Hank and Gunner sprinted forward. The deputy right behind them. They reached the warehouse door. Locked. Electronic keypad.
Thornton was on his feet. Blood on his shirt from a graze. Code is 0315. Hank punched it in. The lock clicked.
The door swung open. Inside darkness, the smell of chemicals and concrete and something else. C4. Unmistakable, like play-doh and almonds. Gunner barked once, sharp, directional.
They followed through the warehouse, past crates and equipment to a back room. The door was steel, reinforced. Another keypad. Same code, Thornton said. Hank entered it.
The door opened. Autumn sat on the floor, hands zip tied behind her back, duct tape over her mouth. When she saw them, tears streamed down her face. Hank knelt, cut the zip ties, peeled off the tape gently. I'm sorry, she sobbed.
I thought if I turned myself in, if I gave them what they wanted, you'd all be safe. I'm so sorry. It's okay. We're getting you out. The bombs, they told me the whole building.
They said I'd never feel it. How long? 2 a.m. That That's what they said. Hank checked his watch. 61 minutes.
They ran out of the room, through the warehouse, toward the exit. The lights came on, blinding, flood lights from all directions. A voice over a loudspeaker. Calm, cultured, the voice from the phone call. Sergeant Mercer, I should have known you wouldn't take the deal.
Ellis Blackwood stood in the warehouse doorway, 70 years old, but still solid. Still carrying himself like a colonel. He held a detonator in one hand. Let them go, Blackwood. This is between you and me.
Nothing is between you and me, Sergeant. You're a ghost I should have buried 20 years ago alongside Ray Aldridge. Blackwood's thumb hovered over the detonator button. But I've always been thorough. That's why I'm still here and Ray isn't.
You murdered him. Your own man. I eliminated a security risk. Ray couldn't let things go. Couldn't accept that some battles aren't worth fighting.
Blackwood smiled. He thought he was protecting Connie by leaving that video. All he did was sign her death warrant and yours. The state AG has everything. The forged permits, the shell companies, your entire operation.
I'll be in Mexico before they file charges. I've got accounts in Grand Cayman, property in Costa Rica. They'll never touch me, but they'll know. Everyone will know what you did. And I'll live with that knowledge in luxury while you die here with your principles.
Blackwood's thumb pressed down. Nothing happened. Blackwood looked at the detonator, pressed again. Still nothing. Looking for this, Rattlesnake's voice echoed through the warehouse.
He emerged from shadows holding a small black box. Found the receiver. Cut the wires. You're done. Blackwood's composure cracked.
There are backups. Redundancies. We found those, too. Hammer appeared from another direction. 60 lb of C4 scattered across this building.
All of it disarmed. All of it evidence. Blackwood reached for a weapon. Hank fired first. Not to kill, to wound.
The shot took Blackwood in the shoulder. He spun dropped. Guards emerge from everywhere, but not Blackwood's guards. State police. 12 officers in tactical gear.
Weapons drawn. A woman in a business suit stepped forward. Mid-40s carrying a badge. Ellis Blackwood, you're under arrest for weapons trafficking, murder conspiracy to commit murder, and about 40 other charges. I'll read when we get you processed.
She looked at Hank. You, Mercer? Yeah. Your friend Wrench called us two hours ago. Gave us everything.
We've been setting up since midnight. She smiled. Hell of a thing bringing down a colonel. He stopped being a colonel the day he started selling weapons. They led Blackwood away.
He didn't fight, didn't speak, just walked with the bearing of a man who'd lost everything, but refused to show it. Thornton stood in the warehouse entrance, hands raised, waiting for his own arrest. The state police took him to, but gently. He'd be processed. Charged, but he'd get his deal for cooperating.
The deputy surrendered without resistance. Autumn collapsed into Hank's arms, sobbing with relief. Gunner pressed against her legs, offering comfort the way only dogs could. The brothers emerged from the darkness. Wrench still covered in road dust from the ride.
Rattlesnake rifle slung across his back. Hammer carrying a laptop full of evidence. Doc and Preacher arriving last but ready. Everyone accounted for, Hank asked. Everyone, wrench confirmed.
They stood there in the flood lights as dawn began to paint the eastern sky. Six old men in a dumb, victorious, exhausted, alive. The lead investigator approached. We're going to need statements from all of you. This is going to take days to process.
We've got time, Hank said. He looked at Autumn, at the brothers, at gunners sitting calmly despite the chaos, at Ray's dog tags hanging from his jacket zipper. All the time in the world. Six months later, Ros's diner looked different with new ownership. The sign had been fixed.
All the letters work now. Fresh paint on the walls. New booths. But the coffee was the same. Strong and bitter and exactly what you needed on a cold morning.
Hank sat in the corner booth, Gunner at his feet, the booth by the window, where he'd first met Connie 6 months ago, where this had all started. The diner was busy. Saturday morning rush. Families, truckers, locals who'd lived through the scandal and decided to stay anyway. Autumn worked the counter her red hair pulled back smile genuine now.
No fear in her eyes. She'd bought the diner with money from the reward the state AG had given her for testimony. Turned it into something good. Her mother had been moved to a facility in Tucson, better care, close enough for Autumn to visit twice a week. The Alzheimer's was winning, but there were good days still.
Connie came through the door, moving slowly but steady. 81 years old and still sharp. She slid into the booth across from Hank. Morning. Morning, Connie.
Read the paper today. Not yet. She slid it across. Front page. Blackwood sentenced to life in federal prison.
Hank scanned the article. No parole. 30 counts. They'd gotten him on everything. Weapons trafficking, murder for hire, conspiracy, money laundering.