“Yes, sir. Three times. I wrote it down.”
Leo produced a folded piece of notebook paper from his pocket. On it, in the careful block letters of a child who understood the importance of accuracy, were names, times, and fragments of conversation.
Riker read it, folded it carefully, and tucked it into the inner pocket of his cut. He looked at the rust-eaten bicycle, then at the bruise on the boy’s shoulder. He thought about what it cost a nine-year-old in pure nerve to ride twenty minutes up a mountain road to warn a dozen Hells Angels.
He paused, staring at the screen. “Silas Vance is the man running this. I want Vance intact and talking.”
One of his brothers racked the slide of his sidearm and grinned in the darkness. “Rangers lead the way.”
The rail service trail was narrow, unlit, and not designed for eleven men moving in single file. But it put them on the ridge directly above the rail bridge in eighteen minutes of careful, silent movement.
Below them, the ambush team was still waiting. The drone feed showed their thermal signatures perfectly still, their confidence entirely intact. That confidence was about to expire.