Four men sit across from him. The same four who planted the bombs. They're out of tactical gear now, dressed in plain clothes.
Officer Marcus Trent, the youngest at 32, speaks first. The bombing failed. Preacher's alive. All of them are. Castellano doesn't blink.
I'm aware. There's a witness. There's a kid. She saw us. Castellano looks up.
Define kid. Maybe 10 years old. Black girl. She was hiding in the alley. must have recorded us because the FBI took her phone. Castellano stands, walks to a filing cabinet, pulls out a folder.
Inside are surveillance photos from the scene. He finds Zara, a small girl in a purple hoodie sitting on a curb wrapped in a blanket. Zara Williams, he reads from a preliminary report. 10 years old, mother is Kesha Williams. works three jobs, with no father in the home. Lives at 1447 South Racine, apartment 3B. He closes the folder.
We don't go after her directly. We make the family unstable. CPS investigation. Eviction proceedings. Mother loses jobs.
The system does what it does. The girl disappears into foster care. Problem solved. Trent shifts uncomfortably. What about the phone?
The video is already handled. I have people in evidence lockup. By tomorrow, that phone will be lost during transfer. Castellano sits back down. Gentlemen, we've come too far to let a child derail this.
Preacher has body-cam footage of the Brooks shooting. If that surfaces, we go to prison for murder, so we eliminate threats. Quietly, efficiently. Trent nods slowly. The others follow.
What about the Hells Angels? Hayes asks. Let them look. We're ghosts.
Castellano opens another file. Jamal Brooks. Inside is a photo of a 16-year-old Black kid in a basketball jersey smiling. This is what happens when people see too much. The room falls silent.
I want the Williams family destabilized within 72 hours. Quietly. Just paperwork and pressure. The four men stand and leave. Castellano stays behind looking at Zara's photo.
10 years old, bright eyes, the kind of kid who probably gets straight A's, helps her mother, dreams of a better life. He feels nothing. He's learned not to.
Across town, Detective Sarah Hang sits in her car outside the FBI field office. She's 42, Asian-American, 20 years on the force. She just spent an hour trying to retrieve Zara Williams' phone from evidence. It's gone. Not misplaced.
Gone. And the clerk who checked it this morning now claims he never saw it. Hang opens her notebook, writes down everything she remembers from her interview with Zara. The description of the men, the badges, the white van. She takes a photo of her notes with her personal phone, emails it to an encrypted account.
Then she writes Lieutenant Owen Castellano's name, underlined three times. She doesn't have proof yet, but she's been a cop long enough to recognize a coverup.
At the Hells Angels clubhouse, Reaper sits at a scarred wooden table surrounded by his crew. 30 men, leather and denim, tattoos and scars. They're drinking beer, but nobody's laughing. Preacher stands. Someone tried to kill us last night.
Professional work. And that little girl saved every one of us. Diesel spits. So what? We send flowers.
We owe her, Reaper says quietly. The room goes silent. A kid put herself between us and death. Didn't ask for anything. Just did it because it was right.
Preacher adds, "She's also the only witness. They'll come for her." Reaper stands. Then we make sure they don't get to her.
The clubhouse smells like motor oil, cigarette smoke, and spilled beer. It's not a place for children or polite society. The walls are covered in patches, photos of fallen brothers, and a faded American flag with 13 stars. This is where the Hells Angels make decisions that can't be made in daylight. Reaper stands at the head of the table.
30 men sit or lean against walls watching him. Some have been with the club for decades. Others are newer, still proving themselves, but they all share one thing. Loyalty to the patch on their backs. The kid who saved us is named Zara Williams.
Reaper begins. 10 years old. Lives with her mother in a run-down apartment in South Racine. Mother works three jobs just to keep the lights on. No father, no family support. They're barely surviving.
He pulls out a folder. Inside are photos he had someone take discreetly. Zara walked to school alone. Kesha leaves for work before sunrise. The eviction notice taped to their apartment door.
Two days ago, police raided their apartment. Anonymous tip about drug activity. Found nothing because there was nothing. But the landlord got spooked. Served them eviction papers.
30 days. Diesel leans forward. How do you know this? Because I've been watching. Because whoever planted those bombs knows she saw them. They're erasing her quietly, systematically.