We've been at war since we got here, brother. Now we're just fighting it on different ground. That night Garrett couldn't sleep. The pain in his chest had evolved from constant pressure to sharp stabbing sensations that took his breath away and left him gasping in the darkness. Waylon had given him medication strong enough to drop an elephant, but Garrett had only taken half the prescribed dose.
He needed to stay alert, needed to stay sharp. This was the end game and he couldn't afford to be fuzzy-headed when Sterling made his move. He sat on Maggie's porch in the darkness watching his brothers maintain their vigil. Organized, disciplined, an army of aging warriors who'd come when called because that's what you did for family. The screen door opened behind him.
Maggie emerged wrapped in a shawl despite the mild temperature, moving with the shuffling steps of someone whose body had long since betrayed them but whose spirit refused to acknowledge it. "Can't sleep?" she asked settling into the chair beside him with a small sigh of relief at taking weight off joints that had been carrying her for 88 years. "Sleep's overrated. She sat beside him and for a while they just existed together in comfortable silence. The kind of silence that only comes when two people have been through enough that words become optional, a luxury rather than a necessity.
"You're dying. Maggie said eventually. Not a question, a statement of observed fact delivered with the same matter-of-fact tone she'd used to comment on the weather. "Yes, ma'am. "How long oh uh weeks maybe?
"Days if I'm unlucky or lucky depending on how you look at it. "And you came here anyway. "I came here because of it. Because if I'm going to die I want it to mean something. I want to know that the years you gave me weren't wasted.
Garrett turned to look at her, this woman who'd saved his life without even knowing it. "You saved my life, Mrs. Callahan, more than once, more than you know. This is me trying to save yours in return. Maggie reached over and took his hand. Her skin was paper-thin, marked with age spots and the evidence of a hard life lived with dignity.
But her grip was still strong, still certain. "You already saved me, son. You saved me the moment you showed up with all these good men. You showed me that the kindness I tried to put into the world came back. That the children I raised became the kind of people who call for help when someone needs it.
That I'm not alone. She squeezed his hand. That's not nothing, Garrett. That's everything. There's something you need to know, Garrett said, about Waylon and Beckett and Clementine's parents.
And he told her. All of it. The embezzlement, the murder, Sterling Blackwood's role, the evidence they'd found, the FBI investigation. Everything. Every terrible detail that had been buried for 25 years.
When he finished, Maggie sat very still. Tears ran down her weathered cheeks, cutting paths through skin that looked like aged parchment in the moonlight. But she didn't make a sound. Just let them fall like rain. "Those poor babies," she whispered finally.
"All these years thinking it was an accident. Thinking they were just unlucky. And it was murder. It was calculated, deliberate murder by a man who's been walking around free all this time. "They know now.
We told them this morning. "How are they handling it? "The way you taught them to. With strength and grace and determination to see justice done. Maggie nodded slowly.
"Good. That's good. Daniel and Rebecca deserve justice. Those children deserve to know the truth. She looked at Garrett, her eyes sharp despite the tears.
"What happens now? "Now we wait for the FBI to build their case. Now we make sure that Sterling Blackwood can't hurt anyone else. Now we finish this. And if he comes for us, then he finds out what happens when you threaten family in front of 300 men who've already made peace with dying.
The attack came at 3:00 in the morning. No warning, no dramatic build-up, just the sudden eruption of violence that anyone who'd seen combat recognized instantly. The switch from peace to war in the space of a heartbeat. Molotov cocktails arced through the darkness. Bottles filled with gasoline and malice trailing fire like comets falling from a vengeful sky.
They crashed into the empty lot where some of the bikes were parked, exploded into pools of flame that licked up into the night sky and painted everything in shades of orange and red. Garrett was on his feet before conscious thought kicked in, instincts honed by decades of staying alive taking over. Around him, 297 other men were doing the same. No panic, no confusion, just immediate organized response. "Fire teams go.
Boone's voice boomed across the encampment. Men grabbed extinguishers, formed bucket brigades, attacked the flames with the efficiency of people who trained for exactly this scenario. This wasn't their first fire. Wouldn't be their last. "Security perimeter.
Ben Cole was coordinating the other side, making sure this wasn't a diversion for something worse. Making sure Sterling wasn't using the fire as cover for something more deadly. Garrett ran for Maggie's house, his chest screaming in protest, but he ignored it. Found Waylon already there, getting Maggie and his siblings out through the back door, moving them to the predetermined safe location they'd established the day before. "Is everyone out?
Garrett demanded, doing a quick head count. "Everyone's accounted for. Waylon confirmed, one hand steadying Maggie, the other checking his phone for any alerts from the perimeter teams. "What the hell is happening? "Blackwood's opening move.
He's trying to scatter us, make us choose between protecting the bikes and protecting Maggie. Classic military tactic. He doesn't know who he's dealing with. "No, he doesn't. The fires were under control within 10 minutes.
Minimal damage, three motorcycles with scorched paint, some camping equipment singed, a tent that would need replacing. Nothing that couldn't be fixed or replaced, but the message was clear as the smoke rising into the night sky. Sterling Blackwood was willing to escalate to violence. The gloves were off. This was war now, not just a legal battle.
Sheriff Morrison showed up 20 minutes later, lights flashing, looking exhausted and angry, and like a man who'd been woken from a deep sleep to deal with something he'd hoped would just go away on its own. "What the hell happened here?" he demanded, climbing out of his cruiser. "Firebombing," Garrett said. "Someone threw Molotov cocktails at our camp. Professional job.
Knew exactly where to aim for maximum impact and minimum casualties. "Did anyone see who did it? "No, sir, but I've got a pretty good idea who ordered it. Morrison sighed, running a hand over his tired face. "Mr. Dalton, I need you to understand something.
I know Sterling Blackwood is not a good man. I know his father was worse. Hell, I helped investigate Duncan back in '98, but I need evidence. I need proof. I can't arrest someone on suspicion, even if that suspicion is probably right.
"What if I told you the FBI is investigating him for murder? Morrison's expression sharpened, exhaustion falling away. "What? "Special Agent Diana Mercer, Phoenix Civil Office. She's building a case against Sterling Blackwood for the murder of Daniel and Rebecca Hartley in 1997, plus corruption, embezzlement, and a whole host of federal charges.
Call her if you don't believe me. Morrison pulled out his phone, stepped away to make the call. Garrett watched him, saw the moment the confirmation came through. Saw Morrison's entire posture change from wary local sheriff to law enforcement officer who just realized he was dealing with something much bigger than a property dispute. When he came back, his entire demeanor had changed.
"She confirmed it. Said she's getting arrest warrants drawn up right now. Should have them by morning. Morrison looked at Garrett with new respect, the kind of respect one professional gives another. "You people don't mess around, do you?
"Not when it comes to family. "Well, I'm posting deputies around this property for the rest of the night. Anyone tries anything else, they're going to have to go through law enforcement first. Morrison started toward his car, then stopped and turned around. "Mr. Dalton, thank you for doing what the rest of us should have done years ago.
For having the courage to stand up when it would have been easier to look away. As the sun rose on the final day before the eviction order was supposed to take effect. Garrett stood in the center of what had become a fortified compound. 300 motorcycles gleaming in the early light. 297 bikers tired but unbroken.
Four FBI agents coordinating with six county deputies. All surrounding one small wooden house where an 88-year-old woman had once opened her door to strangers and changed the course of all their lives. Agent Mercer approached phone in hand moving with the purposeful stride of someone who just gotten very good news. "We've got the warrants. She announced.
"We're moving on Sterling Blackwood's home and office in 1 hour. I need you and your people to stay here and stay safe. The last thing I need is vigilante justice complicating my case. "We're not vigilantes. Garrett said.
"We're just witnesses making sure the truth gets told. "See that it stays that way. Mercer started to leave then paused studying Garrett with the kind of assessment only another veteran could give. "For what it's worth what you people did here compiling that evidence protecting Mrs. Callahan standing up when no one else would. That's good police work.
If you ever want a job with the bureau look me up. Garrett laughed which turned into a coughing fit that brought up blood. He tried to hide but couldn't quite manage. When he could breathe again he said, "I appreciate the offer Agent Mercer but I think my law enforcement days are behind me along with most of my other days. "Fair enough.
She looked at him with something that might have been sympathy but looked more like understanding. "How much time do you have left? "Enough. "Then make it count. "Planning on it.
The FBI raid on Sterling Blackwood's properties was swift and professional. They found evidence that corroborated everything Beckett had uncovered. Email archives Sterling thought he'd deleted but had only moved to a server he believed was secure. Financial records hidden in encrypted folders that weren't nearly as encrypted as he thought. A paper trail connecting him to his father's crimes and his own ongoing corruption all laid out like breadcrumbs leading straight to a prison cell.