Stranger who wasn't a stranger anymore. Neighbor who'd become something more in the space of 3 hours and one decision to not walk away. Kate's voice whispered in his memory. " This is how you honor me, Garrett. Not by mourning forever, by living like I taught you, by choosing people, by choosing kindness, by choosing to care even when caring costs something."
He'd been failing that lesson for 20 months. Time to stop failing. Time to start living again. Even if living meant picking a fight with a loan shark who owned the sheriff and had crushed 43 families before this one. Even if living meant risking everything he had left.
Even if living meant accepting that some battles choose you, and the only real choice is whether you fight or run. Garrett Holloway had run from enough things. From grief, from connection. From the messy, painful, necessary business of being human. He was done running. "
We're going to win this," he said out loud, to Evelyn, to Sarge. To himself. " I don't know how yet, but we're going to win." And somewhere in memory or spirit or the space between heartbeats, Kate smiled. Because her husband was finally coming back to life.
And it was about damn time. The first thing Garrett did was go home. Not to hide, not to second-guess himself. But to think, to plan, to approach this the way he'd approached problems in the military, methodically, carefully, with respect for the enemy's capabilities and clear understanding of his own limitations. He was 67 years old.
He had a dog, a motorcycle, and a garage full of tools. He had savings and a pension and enough pride not to use either one stupidly. What he didn't have was legal training, political connections, or any experience taking down corrupt loan sharks protected by corrupt sheriffs. What he did have was 30 years of fixing things people said couldn't be fixed. Engines with blown gaskets, transmissions that had stripped their gears, electrical systems that had shorted out so badly the previous owner had given up and junked the whole vehicle.
Garrett had learned early that impossible just meant nobody had figured out the right approach yet. Wade was a problem. Problems had solutions. You just had to find the right tools. Sarge followed him into the garage, the small one attached to the house, not the big commercial operation he'd sold two years back.
The space smelled like motor oil and metal shavings, and that particular combination of grease and solvent that never quite washed out no matter how many times you mopped the floor. Kate used to complain about the smell. Gently, teasingly. " You're going to die smelling like a carburetor, Garrett Holloway, and St. Peter's going to make you shower before he lets you through the gates." He'd always laughed, kissed her forehead, gone right back to whatever engine was demanding his attention.
Now the garage just smelled like loneliness. Garrett sat down at his workbench, pulled out a notebook, the same kind he'd used in the army, spiral-bound, water-resistant cover pages gridded for technical drawings. He'd gone through hundreds of these over the years. Engine specs, repair notes, modification plans. All of it meticulous.
All of it organized. This time he wrote a different kind of list. What we know Wade Kimball, loan shark. 43 families victimized over 12 years. Interest rates of 38%.
Sheriff Dalton Kimball is his brother and protector. Pattern of targeting veterans and veteran families. What we need, legal evidence, multiple testimonies, federal involvement if state law enforcement is compromised. Someone with legal expertise to guide the process. What we have, Evelyn Brennan's contract, my testimony of the two enforcers at her house, Dorothy's secondhand knowledge.
Five days before seizure. It wasn't much, but it was a start. He looked at Sarge. The dog had settled near the workbench, chin on paws, eyes half closed, but ears still tracking every sound. Alert even at rest.
The way military dogs learn to be. " We need help, boy," Garrett said quietly. " Can't do this alone." Sarge's tail thumped once against the concrete floor. Agreement or acknowledgement with dogs, it was hard to tell the difference.
Garrett picked up his phone. An old flip model. He'd resisted smartphones the way he'd resisted most new technology, not out of principle, but out of indifference. The flip phone made calls. That was enough.
He scrolled through contacts, not many, a dozen maybe. Marcus Webb, who'd bought his garage, a few old army buddies he hadn't talked to in years, Dorothy from the diner, the number for his doctor, his bank, his insurance agent, and Pastor William Hutchins. Garrett hadn't been to church since Kate's funeral. The whole experience had left a bad taste, all those well-meaning people saying things like, "She's in a better place," and "God needed another angel," like Kate was a chess piece God had moved instead of a woman who died too young and left him behind. But William had been different.
The pastor had shown up at Garrett's door three days after the funeral with a casserole and no sermon, had sat in the garage for two hours not talking about God or grief or anything except the Triumph Bonneville Garrett was working on, had asked good questions about engine timing and compression ratios, had made Garrett feel like a person instead of a tragedy. Before leaving, William had said, "I'm here if you need me, for anything. God stuff, not God stuff, whatever." Garrett hadn't called, hadn't needed to, until now. The phone rang four times before William picked up. "
Hutchins residence." The voice was warm, deep, carried the slight rasp of someone who'd spent decades projecting to the back of a church without a microphone. " Pastor, it's Garrett." A pause, then, "Garrett, good to hear from you. Everything all right?" "
Need to talk to you about something, in person if you've got time." " For you, always. Want to come by the church?" Garrett thought about it. Churches had eyes.
Churches had gossip networks more efficient than any intelligence agency. If he and William met there, word would spread, and word spreading meant Wade Kimball hearing about it. " My garage. Say 4:00." " I'll be there."
The line went dead. Garrett set the phone down, checked his watch. 1:30. Two and a half hours to figure out exactly what he was going to ask for. He spent the time doing what he always did when he needed to think, working on an engine.
This one was a 1973 Honda CB750 brought in by a college kid who'd inherited it from his grandfather and wanted to get it running again. The carburetors were gummed up with old fuel. The points were corroded. The battery was dead as a brick. But the engine was fundamentally sound, good bones.
Just needed someone willing to put in the work to bring it back to life. Garrett lost himself in the process. Disassembly, cleaning, inspection. Each part examined, evaluated, cleaned, or replaced as needed. Methodical work.
Satisfying work. The kind where you could see progress in real time. Sarge watched from his spot near the door. Occasionally the dog would stand, stretch, make a circuit of the garage, then settle back down. Patrol behavior, making sure the perimeter was secure.
At 3:55 a car pulled into the driveway. Garrett didn't look up from the carburetor he was cleaning, just listened to the sound of the engine, four-cylinder, smooth idle, recent oil change, and the door opening and closing. Footsteps on gravel. Then William's voice. " Knocking seems redundant when the door's wide open.
Come on in, Pastor." William Hutchins was 73 years old and looked like central casting's idea of a small-town minister. White hair, warm eyes, cardigan, despite the Arizona heat, hands that were surprisingly strong from decades of shaking hands and moving furniture for church potlucks. He'd been pastor at First Baptist for 31 years. Knew everyone in Ridgmont.
Was trusted by everyone in Ridgmont, which was exactly what Garrett needed. " Coffee?" Garrett asked, not looking up from his work. " If you're making some." Garrett gestured at the ancient coffee maker in the corner. "
Help yourself. Fair warning, it's been sitting since this morning." " I've drunk worse." William poured himself a cup, took a sip, made a face. " Barely."