Chapter 3 - The Broken Line
The metal dog tags lay under the harsh amber glow of the desk lamp like a small, accusing weight.
“Arthur Bennett,” I whispered, looking up at Rook. “That’s... that’s the kids’ father?”
Rook nodded slowly, his expression hard as cast iron. “State police wrote it off as a drunk driving accident on an icy overpass. Case closed, body sent to the county morgue, family notified by a social worker because his wife wouldn't answer the phone.”
“And the truck?” Cutter asked, his voice losing its aggressive edge, replaced by a sudden, heavy realization. “Was he hauling for them voluntarily?”
“Men like Arthur don't haul classified tech voluntary,” Rook said, pulling out a chair and sitting down heavily, the wood groaning beneath his weight. “He was working three jobs trying to keep up with hospital bills that piled up higher than his mortgage after little Lucy went under. A desperate veteran with a security clearance is the easiest target in the world for corporate handlers looking for someone to move cargo without leaving a paper trail.”
The garage door rattled as a gust of sleet slammed against the corrugated metal exterior.
“So the accident wasn't an accident,” I said.
“A truck carrying millions in stolen defense tech doesn't just skid off a dry straightaway on a Tuesday afternoon,” Rook muttered. He rubbed his scarred knuckles, his gaze drifting toward the small calendar hanging near the coffee pot—the one where he had marked down his rotation schedule for visiting St. Catherine Children’s Hospital.
Thirty Iron Lantern bikers had signed up to sit with Lucy Bennett. Thirty men, most of whom had spent half their lives running from the law, the military, or their own families, now taking turns reading fairy tales and winding music boxes in a pediatric ward.
“If Arthur was murdered to cover up a corporate data leak,” Boomer said quietly, “and the feds are sniffing around our scrap yard... then those same corporate clean-up crews are going to come looking for that server unit. And they aren't going to care who’s standing in their way.”
Rook stood up so fast his chair tipped backward, hitting the concrete with a sharp crash.
“Cutter, take four men and secure the back bay,” Rook ordered, his voice dropping into full tactical command mode—the voice he had used twenty-five years ago when leading reconnaissance platoons through hostile terrain. “No one enters the property without a club pass. Miller, you and I are heading back to St. Catherine’s.”
“St. Catherine’s?” I asked, startled. “Why? You think the kids are in danger?”
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“I don't think anything,” Rook said, pulling his leather gloves back on. “I know what desperate men do when they lose control of a narrative. And Arthur Bennett’s kids are the only loose ends left on the board.”
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