Chapter 3
Taken.
The word did not make sense.
People died.
People left.
People disappeared in stories.
But fathers did not get taken from small houses in Tennessee while their sons were eight years old and waiting for help with a science project.
I stared at my mother.
“What does that mean?”
Her hand trembled in mine.
“Eli found something at the warehouse. Documents. Cash shipments. Names.”
Rick shouted, “Maya, shut up.”
Hank stood slowly.
Every biker in the room turned toward Rick.
He stopped shouting.
Mom kept talking.
“He came home scared. Not for himself. For us. He said Sheriff Briggs and Rick were involved in something illegal through the county contracts.”
My stomach twisted.
Rick was a county inspector.
Sheriff Briggs was his drinking buddy.
I had grown up thinking that made us protected.
It made us trapped.
“What did Dad find?” I asked.
Mom closed her eyes.
“Proof they were stealing disaster relief money and using the warehouse to move weapons.”
The room went silent.
Hank’s jaw hardened.
“That matches what Eli told me.”
I turned on him.
“You knew?”
“I knew he was scared. I didn’t know he never made it to me.”
Mom sobbed.
“He was supposed to meet Hank that night. Then the fire happened.”
Rick laughed bitterly.
“You people are insane.”
Hank looked at him.
“Then why did you tell Briggs where the boy was tonight?”
Rick’s mouth opened.
No words came.
My chest hurt.
“You sent Tyler after me?”
Rick sneered.
“Tyler was supposed to scare you, not get embarrassed by you.”
Mom tried to sit up.
“Richard.”
He pointed at her.
“You ruined everything when you kept that kid.”
I went cold.
“That kid?”
He looked at me.
“You think I wanted to raise another man’s son?”
I stepped toward him.
Hank caught my shoulder.
“Not like this.”
Rick smiled.
“Listen to your biker grandpa.”
Hank’s hand tightened on my shoulder.
Grandpa.
The word landed strangely.
But Rick had meant it as an insult, not truth.
Then Mom whispered, “Hank was Eli’s commanding officer.”
Rick rolled his eyes.
“Close enough.”
Hank leaned toward him.
“Careful.”
Before anyone could move, a cruiser pulled up outside.
Sheriff Briggs walked in without knocking.
His face was red.
Behind him stood two deputies.
“This gathering is unlawful,” he barked.
Hank turned.
“You brought deputies to a sick woman’s house because witnesses followed an assaulted teenager home?”
Briggs looked at me.
“That boy attacked my son.”
Hank lifted his phone.
“The video says otherwise.”
Briggs smiled.
“Videos get lost.”
The silver-haired biker from the gas station stepped into the room.
Her name, I learned later, was Denise.
She held up a tablet.
“Not when 1,500 people have copies.”
Briggs’s smile vanished.
Mom squeezed my hand.
“Brandon, the blue box.”
Rick’s head snapped toward her.
“What blue box?”
She looked at me.
“Your father hid it in the crawlspace. Under your old room.”
Rick moved first.
I was faster.
I ran down the hall.
Rick shoved past a biker and came after me.
I reached my old bedroom and dropped to the floor.
The vent cover under the bed was loose.
Dad had fixed it when I was seven.
I remembered him saying, “Some things need a secret door.”
My hands shook as I pulled it open.
Rick grabbed my ankle.
I kicked hard and scrambled forward.
My fingers closed around a metal handle.
Blue box.
Small.
Dusty.
Locked.
Rick dragged me back.
“Give it to me.”
I clutched the box against my chest.
He raised his fist.
Then Hank filled the doorway.
“Touch him and lose the hand.”
Rick froze.
Behind Hank, Sheriff Briggs appeared.
His gun was drawn.
“Drop the box.”
My whole body went cold.
Hank stepped in front of me.
“Sheriff, lower your weapon.”
Briggs’s eyes were wild.
“That box is stolen evidence.”
Denise shouted from the hall, “State police are three minutes out.”
Briggs looked toward the window.
Motorcycles lined the entire street.
Neighbors stood on porches filming.
He had controlled our town for years because people were afraid one at a time.
Tonight, fear had witnesses.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
Not local.
State.
Briggs backed away.
Rick whispered, “You stupid kid.”
I stood with the box in my arms.
“No,” I said. “I’m Eli Cole’s son.”
Mom cried when I brought it to her.
Hank used a small key from his vest to open it.
Inside was a flash drive.
A notebook.
A wedding ring.
And a photograph of my father standing beside a little girl I had never seen.
On the back, Dad had written:
If they take me, find my daughter too.
I looked at my mother.
“Daughter?”
Mom covered her mouth.
May you like
Hank closed his eyes.
And Rick smiled like he still had one secret left.
