That was the tell. They weren't doing their jobs; the script had already been written. Hoyt ordered Roy off the bike, declaring it impounded on suspicion of transporting stolen goods. Roy could have dropped his real name right then and ended their careers on the spot. But a lifetime of intelligence work had taught him to test the waters. He needed to see exactly how rotten these deputies were.
He unclipped Digger, set the dog on the ground, and calmly asked where the impound lot was.
The impound lot was just across the street. Hoyt didn't tow the bike. He climbed onto the custom leather seat, revved the engine to a scream, and dumped the clutch, laying rubber and nearly dropping the masterpiece sideways. Mercer cackled.
Once inside the fenced gravel yard, Hoyt looked at Roy, gave a malicious grin, and said, "Whoops."
He reached into the bed of a parked work truck and pulled out a heavy sledgehammer.
A sledgehammer came down on the gas tank. Metal buckled and split. A second swing shattered the headlight glass, spraying it across the asphalt. The two deputies took turns laughing while the chrome frame of the $800,000 motorcycle crumpled inward. Digger barked frantically from the sidelines, straining against his leash.
The old man beside him didn't move. He didn't shout. He didn't raise a hand. He watched quietly, his jaw tight, as they destroyed the thing he'd waited forty years to own.
Without anyone noticing, Roy reached down and pressed the record button on Digger's collar camera.
Hoyt swung until his shirt was soaked with sweat and his arms gave out. The custom exhaust, the gold-leaf tank, the gauges—all reduced to twisted scrap.