PART 2
The second vehicle stopped twenty yards behind Quill’s patrol car.
Dust rolled around its tires and drifted across the shoulder in a thin brown cloud.
It was an ordinary dark pickup.
No police markings.
No emergency lights.
No government plates Delaney could see from where she stood.
Just a truck with tinted windows and an engine that remained running.
Quill noticed it too.
His eyes flicked toward the side mirror of his cruiser.
Only for half a second.
But Delaney caught it.
And that half second told her something important.
He knew the truck.
“Eyes on me,” Quill snapped.
Delaney slowly brought her gaze back to him.
His weapon was still pointed at her chest.
“I’m looking at you.”
“Hands where I can see them.”
“They are where you can see them.”
“Then stop reaching for things.”
“I told you exactly what I was reaching for.”
Quill’s jaw tightened.
“My credentials are inside the vehicle,” Delaney continued. “You can verify my identity without escalating this.”
“I decide what gets verified.”
“No,” she said quietly. “You don’t.”
Something changed in his face.
It was small.
A tightening around the eyes.
A twitch near the corner of his mouth.
The reaction of a man who had spent years speaking to frightened people and had forgotten what it sounded like when someone was not afraid to answer him.
The driver’s door of the pickup opened.
A man stepped out.
Late fifties, maybe early sixties.
White shirt.
Dark jeans.
Cowboy boots.
No visible weapon.
He leaned against his open door as if he had stopped to watch something mildly interesting.
Quill lowered his weapon two inches.
Not enough to make Delaney feel safe.
Enough to make her curious.
“Keep moving, Wade,” Quill called.
The man did not move.
“Everything good?”
“Traffic stop.”
“Looks like more than that.”
Quill’s face darkened.
“I said keep moving.”
Wade looked at Delaney.
Then at the weapon.
Then back at Quill.
“You got a reason for pointing that at her?”
Delaney saw Quill’s throat move.
That was the second thing she noticed.
The first had been recognition.
The second was discomfort.
Quill was not afraid of the stranger.
He was afraid of what the stranger might see.
“Sir,” Delaney called without raising her voice, “please remain at your vehicle.”
Quill snapped his attention toward her.
“You don’t give orders here.”
“I’m trying to keep a civilian out of an armed encounter.”
“You keep talking, I’m putting you on the ground.”
Wade straightened.
“Come on, Harlon.”
There it was.
Harlon.
Not Officer Quill.
Not Deputy.
Not sir.
Harlon.
Delaney stored the detail away.
Quill holstered his weapon so abruptly the movement looked angry.
“Get back in your truck, Wade.”
Wade stared at him for another moment.
Then he lifted both hands.
“All right.”
But before he climbed inside, he looked directly at Delaney.
And tapped two fingers against his own chest.
Once.
Twice.
Then he got back into the truck.
Delaney did not know what the gesture meant.
Quill did.
His face had gone pale beneath the Texas sun.
The pickup pulled away.
Dust swallowed it.
For several seconds, neither Delaney nor Quill spoke.
Then Quill grabbed her wrist.
Hard.
“You’re under arrest.”
“For what?”
“Interfering.”
“With my own traffic stop?”
“Turn around.”
He twisted her arm behind her.
Pain shot through her shoulder.
Delaney let him do it.
That was the hardest part.
Every instinct from years of training told her how quickly she could shift her weight, break his grip, create distance, and take control of the encounter.
But she had not come here to win a roadside fight.
She had come here to document a system.
So she pressed her palms against the hot metal of the SUV and let him put handcuffs around her wrists.
Click.
Click.
Too tight.
Deliberately.
Quill leaned close to her ear.
“You should’ve kept driving.”
Delaney turned her face slightly.
“Is that what you told my brother?”
His grip froze.
There.
That was it.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
Delaney felt it in the sudden stillness of his hand.
Quill stepped back.
“What did you say?”
“My brother.”
“I don’t know your brother.”
“I didn’t give you his name.”
Silence.
Quill’s eyes changed.
For the first time, the arrogance disappeared completely.
He stared at her as though he were finally looking at the entire situation instead of the woman he thought he could control.
“Who are you?”
“I already told you.”
“Your name.”
“Delaney Voss.”
Nothing.
Then—
A flicker.
Quill knew that name too.
He tried to hide it.
He failed.
Delaney’s pulse quickened.
Ronan had never told Quill his sister’s name.
At least, he said he hadn’t.
So why did Quill recognize it?
Quill shoved her toward the rear of the SUV.
“Stay there.”
He walked back to his cruiser.
Delaney listened carefully.
His boots crunched over gravel.
The cruiser door opened.
Closed.
Then nothing.
No radio chatter.
No dispatcher.
No request for backup.
No license check.
Delaney turned her head just enough to see him through the rear window of the patrol car.
Quill was on his phone.
His personal phone.
And he was not calling the station.
She knew because she had spent the previous two days watching him.
Not closely enough to build a case.
Closely enough to learn habits.
Quill used his radio for ordinary stops.
He used his personal phone after certain stops.
Stops involving travelers.
Stops involving cash.
Stops that somehow never appeared in the public logs Delaney had reviewed.
He was speaking quickly now.
His free hand moved across his forehead.
Then he looked directly at her.
Delaney looked away.
She counted.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
The cruiser door opened.
Quill returned.
The confidence was back.
But it looked different now.
Manufactured.
Like a costume he had hurriedly put on.
“We’re going to the station.”
“Am I being charged?”
“You’ll find out.”
“Have you notified dispatch that you’ve detained me?”
His expression tightened.
“Get in the car.”
“Officer Quill, I’m asking whether this detention has been reported.”
He opened the rear door of the cruiser.
“Get in.”
Delaney did not move.
“You’re transporting a federal agent in custody without confirming her credentials or notifying your dispatcher?”
Quill stepped closer.
“Lady, I don’t care if you’re the president.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
He grabbed her arm.
Delaney winced.
Quill smiled when he noticed.
That smile answered more than words could.
He pushed her into the back seat.
The door slammed.
Heat and old vinyl swallowed her.
A scratched plastic divider separated her from the front seats.
There was no interior door handle.
No way to open the window.
Quill walked back toward the SUV.
Delaney leaned toward the glass.
He opened the passenger door.
Then he began searching.
Not a lawful inventory.
Not a careful evidence search.
He was tearing through her belongings.
Glove compartment.
Center console.
Travel bag.
Laptop case.
Then he found the leather credential wallet.
Quill stopped moving.
Even through the cruiser glass, Delaney could see the FBI seal.
He opened it.
Looked at the identification.
Looked toward her.
Opened it again.
This time his hands were not steady.
Delaney almost smiled.
Almost.
Then Quill did something she did not expect.
He put the credentials in his pocket.
Not back in the bag.
Not on the hood.
In his pocket.
Then he kept searching.
Delaney’s stomach tightened.
He found the camera less than thirty seconds later.
It had been mounted low near the dashboard.
Small.
Black.
Easy to miss if you did not know what you were looking for.
Quill stared at it.
Then at Delaney.
The last trace of color drained from his face.
He ripped it from its mount.
Delaney watched him turn it over in his hand.
He pressed a button.
Nothing.
Another.
Nothing.
Then he smashed it against the hood.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Plastic scattered across the gravel.
Quill looked at Delaney through the rear window.
He smiled.
This time she smiled back.
That confused him.
He walked toward the cruiser.
Opened the driver’s door.
Sat down.
For several seconds he said nothing.
Then he looked at her in the rearview mirror.
“What’s funny?”
“You destroyed the camera.”
“Damn right.”
“That wasn’t the recording.”
Quill stopped breathing.
Delaney leaned back against the seat.
“The recording was already uploaded.”
It was not entirely true.
Not exactly.
But Quill did not know that.
And sometimes the fastest way to understand a guilty person was to let them believe the evidence was already beyond their reach.
“Uploaded where?”
Delaney said nothing.
“Where?”
Silence.
Quill turned around.
“Who else is here?”
That question mattered.
Not, What did you record?
Not, Are you really FBI?
Not, Who sent you?
Who else is here?
Delaney looked through the windshield.
“You should call your supervisor.”
Quill stared at her.
Then he faced forward and started the engine.
The cruiser pulled away from the shoulder.
Delaney watched her rental SUV shrink behind them.
Within a minute, they passed the turn that would have taken them toward Cedar Ridge.
Quill kept driving straight.
Delaney looked out the window.
“You missed the road to the station.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“The Cedar Ridge Police Department is east.”
“We’re not going there.”
Delaney’s heartbeat changed.
Not faster.
Sharper.
“Where are you taking me?”
Quill did not answer.
The road narrowed.
Trees grew thicker on both sides.
Pines replaced open fields.
Cell service on the phone she no longer had would have been weakening by the mile.
Delaney watched road markers.
Farm entrances.
Mailboxes.
Anything she could memorize.
Quill drove another six minutes.
Then his personal phone rang.
He answered immediately.
“Yeah.”
A pause.
“I know.”
Another pause.
His eyes lifted toward the mirror.
“She says she’s federal.”
Silence.
“I saw it.”
Another pause.
“No.”
His voice dropped.
“No, she hasn’t talked to anybody.”
Delaney kept her face blank.
Quill listened.
Then said something that made every muscle in Delaney’s body go still.
“I’m bringing her to the quarry.”
He ended the call.
Delaney looked at him.
“The quarry?”
Quill said nothing.
“Is that where you took Ronan?”
His eyes flashed toward the mirror.
“Shut up.”
“What happened there?”
“I said shut up.”
“Did you take his money there?”
Quill slammed his palm against the steering wheel.
“Your brother should’ve learned when to keep his mouth closed.”
Delaney felt anger rise from somewhere deep and cold.
She forced it back down.
Ronan had told her the stop happened near the highway.
He had said Quill searched the car, found the envelope, accused him of drug activity, took the cash, and ordered him to leave.
He had never mentioned a quarry.
“Ronan was taken somewhere else.”
Quill realized his mistake.
Too late.
Delaney leaned forward.
“What did you do to him?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You just said—”
“Sit back.”
“What happened at the quarry?”
Quill reached for the radio volume and turned it up.
Static filled the car.
Then dispatch.
“Unit twelve, status?”
Quill did not answer.
A few seconds later:
“Unit twelve, Cedar Ridge dispatch. Status check.”
Delaney looked at the unit number printed beneath the radio.
Twelve.
Quill’s hand hovered over the microphone.
He ignored it.
“Unit twelve, respond.”
Nothing.
Then another voice came over the channel.
Male.
Older.
“Quill, pick up.”
Quill’s jaw tightened.
He grabbed the microphone.
“Twelve.”
“Where are you?”
“Finishing a stop.”
“Location?”
Quill hesitated.
“County Road Nine.”
Delaney looked out the window.
They had passed a sign two minutes earlier.
County Road Fourteen.
He was lying to dispatch.
The older voice returned.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine.”
“Need another unit?”
“No.”
A pause.
Long enough to feel deliberate.
Then:
“Copy.”
Quill dropped the microphone.
Delaney stared at the back of his head.
Someone had checked on him.
Maybe routine.
Maybe not.
Then she remembered Wade.
The man in the pickup.
The two fingers against his chest.
She replayed the gesture.
Once.
Twice.
Not random.
Not a wave.
A signal.
But for whom?
The road curved.
Quill turned onto an unmarked dirt track.
Trees closed around them.
Branches scraped the sides of the cruiser.
The radio dissolved into static.
Then the forest opened.
Delaney saw an abandoned limestone quarry below them.
White rock.
Rusting machinery.
A small corrugated-metal building near the edge.
Two vehicles were already parked outside.
One was an old red Ford.
The other was a black sheriff’s department SUV.
Delaney stared at it.
That was the moment the investigation changed.
She had come to Cedar Ridge believing Quill might have protection.
She had not expected to see proof this quickly.
Quill parked beside the building.
He got out.
A man emerged from the sheriff’s SUV.
Tall.
Gray hair.
Tan uniform.
Gold badge.
The nameplate on his chest caught the sunlight.
SHERIFF BELL.
Delaney recognized the name immediately.
Sheriff Alden Bell.
Thirty-one years in county law enforcement.
Publicly praised for low crime rates.
Photographed at church fundraisers.
Quoted in local newspapers talking about “protecting good people from outsiders bringing trouble into our county.”
Delaney had read his entire public history before coming here.
Bell looked through the rear window at her.
Then at Quill.
“You sure?”
“She had federal credentials.”
“Had?”
Quill patted his pocket.
Bell’s eyes hardened.
“You took them?”
“What else was I supposed to do?”
“Not bring a damn federal agent here.”
Quill lowered his voice.
“She’s Ronan Voss’s sister.”
Bell went completely still.
Delaney saw it.
Quill saw it too.
Bell slowly turned toward the cruiser.
And Delaney understood.
Ronan’s name frightened the sheriff.
Not Quill.
The sheriff.
Bell walked toward the back door.
He opened it.
Hot air flooded inside.
For a moment, he simply studied Delaney.
She studied him back.
“You Delaney Voss?”
“Yes.”
Bell sighed.
Not angrily.
Almost sadly.
“You should’ve stayed out of Cedar Ridge.”
Delaney lifted her cuffed hands.
“People keep telling me that.”
Bell looked at Quill.
“Take the cuffs off.”
Quill frowned.
“What?”
“I said take them off.”
“She threatened me.”
“No, I didn’t,” Delaney said.
Bell’s gaze snapped toward her.
Delaney continued.
“I identified myself. He drew his weapon, detained me, destroyed recording equipment, stole my credentials, lied to dispatch about our location, and transported me here.”
Bell looked at Quill.
Quill’s face flushed.
“She was interfering.”
“With what?”
Neither man answered.
Delaney looked from one to the other.
“With what, Officer Quill?”
Bell stepped closer.
“You think this is a courtroom?”
“No.”
“Then stop asking questions like it is.”
Quill unlocked the cuffs.
Delaney rubbed her wrists.
Deep red marks circled both.
Bell noticed them.
Again, something flickered across his face.
Not compassion.
Calculation.
He was measuring damage.
Evidence.
Exposure.
“How many people know you’re here?” Bell asked.
Delaney smiled faintly.
“That’s an interesting first question.”
“How many?”
“Enough.”
Quill stepped forward.
“She’s bluffing.”
Bell ignored him.
“Agent Voss, I’m going to give you one opportunity to make this easy.”
“For whom?”
“For everybody.”
“There are people in this county who depend on that badge meaning something.”
Bell’s expression hardened.
“You don’t know anything about this county.”
“I know my nineteen-year-old brother was robbed by one of your officers.”
“Allegedly.”
“I know Quill recognized my name before I told him Ronan’s.”
Bell glanced toward Quill.
“I know he took me off-route.”
Another glance.
“I know he lied about his location.”
Bell’s mouth became a thin line.
“And now,” Delaney said, “I know the sheriff meets him at an abandoned quarry.”
Quill stepped toward her.
“You better watch—”
Bell raised one hand.
Quill stopped.
That told Delaney almost everything she needed to know about who controlled whom.
Bell walked several steps away.
He looked over the quarry.
Wind moved through the trees above them.
Then he said:
“Your brother had money he couldn’t explain.”
“Tuition money.”
“That’s what he claimed.”
“He had bank withdrawal records.”
“Cash is cash.”
“Is that your legal standard?”
Bell turned around.
“You federal people come into places like this thinking everything fits inside some clean little rulebook.”
“Usually stealing nineteen-year-olds’ tuition money fits pretty cleanly under theft.”
Quill cursed under his breath.
Bell stared at her.
Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
“Quill didn’t steal your brother’s money.”
Delaney’s expression did not change.
“Then who did?”
Bell’s smile disappeared.
“That’s the question you should’ve asked before driving down here.”
Something cold moved through Delaney.
Quill looked at Bell.
“Sheriff—”
“Shut up, Harlon.”
Quill did.
Bell stepped closer to Delaney.
“Your brother wasn’t stopped because of the money.”
Delaney waited.
“He was stopped because of what he had with him.”
“What did he have?”
Bell stared at her.
“You really don’t know.”
For the first time since arriving in Cedar Ridge, Delaney felt genuinely off balance.
Ronan had told her everything.
At least she believed he had.
Clothes.
Laptop.
College paperwork.
Tuition money.
An old duffel bag.
Nothing else.
“What did he have?”
Bell walked toward the metal building.
“Bring her.”
Quill reached for Delaney’s arm.
She pulled away.
“I can walk.”
The building smelled of rust, dust, and old oil.
Inside were metal shelves.
A folding table.
Two chairs.
A refrigerator that looked twenty years old.
And boxes.
Dozens of them.
Some sealed.
Some open.
Some labeled with dates.
Delaney’s eyes moved across the room.
Phones.
Wallets.
License plates.
Prescription bottles.
Jewelry.
Laptops.
Envelopes.
Property taken from drivers.
Years of it.
This was not one crooked officer pocketing cash.
This was an operation.
Delaney slowly turned toward Bell.
“How long?”
Bell did not answer.
Quill closed the door behind them.
The metal latch dropped into place.
Delaney heard it.
Bell walked to a locked cabinet at the rear of the building.
He removed a key.
Opened it.
Inside were clear evidence bags.
Dozens more.
He searched until he found one near the bottom.
Then he placed it on the table.
The label read:
VOSS, RONAN.
Three days earlier.
Delaney’s chest tightened.
Inside was Ronan’s college orientation packet.
A gas receipt.
A cheap silver wristwatch.
And a small black flash drive.
Delaney stared at it.
She had never seen the drive before.
Bell watched her face carefully.
“There.”
“What is it?”
“You tell me.”
“I’ve never seen it.”
Quill laughed.
“Sure.”
Delaney ignored him.
“Where did you get this?”
“Your brother’s vehicle.”
“Where?”
Bell did not answer.
“Where in his vehicle?”
Silence.
Delaney looked closer at the evidence bag.
Something about the handwriting bothered her.
The date was correct.
Ronan’s name was correct.
But there was no evidence number.
No officer initials.
No chain-of-custody notation.
Nothing.
It was not evidence.
It was a collection.
A private one.
“Why isn’t this at the station?”
Bell looked at her.
“Because it doesn’t exist.”
Delaney’s eyes lifted.
Bell nodded toward the shelves.
“None of this exists.”
The meaning settled over the room.
Every wallet.
Every phone.
Every envelope.
Every piece of jewelry.
People had been stopped.
Property had been taken.
Reports had disappeared.
And whatever could not safely be sold or destroyed had been hidden here.
Delaney looked at the flash drive again.
“What’s on it?”
Bell’s voice dropped.
“Something people have killed for.”
Quill shifted near the door.
Delaney noticed.
“Did Ronan know?”
“We don’t know.”
“Did you ask him?”
Bell said nothing.
Delaney stepped closer.
“Did you ask my brother?”
Quill spoke this time.
“He wouldn’t talk.”
Delaney turned toward him.
Every ounce of warmth left her face.
“What did you do?”
Quill’s confidence faltered.
Bell moved between them.
“Your brother is alive.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“He’s alive.”
“What did you do to him?”
Bell’s phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
His entire expression changed.
Not irritation.
Alarm.
He answered.
“Bell.”
Silence.
His eyes moved toward Delaney.
“What?”
Another pause.
“No. Who?”
Quill stepped closer.
Bell turned away.
“When?”
Silence.
Then:
“Don’t touch anything.”
He ended the call.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Quill finally asked:
“What happened?”
Bell looked at him.
“Someone went through the station.”
Quill’s face tightened.
“What do you mean?”
“My office. Records room. Evidence.”
“Who?”
“They don’t know.”
Delaney said nothing.
Bell turned toward her.
“You said people knew you were here.”
“I said enough people knew.”
“Who?”
Delaney smiled.
Bell stepped closer.
“Who did you bring into my county?”
“Maybe you should call dispatch and ask.”
Quill reached for her.
Bell stopped him again.
“No.”
“But—”
“No.”
Bell was thinking now.
Fast.
Delaney could see the pieces moving behind his eyes.
Then something sounded outside.
An engine.
Quill went to the window.
His face changed.
“Sheriff.”
Bell joined him.
“What?”
“That truck.”
Delaney already knew.
The dark pickup.
Wade.
It rolled into the quarry and stopped near the sheriff’s SUV.
Wade stepped out.
This time he was not alone.
A woman climbed from the passenger side.
Short brown hair.
Dark slacks.
White blouse.
She carried a thick manila folder under one arm.
Bell whispered something Delaney could not hear.
Quill backed away from the window.
“You said she was gone.”
Bell turned on him.
“She was.”
“Then why is she here?”
The woman walked toward the building.
Wade stayed beside the truck.
Delaney looked from Quill to Bell.
“Who is she?”
Neither answered.
Three knocks hit the metal door.
Slow.
Evenly spaced.
Bell did not move.
Three more.
Then the woman’s voice came through the door.
“Alden.”
Bell closed his eyes for half a second.
“Open the door.”
Quill whispered:
“Don’t.”
The woman outside spoke again.
“I know Agent Voss is in there.”
Delaney’s heart kicked.
Bell looked at her.
Delaney looked right back.
Then came the sentence that changed everything.
“And Delaney,” the woman called through the steel door, “your brother lied to you.”
Delaney stepped toward the door.
Bell blocked her.
“What does she mean?”
“Don’t listen to her.”
The woman outside continued.
“Ronan wasn’t driving to college when Quill stopped him.”
Delaney stared at Bell.
“What is she talking about?”
Bell said nothing.
“He was coming here.”
The room seemed to shrink around her.
Quill shook his head.
“Don’t open that door.”
Delaney’s voice dropped almost to a whisper.
“Why would my brother be coming to Cedar Ridge?”
Nobody answered.
Then the woman outside slid something beneath the door.
A photograph.
It stopped near Delaney’s shoe.
She bent down and picked it up.
The picture had been taken at night.
The quality was poor.
A gas station parking lot.
A timestamp in the corner.
Five days earlier.
Two days before Ronan called Delaney.
Ronan stood beside his car.
He was handing something to another man.
A small black flash drive.
Delaney brought the photograph closer.
The other man’s face was partially turned toward the camera.
Gray hair.
Tan uniform.
Gold badge.
Sheriff Alden Bell.
Delaney slowly raised her eyes.
Bell was staring at the photograph.
But Quill was staring at Bell.
And suddenly Delaney understood something even more disturbing.
Quill had never seen that picture before.
“Sheriff?” he whispered.
Bell did not answer.
“Harlon,” Delaney said quietly.
Quill looked at her.
“You thought you were protecting him.”
Quill’s eyes shifted toward Bell.
Delaney held up the photograph.
“But I don’t think he ever told you what this was really about.”
Bell reached for the photo.
Delaney pulled it away.
“Don’t.”
His face changed.
The polite sheriff disappeared.
The community leader disappeared.
What remained underneath was colder.
“Give me the photograph.”
“No.”
“Agent Voss.”
“No.”
Outside, Wade shouted:
“Alden, you’ve got maybe two minutes!”
Bell spun toward the door.
“Two minutes until what?”
No answer.
Then, faintly at first, Delaney heard something beyond the quarry.
A distant rumble.
Growing louder.
Quill heard it too.
He moved to the window.
His face drained white.
Delaney stepped beside him.
Through the dusty glass, beyond the trees, flashes of red and blue appeared along the ridge.
Not one vehicle.
Not two.
A line of them.
Coming fast.
Quill whispered:
“What the hell did you do?”
Delaney stared at the approaching lights.
“I told you.”
She turned toward him.
“The camera wasn’t the recording.”
Bell suddenly lunged for the evidence bag containing the flash drive.
Delaney moved at the same moment.
But Quill moved faster.
He grabbed Bell’s wrist.
Everyone froze.
Bell stared at him.
“Harlon.”
Quill tightened his grip.
“Who is she?”
“What?”
“The woman outside.”
“Let go.”
“Who is she?”
Bell’s eyes hardened.
“That’s an order.”
Quill looked at the shelves surrounding them.
Years of stolen property.
Years of secrets.
Then at the photograph in Delaney’s hand.
For the first time, Officer Harlon Quill looked less like a predator than a man realizing he might have spent years serving someone who planned to bury him with the evidence.
The sirens grew louder.
Quill slowly released Bell.
Then he looked at Delaney.
“She’s Mara Keene.”
Delaney waited.
Quill swallowed.
“She used to work for the sheriff.”
“Doing what?”
Quill looked toward the locked door.
“Keeping the real records.”
Delaney felt the final piece click halfway into place.
“Records of what?”
Quill opened his mouth.
But before he could answer, a violent crack exploded outside.
The window shattered.
Everyone dropped.
Delaney hit the concrete floor as glass rained over her shoulders.
Quill drew his weapon.
Bell crawled toward the rear cabinet.
Another crack ripped through the building.
A bullet punched through the metal wall inches above the table.
And outside, Mara Keene screamed one sentence:
“DELANEY, GET DOWN! THEY’RE NOT SHOOTING AT YOU!”
Delaney pressed herself against the concrete.
Quill stared toward Sheriff Bell.
Bell had stopped crawling.
His hand was inside the open cabinet.
Wrapped around a weapon.
And it was pointed directly at Quill.
That was when Delaney understood.
The police coming over the ridge were not the only people who had arrived at the quarry.
Someone else was already there.
Someone hidden in the trees.
Someone who knew about the flash drive.
Someone who apparently wanted Sheriff Alden Bell alive.
And as Bell’s finger tightened against the trigger, Delaney realized the corrupt traffic stops, Ronan’s stolen tuition money, and even Harlon Quill might be only the smallest pieces of what had been happening in Cedar Ridge.
Because Quill had pulled over the wrong woman.
But Delaney was beginning to suspect her brother had trusted the wrong man.
And whatever Ronan had placed on that flash drive was important enough for someone to start shooting before Delaney could learn the truth.
END OF PART 2
