The agent approaches Zara. Her badge reads: Special Agent Carolyn Voss. "Sweetheart, I need to ask questions."
Zara nods.
"What did you see?"
"Four men, white van, no license plate. They put something under the bikes. Took maybe twelve minutes."
"Did you see faces?"
"One. Oldest, buzzcut, white, maybe fifty."
Voss exchanges a glance with her partner. "Anything else?"
Zara hesitates, but she thinks of the blinking red lights. "They had police badges. I saw one when his jacket moved."
The silence is heavy.
"Are you certain?"
"I took a video." Zara pulls out her cracked phone.
Twenty feet away, Reaper stands with his crew. Diesel leans against a squad car. Preacher stands beside Reaper watching Zara. He's 50, Black, former civil rights lawyer turned biker.
"That kid saved our lives," Preacher says quietly.
Reaper watches Kesha: the exhaustion in her spine, worn sneakers, hands red from industrial cleaner. "She's got no one. We owe her."
"Yeah."
Voss takes Zara's phone. "I need this as evidence. You'll get it back."
Zara's face falls. That phone is everything. But she nods.