They handcuffed us first and confiscated our guns and phones.

“Planning to sweet-talk us with this?” the lead guy asked as he held up Jack’s .45.

“Just exercising my Second Amendment rights,” Jack said, with a heavy undercurrent of Fuck you, asshole.

“Maybe you forgot, but you gave up those rights when you went to prison. This right here?” he asked, waggling the .45. “This is another felony, asshole.”

Jack looked at him in surprise, then at me. I could read the question in his eyes: How the fuck does this guy know my prison record?!

Because he’s been hunting you for years, I thought, but I didn’t say it out loud.

A white panel van drove up the dirt road. Lead Guy and his minions put bags over our heads that smelled like burlap and sweat. Then he forced me into the back of the van and chained me to a bench along the side.

“Jack?” I called out nervously as soon as the van started.

“I’m here,” he said, only a few feet away, his voice reassuring.

“Shut the fuck up,” Lead Guy ordered, and we both kept quiet for the rest of the trip.

The van drove for about 20 minutes, then finally came to a stop in some sort of gated garage. I heard the metallic door squeal and rattle down as the driver cut the engine.

They roughly pulled us out, frog-marched us down a hallway, and led us into a room. They uncuffed one of my hands but locked the other one to a table, shoved me down onto a chair, and took off my hood.

The first thing I saw was Jack sitting four feet to my left, his hand cuffed to the same table as me.

“You okay?” he asked.

I nodded, though I was terrified. “Yeah.”

“Well, you’re not going to be for long,” a vaguely familiar voice said.

I looked over. We were in a grey concrete room with one of those four-foot-long mirrors you see in TV shows – definitely a one-way glass for surveillance. The table and chairs were bolted to the floor so they wouldn’t move. In front of the glass mirror stood the lead guy, one of the men with the assault rifles, and somebody new: a balding man in suit pants, tie, and a white button-up shirt. He was long-faced, mid-to-late 50’s, with no discernible sense of humor. He stood with his arms crossed, looking at us like you might look at a smear of dog crap on your shoe.

“You guys can go, I’ve got it from here,” the buttoned-up prick said.

Lead Guy and the other minion shuffled out.

The voice – it was the gruff man on the phone I’d talked to back in LA.

“Where’s Eddie?” I asked angrily.

“That’s a good question,” the prick said. “One we’ll get to shortly. I’m Agent Fordham… and you’re both in a barrel-full of shit.”

“I brought Jack with me to talk to Eddie,” I said. “The deal was he’d give me what he had on my cousin’s murder if – ”

“I’m well aware of what the deal was. Are you aware that revealing the identity of an undercover federal agent – especially to one of the suspects under investigation – is a felony that can get you up to 20 years in jail”

“Jack came with me because he wants to take down Lou Shaw.”

“I’ll bet he does, after that night at the Roadhouse. I’m sure he thought he could just have us arrest Shaw and Eyeball and a couple of others, we’d go on our merry way, and he could have control of the Midnight Riders again.” Fordham gave Jack a tight smile. “Sorry to burst your bubble, pal, but not gonna happen.”

Shit.

This guy knew everything.

I was panicking, but Jack looked frosty as a block of ice. “What are you going to get me on?”

“Trafficking and distribution of marijuana. And the weapons charge on your .45.”

Jack looked the guy dead in the eyes and shook his head. “That’s not what you want.”

“No?”

“No, or you would have arrested me years ago.”

“We didn’t have enough on you until recently.”

“Bullshit. Fiona said Eddie wanted the entire distribution network.”

Fordham smiled. “Is this where you promise me the moon, the stars, and Pablo Escobar?”

“Pablo Escobar’s dead.”

“I didn’t think you’d know who Ismael Zambada was.”

“El Mayo? Rumor is his cartel’s behind the Santa Muertes.”

Fordham cocked his head. He looked surprised – and a little intrigued.

“Hear me out,” Jack said. “I can give you everything.”

“You can’t give me anything I don’t already have, Pollari.”

“I was there when Lou killed that second robber from the Seven Veils. I can testify against him.”

Fordham chuckled. “You’re gonna testify against another Midnight Rider? Riiiight. I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Jack shifted uneasily in his chair. I could see his internal conflict playing out on his face – help the DEA, who he hated, or stand by and watch the entire club go down in flames.

“I’ll do it if there’s no other way,” Jack finally said.

“Not good enough. Like you said, I want the entire distribution network, not just Lou.”

Jack squinted, thinking hard. “You’re not after pot… not in a state where it’s about to go legal. You guys saw the writing on the wall years ago – you would have taken us down already if pot was what you wanted.”

Fordham was silent and just stared back.

“Two Santa Muertes broke into the Seven Veils about three weeks back,” Jack said, trying another angle.

“We know,” Fordham yawned. “We also know what happened out in the desert, so don’t even think you’re gonna bargain with that one.”

“They weren’t Santa Muertes.”

Fordham frowned. “How do you know that?”

“I talked to Hector Reyes. I’m sure you know who that is. He didn’t know anything about it.”

“What were you doing talking to Hector Reyes?”

“It was a sit-down. Personal courtesy, considering my former position as president.”

Fordham scratched his chin. “Huh…”

“That helpful?” Jack asked.

“Not really, no. We already knew the shooters weren’t in the gang.”

“How?”

“Ran the names. Didn’t match any of our intel.”

“Wait – the first guy I get, he got shot in the club – but how’d you find out the second guy’s name?”

“We got the body,” Fordham said. “Well… enough to get fingerprints, anyway. I’d tell you to advise Lou that the next time he wants to get rid of a stiff, to use a vat of acid… but you won’t be seeing him again till you’re both in San Quentin. You can tell him then.”

“Everybody there was an accessory!” Jack said angrily. “With that and the pot, you can put everybody away for ten years at least!”

Fordham shrugged and gave an assholish smile. “Not enough, Jack. Not by a long shot.”

I’d been listening the entire time, trying to figure this out.

Fordham didn’t care about pot…

He didn’t care about a murder…

“You’re going for something bigger than the Midnight Riders,” I realized.

Fordham looked at me like he was sizing me up.

“What, you want our connections?” Jack asked Fordham. “The pot dispensaries? You could get those off the fuckin’ internet.”

“No,” I said. “He wants the entire Richards police department.”

“Not bad for a second-rate PI,” Fordham said.

I ignored the insult. “Kade and I were kidnapped by three cops the same night Lou pulled his coup.”

“I need bigger fish than that,” Fordham said.

Jack clenched his jaw. “I can personally testify that we paid Peters off.”

Fordham scoffed. “For what? Getting rid of traffic tickets?”

“Looking the other way on the marijuana.”

“You keep saying the weed’s no big deal, we would’ve busted you already if we cared about the weed, blah blah blah, and now you want me to give a shit because you paid off some cops to overlook the weed? Not gonna cut it, Pollari.”

Jack looked at me, and I could see a flicker of unease in his eyes. Then he turned back to Fordham. “What about… paying him to cover up a shooting?”

“What kind of a shooting?”

Jack took a long time to answer. When he finally spoke, he didn’t look at me.

“…the murder of Fiona’s cousin.”