"File your complaint, Grandpa," Hoyt panted, dropping the hammer. "See how far it gets you."
By now, a dozen Iron Saints had poured out of the diner, their fists clenched, ready to tear the fence down. Roy raised a single hand. Not a word, just a hand. Every one of those hardened men stood down immediately. When Preacher said hold, you held.
Roy clipped the leash back onto Digger, turned his back on the wreckage, and walked the two miles home in the blistering heat.
Roy arrived at his quiet house. He didn't throw a tantrum. He made a pot of coffee, filled Digger’s water bowl, and sat at the kitchen table, watching the desert sun turn the landscape gold. He unclipped the little camera from the dog's collar and set it gently on the table.
Then, the old landline on the kitchen wall rang—a number almost no one had. He picked it up.
"Callaway."
It was Tommy Reyes, the club's road captain. His voice was shaking with suppressed rage.
"Preacher, you need to hear this. Those two deputies... it ain't the first time. They've been doing it for two years. Riders coming through the county. They pull them over, plant something, impound the bikes, and sell them off for parts through a chop shop in Phoenix."
Roy went very still. "Two years?"