Agent Keane had no good response. She knew it. "We built the case legally, carefully, by the book. I understand that's not..." "We got her out in 3 hours," Hawthorne interrupted. "You had 14 months."
The room was silent. "You're right," Agent Keane said finally. "You did what we couldn't do fast enough."
Chainsaw laid out the files. One at a time. Physical documents placed on the table. The burner phone. The Delta Line Holdings financial records. The email thread between Voss and Sandra Oaks.
The seven executorship petitions from Judge Greer. Agent Keane reviewed each item. Her expression shifted. She stopped writing. Set her pen down. Leaned forward.
"This fills a gap we haven't been able to close for 14 months," she said quietly. "We had the financial trail. We had the wire transfers. We didn't have the communication records. We didn't have the judge's cooperation. We didn't have this."
She pulled out her phone. Made a call. "Sir, it's Keane. I'm at the Hells Angels clubhouse in Harlan Crossing. I need a warrant for Sandra Oaks, arrest authority for Judge Foster Greer as material witness, and a forensic accounting team at Delta Line Holdings by morning." Pause.
"Yes, sir. We have everything." She hung up. Looked at Hawthorne.
"If this is authenticated, and I have no doubt it will be, it changes the scope of the charges significantly. We're looking at RICO, conspiracy, wire fraud across state lines. This isn't just Randall Voss anymore. This is a network." Hawthorne stepped forward. "I have one condition for full cooperation."
Agent Keane waited. "Nell gets a victim advocate assigned before the first interview. She doesn't talk to anyone unless she asks first. And the second arrest, Sandra Oaks, happens today. Not after another week of paperwork. Today."
Agent Keane considered. "The advocate, yes. I can make that call right now. The interview terms, yes. Sandra Oaks..." She paused.
"We don't have her location yet." Flintlock spoke up.
"I do. Track her phone records. She's in Pensacola, Florida. Apartment on Gulf Breeze Boulevard. I can have the address on your phone in 2 minutes." Agent Keane almost smiled.
"Then we move tonight." Hawthorne nodded. "One more thing, Agent Keane." "Yes." "You do right by her. By all of them."
"That's the job." A beat. "That's the job," Agent Keane agreed.
After the agent left, the clubhouse was quiet. The system wasn't broken. That was the thing people got wrong. A broken system could be fixed. This one worked exactly as designed. Built to move slowly, to require proof beyond doubt, to protect the rights of the accused even at the cost of the victim's time.
Nobody built it to be cruel. It just turned out that way sometimes, when the person inside it needed saving faster than the paperwork could catch up. The brothers hadn't replaced the system. They'd bought the time the system needed to work.
At 7:00 p.m., the full picture assembled. Chainsaw stood in front of the monitor. Flintlock had pulled every file, every name, every transaction. "Seven victims," Chainsaw said, "confirmed across 6 years." The names appeared on screen.
Eugenia Voss Halcourt, 2021, $163,400 payout. Eleanor Pritchard, 2019, $98,200 payout. Samuel Oaks, 2020, $127,600 payout. Margaret Dean, 2022, $156,300 payout. Robert Talmadge, 2023, $183,700 payout. Vivian Cross, 2024, $142,900 payout.
Nell Pruitt, 2024, interrupted, $247,800 attempted. Total stolen over 6 years, $872,100, plus the $247,800 he was attempting with Nell. That's $1,119,900.
Pitchfork's voice cut through. "How many are still alive?" Chainsaw's face went grim.
"Unknown. Eugenia was spotted alive 7 months post-death. We have no confirmation on the others, but the pattern is identical. Executorship, rapid probate approval, death certificate filed, estate payout, subject disappears." "We need to find them," Hawthorne said. "FBI is on it," Agent Keane had said before she left.
"We'll be checking death records, cross-referencing medical facilities, contacting families. If anyone is still alive, we'll find them."
Federal charges filed against Randall Eugene Voss, November 27th, 2024. Kidnapping of a minor, Nell Pruitt. Child endangerment. Conspiracy to commit murder. Wire fraud, seven counts, one per victim. Probate fraud, seven counts.
Elder abuse, six counts. RICO violations, operating a continuing criminal enterprise. State charges filed in Harlan County, Mississippi: falsifying a death certificate, unlawful restraint, assault related to the burn injury to Nell Pruitt.
Charges filed against Sandra Oaks. Conspiracy to commit kidnapping. Child endangerment. Obstruction of emergency services. Wire fraud. Accessory charges.
Charges pending against Judge Foster Greer. Official misconduct, pending investigation. Obstruction of justice, pending investigation.
For six years, a man the community trusted with their worst moments had been learning which families had money and which ones were too broken by grief to check the paperwork. He stood at gravesides. He held hands. He spoke in that low, measured voice about peace and dignity. And the whole time, he was building a system. A system that worked because people believed funeral directors didn't lie.
A system that worked because probate judges signed papers without secondary review. A system that worked because a child's voice, when that child had already been labeled a fabricator, didn't matter enough for anyone to check. Until 109 Hells Angels decided it did.
Sandstone sat in the waiting room at Harlan County Medical Center while Nell was examined in room four. He'd brought a stuffed elephant from the clubhouse gift shop, something one of the brothers had won in a claw machine and donated to the kid supply box they kept for exactly these moments. The elephant was gray, floppy-eared, wearing a tiny vest that said brave. Nell had clutched it the entire ambulance ride.
Hawthorne was in the exam room with her. The door was closed. Sandstone could hear voices through the wall. The pediatrician, Dr. Sarah Okonkwo, speaking in calm, measured tones, asking permission before every touch, explaining every procedure. 40 minutes later, the door opened.
Dr. Okonkwo stepped out first. She was holding a tablet with Nell's chart pulled up. She looked at Sandstone, then at Hawthorne, who'd followed her into the hall.
"The wrist requires surgical intervention," Dr. Okonkwo said. "The fracture has been healing for 49 days at a 23-degree wrong angle. We'll need to reset it with pins and plates, then cast it for 8 weeks minimum. After that, physical therapy. 6 months total recovery timeline, but with intervention now, she'll regain 95% function."
"And without intervention?" Hawthorne asked. "Permanent limited mobility. She'd never fully close that hand again." Hawthorne's jaw tightened. "When can you do the surgery?"
"Tomorrow morning. 7:00 a.m. I've already cleared the schedule."
"The pneumonia?" "Early stage. We've started antibiotics. Chest X-ray shows fluid in the lower left lobe, but it's responding to treatment. 2 weeks of medication, plenty of rest, and she should clear it completely." Dr.
Okonkwo paused, set the tablet down, looked directly at Sandstone. "She told me what you all did, getting her out of there when you did." Her voice cracked slightly. "Another week in those conditions, the pneumonia would have required hospitalization. Another 2 weeks, we'd be looking at sepsis. You didn't just find her, you saved her life."
Sandstone nodded once. He didn't trust himself to speak. "Thank you," Dr. Okonkwo said quietly. "From one medical professional to another, thank you for getting her here when you did."
That night, Nell ate dinner at the clubhouse, not in the back strategy room, in the main area, at a table surrounded by brothers who kept their voices low and their movements careful, like they understood that loud noises and sudden gestures might send her back to the warehouse in her head. Driftwood had made spaghetti. Nothing fancy, just pasta, red sauce, garlic bread. But it was hot, and there was enough, and no one was going to take it away.
Nell ate slowly, small bites, testing, waiting for the moment when someone would tell her to stop, that she'd had enough, that food was for people who deserved it. The moment never came. Wade sat next to her, still wearing the Hells Angels vest that reached his knees. He'd refused to take it off. Hawthorne had told him,