordered the two men standing nearest to us.
Gator didn't fight. He let them strip the heavy leather vest off his shoulders, the ultimate disgrace for a patched member. He stood there in his dirty white t-shirt, looking broken.
"Lock him in the storage container out back," I said, turning away from him. "We'll deal with him when this is over."
As they led Gator away, Huck walked up, wiping his hands on a greasy rag.
"Boss," Huck said, his voice tense. "I got the rest of the boxes off. The bikes are clean."
"Good work," I said, letting out a long breath. "Throw the boxes in the ditch and let's figure out our next move."
"You don't understand," Huck interrupted, holding up one of the black plastic squares. The tiny red LED light was no longer pulsing slowly. It was flashing rapidly, almost a solid red blur.
"What does that mean?" I asked, a new sense of dread creeping up my spine.
"The GPS tracker," Huck said, his eyes darting toward the main highway. "It runs on a secondary internal battery. When I cut the main power from the ignition, it tripped a failsafe. The tracker just shifted from passive pinging to an active, continuous distress beacon."