Derek had also disappeared from the chapter after an argument over the organization's finances.
At the time, everyone had assumed the disagreement was ordinary.
Derek believed the club should expand its commercial partnerships. Riker believed the organization had become successful precisely because it refused to sell its name to people who wanted to use the members as intimidating decorations for questionable business deals.
The disagreement had become bitter.
Derek resigned.
Riker had allowed him to leave.
Now the event page showed that Derek's old account had been used to redirect twelve motorcycles toward a mountain road where armed men were waiting.
It was possible that someone had stolen the account.
It was possible that the account had been compromised.
It was also possible that Derek had decided his old friend was worth more dead than alive.
Riker locked the phone.
He would not accuse a man on the strength of a digital record alone. Evidence could be manipulated. Passwords could be stolen. Names could be placed in systems by people who wanted investigators to follow the wrong trail.
But he would remember the name.
He would remember it very carefully.
A radio crackled.
“Riker, this is Dale. We're approaching the upper bend.”
Riker pressed the transmit button.
“Report.”
“The maintenance road is rough but passable. There's a section of collapsed fencing near the old signal station. We can get through on foot, but I wouldn't recommend taking a motorcycle over it.”
“Any vehicles?”
“Not yet.”
“People?”
“Negative.”
Dale paused.
“There's something else.”
Riker waited.
“We found fresh tire tracks.”
“What kind?”
“Two sets. One looks like a heavy pickup. The other could be a commercial van. Both went toward the quarry access road.”
“How fresh?”
“Recent. The ground is damp beneath the trees, and the edges haven't crumbled. I'd say within the last few hours.”
Riker glanced toward the factory below.
“Don't follow them. Mark the location and return.”
“Understood.”
Riker released the radio.
He had a growing suspicion that the abandoned factory was not simply a meeting place. It might be a transfer point, a temporary staging area, or an observation post. The vehicles could have been carrying equipment. They could have been transporting people. They could have been part of the planned ambush.
Whatever the truth, charging into the building would accomplish nothing except giving the other side an opportunity to destroy evidence.
He needed information that could survive a courtroom.
And he needed to understand why Mayor Julian Sterling's name had appeared on a nine-year-old boy's handwritten notes.
The mayor had been elected four years earlier on a promise to rebuild the industrial district, create jobs, and restore the city's reputation after a decade of economic decline.
Sterling had been charming, articulate, and relentlessly optimistic. He visited schools, attended neighborhood meetings, and appeared in photographs beside every ribbon-cutting ceremony in the county.
He had also become increasingly powerful.
His administration had approved several large redevelopment contracts, including a transportation project that would reroute heavy traffic away from the old downtown streets. The project had been controversial because its proposed route crossed land owned by several small businesses and a community housing cooperative.
Riker had never paid much attention to the political arguments.
He repaired motorcycles, organized charity rides, and tried to keep the Steel Saw chapter out of trouble. He believed that public officials should be judged by what they did, not by the rumors people spread about them.
But if Leo had accurately remembered the conversation at the factory, Sterling might be connected to something far more serious than a disputed development contract.
The boy had heard men discussing a staged gang attack.
He had heard references to weapons and roadblocks.
He had heard someone say that the mayor wanted the operation completed cleanly.
And the men had known Riker would lead the ride.
There were too many connected details to dismiss.
Riker called the clubhouse.
Moose answered on the second ring.
“Talk to me.”
“Is Leo settled?”
“Eating a sandwich like he's trying to win a competition. He says he hasn't had lunch.”
“Has anyone contacted his mother?”
“Evan called the hospital's main number. We asked them to put us through to her department, but she was in the middle of a patient handoff. The supervisor took a message.”
“Did you explain the situation?”
“We said her son had been involved in a frightening incident and needed her. We didn't mention the armed men over an open line.”
“Good. Don't contact her personal phone until we know whether Darren has access to it.”
Moose lowered his voice.
“There's another problem.”
Riker closed his eyes briefly.
“Of course there is.”
“The clubhouse security system logged somebody entering the side entrance at 2:51 this afternoon.”
“Who?”
“The code belonged to Derek Voss.”
Riker's jaw tightened.
“Was the door opened?”
“No. Somebody entered the code, but the keypad rejected it because the account had been deactivated. There was a second attempt thirty seconds later using a different code.”
“Did the camera capture the person?”
“Not clearly. The side entrance camera was turned toward the parking lot when the attempts happened.”
“Turned?”
“Physically moved. The mounting bracket is loose.”
Riker looked at the tree line.
“How long has it been loose?”
“I don't know. I'm checking the recordings.”
“Don't touch the camera until you preserve the original footage. Make a copy, record who handles it, and write down the time. If the camera was deliberately moved, I want the evidence documented properly.”
Moose was silent for a moment.
“You think someone inside the club is involved.”
“I think someone knows our procedures. That's not the same thing.”
“But it isn't nothing.”
“No. It isn't.”
Riker ended the call and looked at the riders gathered around him.
They were not perfect men. Some had served in the military, others had spent years working in factories, repair shops, transport yards, and construction crews. A few had made serious mistakes when they were younger. Several had rebuilt their lives after prison sentences or personal disasters.
What held them together was not the illusion that they had never done anything wrong.
It was the agreement that they would not abandon one another when the truth became inconvenient.
If someone had betrayed that agreement, Riker would find out why.
But he would not allow suspicion to become a weapon against innocent people.
“Let's move,” he said.
The riders mounted their motorcycles and followed him toward the maintenance track.
They did not accelerate.
They did not roar toward the ridge in a dramatic column.
They moved carefully, leaving enough distance between machines to avoid turning the narrow path into a traffic jam. When the road became too rough, they stopped and continued on foot.
At the top, the trees opened onto a rocky overlook.
From there, the abandoned factory was visible below.
Its main building had once manufactured agricultural machinery. The roof had partially collapsed, the windows were broken, and weeds had swallowed most of the loading yard. A rusted sign still hung above the main entrance, although only the first few letters remained legible.
Beyond the factory stood a cluster of warehouses.
Farther east, the old railway bridge crossed the ravine.
Riker raised a pair of binoculars.
Three black vehicles were parked near the bridge.
Two were large SUVs.
The third appeared to be a utility truck with a covered rear compartment.
He could not determine whether anyone was inside them.
Near the factory, several figures moved between the loading yard and the main building.
Riker counted at least seven.
One carried a long object that might have been a rifle case.
Another stood near a portable generator.
A third spoke into a handheld radio.