"Yeah. And the Sheriff covers for them. Anyone who complains gets a visit in the middle of the night."
Roy hung up the phone. He looked at the camera resting on his table. He had wanted to leave his old life behind. He had wanted to just be Preacher. But Hoyt and Mercer had made a fatal miscalculation: they mistook patience for weakness.
Roy opened his laptop. He didn't call the local police. He didn't call the mayor. He dialed a secure, encrypted line that routed directly to the Department of Justice in Washington, D.C.
"Director Callaway," a crisp voice answered immediately. "It’s an honor, sir. How can we assist?"
"I need an organized crime strike force," Roy said, his voice flat and devoid of warmth. "And I need the Bureau's anti-corruption unit down in Flagstaff by midnight. I have video evidence of a systemic racketeering ring operating out of the county sheriff's office."
By 3:00 AM, the flashing lights outside Deputy Hoyt's house were not local cruisers. They were blacked-out federal SUVs.
When federal agents kicked down Hoyt's door, they found him in his boxers. Mercer was picked up twenty minutes later at a local bar. By dawn, the Sheriff's office was locked down, federal agents hauling out boxes of files, computers, and evidence of a two-year fencing operation.
Roy Callaway stood across the street, holding Digger’s leash, drinking coffee from a thermos. As federal agents marched Hoyt out in handcuffs, the deputy caught sight of the old man. The swagger was entirely gone from the young deputy's face, replaced by a pale, sinking terror as he finally realized exactly who he had stolen from.
Roy didn't smile. He didn't gloat. He just gave a small, slow nod, turned around, and walked back into the desert, ready to build a new bike.