POV: Silas

Officer Bell entered the Blackwood Reapers clubhouse carrying the gun he planned to find there.

Ronan entered behind him carrying a label maker.

"What is that?" Sergeant Mercer demanded.

Ronan printed a strip and stuck it to the coffeepot.

NOT A KIDNAPPED CHILD.

"Helping," he said.

Mercer looked as though breakfast had personally betrayed him.

Thirty-two Reapers sat around the clubhouse with their hands visible. The gun safe stood open beside a printed inventory. Every registered firearm wore a numbered tag. The bar had been cleared except for coffee, doughnuts, and the club's attorney, Miriam Cole, whose red glasses matched the polish on her nails.

She held out one hand for the warrant.

"Illegal detention of a child, obstruction, and unregistered weapons," she read. "The child is at Pine Hollow Hospital."

"We have not independently verified that," Mercer said.

Maeve lifted her phone. On the screen, Sophie slept beneath Silas's leather cut while a hospital nurse checked her pulse.

"Would you like her to hold today's newspaper?" Maeve asked.

"Video can be manipulated."

Ronan printed another label and attached it to himself.

POSSIBLY A CHILD.

Silas looked at him.

"I'll stop when the warrant becomes less stupid."

"You may be waiting a while," Miriam said.

Mercer's mouth tightened. "Search the building."

The officers spread through the clubhouse.

One opened cupboards. Another photographed the lockers. A third peered beneath the pool table as if Sophie might be clinging to the underside with the patience of a bat.

Ronan followed at a respectful distance.

"Nothing? Check the sugar bowl. She's resourceful."

"One more word and I'll arrest you for interference."

"That was seven words. Which one caused the crime?"

"Ronan," Silas said.

His vice president made a locking motion across his lips. Then he printed SILENT WITNESS and stuck it to his vest.

A young officer turned away to hide a smile.

The humor kept the Reapers seated. That was its purpose. Men who might have answered humiliation with fists were counting Ronan's labels instead. The officers mistook laughter for carelessness.

Silas watched their hands.

Bell's left leg carried too much weight below the calf. The shape was wrong for a department-approved ankle holster, and he kept that side turned away from every camera.

Silas had seen him do the same thing once before. Three years ago, Bell had kept a Reaper prospect facedown in gravel for an hour while pretending to search an empty motorcycle. Bell liked frightened men. He liked the moment a badge turned cruelty into procedure.

Today he had chosen a room full of witnesses.

"Network's down," Bishop reported from the end of the bar.

Mercer smiled.

Ronan silently printed CONVENIENT and held it up.

The visible clubhouse internet had been cut thirty seconds after police entered. The six satellite transmitters fixed beneath parked motorcycles had not. Every camera still copied footage to three off-site servers and the tablet in Miriam's briefcase.

"You disconnected a monitored legal search," she told Mercer.

"Technical failure."

The label maker chirped.

VERY CONVENIENT.

Mercer snatched it from Ronan and placed it on the bar.

"Thank you," Ronan said. "Chain of custody matters."

Two Reapers coughed into their fists.

The officers reached the funeral wall. One swept framed photographs onto the floor, scattering images of men who had died in wars, on highways, and in hospital rooms. The laughter stopped.

Silas felt thirty-two wolves rise beneath human skin.

He remained seated.

"Photograph the damage," he said.

Phones lifted instead of fists.

The officer who had knocked down the frames glanced around and suddenly understood how alone a uniform could be.

Bell used the silence.

He moved toward the dead refrigeration unit beside the bar, opening drawers he had already passed. His right hand searched. His left brushed his ankle.

Ronan saw it.

Silas gave the smallest shake of his head.

Wait.

Bell crouched. The officer nearest him deliberately turned away.

His fingers slipped beneath his trouser cuff.

"Before you remove that weapon," Silas said, "tell Camera Seven whether you filed off the serial number yourself."

Bell froze.

The room became so quiet the label maker sounded loud when it slid off the bar.

Mercer stepped between them. "What weapon?"

"The one above his left boot."

Bell stood too quickly. His trouser cuff caught on the grip. Black metal flashed.

Thirty-two Reapers looked at it.