Chapter 2 - THE SHERIFF KNEW HIS NAME BEFORE HE SPOKE
The county jail smelled like bleach, sweat, and old concrete.
They took my belt, my boots, my wallet, and my phone.
Then they tried to take Rex.
“No.”
The deputy holding his leash laughed. “That wasn’t a request.”
“Neither was mine.”
The sheriff leaned against the booking desk.
“Animal control will hold him overnight.”
“He is a retired military working dog.”
“So I’ve heard.”
I stared at him.
“What’s your name?”
“Sheriff Dean Cole.”
“You said somebody told you I might be coming.”
Cole’s smile disappeared.
“I said a lot of things in a loud room.”
“You said my name.”
He stepped closer.
“So did the ID in your wallet.”
“Not before you saw it.”
For half a second, neither of us moved.
Then Rex growled.
Low.
Almost too low to hear.
He wasn’t looking at Cole’s face.
He was looking at Cole’s sleeve.
The sheriff glanced down and pulled the cuff lower over his wrist.
Too late.
I had seen it.
A small green snake tattoo curled around a black iron V.
Iron Vipers.
Cole followed my eyes.
“Old mistake,” he said.
“Looks pretty current.”
“Put him in holding.”
The deputy pushed me toward the cells.
“Where’s Rex going?”
“County kennel.”
“If anything happens to him—”
Cole’s voice went flat.
“You’re in no position to threaten me.”
I turned before the deputy could stop me.
“I’m not threatening you. I’m telling you what comes next.”
The cell door slammed behind me.
Two hours passed.
Nobody interviewed me.
Nobody asked for a statement.
Nobody photographed the bruises on the bikers.
That wasn’t police work.
That was storage.
They were keeping me somewhere.
At 8:17 p.m., a young deputy brought a tray.
“Your dog’s fine,” he whispered without looking at me.
I watched him slide the food through the slot.
“How do you know?”
He swallowed.
“Because I checked.”
“Why?”
His eyes flicked toward the hallway camera.
Then he pushed a napkin beneath the tray.
On it was an address.
And one sentence.
DON’T LET COLE KNOW MIA TALKED TO YOU.
Before I could ask anything, a crash echoed from the booking area.
Then shouting.
Then a dog barking.
Rex.
Not his warning bark.
Not his alert bark.
His attack bark.
I grabbed the bars.
“What the hell is happening?”
The young deputy ran toward the sound.
Three seconds later, the lights went out.
In the darkness, a man’s voice came from the other side of my cell door.
“Nomad.”
My old call sign.
A name nobody in Ash Creek should have known.
“You should’ve kept driving.”
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