Two Troopers in heavy tactical vests didn't wait for him to finish. They sprinted to the gate, carrying a massive pair of bright yellow bolt cutters. They locked the steel jaws over the heavy logging chain securing the gate and threw their combined weight into the handles. The thick iron link snapped with a sharp crack that echoed off the impounded metal hulls around us.
The gate swung inward, protesting on rusted hinges. Half a dozen Troopers flooded into the yard, their flashlights cutting through the darkness, their service weapons drawn and locked on both of us.
"Drop the weapon, Officer! Now!" a Trooper barked.
Ryder complied slowly, acting with exaggerated care. He popped the magazine out of his Glock, locked the slide back to eject the chambered round, and placed the firearm gently on the hood of his cruiser. He stepped back, keeping his hands visible. "The suspect broke into the impound office," Ryder shouted, pointing a rigid finger at me. "I caught him attempting to steal evidence. He has an accomplice hiding in the yard."
Two Troopers grabbed my arms, hauling me away from the cruiser. I didn't resist. I let them slam me face-first against the chain-link fence, spreading my legs and kicking my boots apart. The cold steel of handcuffs snapped tightly around my wrists. It was standard procedure—secure the chaotic scene first, ask questions second—but the metallic click sent a wave of despair through my chest.
"I'm unarmed," I said clearly to the Trooper patting down my canvas jacket. "The burner phone is in my left pocket. I've been on an open line with Agent Miller for the last twenty minutes."
A tall man in a dark windbreaker stepped through the gap in the gate. He didn't carry a flashlight, and his weapon remained holstered at his hip. His eyes swept the scene with clinical detachment, taking in my handcuffed state, Ryder’s dismantled weapon, and the shattered office door visible in the distance.
"I'm Agent Miller," he said, his voice the exact, flat tone I had heard through the earpiece. He walked straight toward Ryder, completely ignoring the commanding posture the local cop was trying to maintain. "Officer Ryder. Step away from your vehicle."
Ryder adjusted his duty belt, attempting to project professional solidarity. "Agent Miller. Good response time. I was tracking an extortion ring operating out of this county yard. The manager, Greg Thorne, has been falsifying release forms. I came to secure his ledgers, and this man—Walter—ambushed me. He fired a weapon inside the office."
I turned my head against the cold chain-link fence. "Look in the office, Miller! He shot a paper shredder to destroy the DOT forms. Smell his barrel. It’s the only gun that’s been fired tonight."
Miller raised a hand, silencing me. He looked at Ryder. "If you were securing an extortion ring, Officer, why did you accept an envelope containing five thousand dollars in cash from Walter twenty minutes ago on a rural access road?"
Ryder didn't flinch. His composure was terrifying. "Undercover evidence collection," Ryder lied smoothly. "Walter offered the bribe to keep his impounded trucks from being crushed. I accepted it to establish intent, then immediately drove here to secure the physical logs before Thorne could destroy them. The cash is in my cargo pocket. It's fully intact. I was about to call it in when I was engaged."
It was a brilliant, desperate pivot. Without the ledger proving Ryder was the one initiating the fake citations and collecting the cash over months, it was his word as a sworn officer against the word of an angry, desperate truck driver. The audio of our conversation was ambiguous enough that a good defense attorney could frame it as a sting operation gone wrong.
"We have audio of the exchange," Miller said softly.
"You have audio of me playing along with a criminal," Ryder countered, his chest puffing out slightly. He could feel the trap loosening. "I know procedure, Agent. You don't have a warrant for my arrest, and you don't have proof of a systemic crime. What you have is an unsecured crime scene and a suspect who just assaulted a police officer."
Miller stared at him for a long moment. Then he keyed the radio on his shoulder. "Sweep the yard. Find the manager. I want the physical ledgers from that office."
Ryder’s mouth twitched into a microscopic smirk. He knew exactly what had happened inside that office. He knew I had thrown the ledger to Greg, and he knew Greg was a coward. He fully believed Greg had either dumped the book in the mud to save himself or shoved it into the shredder before running.
For ten agonizing minutes, the impound yard was a chaotic grid of sweeping flashlights and shouting Troopers. I stood handcuffed to the fence, my shoulders burning from the awkward angle, watching my entire livelihood hang in the balance.
Ryder stood casually near the hood of his cruiser, arms crossed, watching the search. He was playing the role of the cooperative local authority perfectly. Whenever a Trooper passed, he offered a helpful nod or pointed toward a row of rusted sedans, subtly directing them away from the back perimeter.
"They aren't going to find it, Walter," Ryder murmured, his voice low enough that only I could hear it over the idling engines. "Thorne is a rat. Rats don't carry thirty pounds of dead weight when they're running for their lives. Tomorrow morning, your trucks get crushed, and you go to county lockup for assaulting an officer."
"They're going to find it," I said, praying my voice sounded steadier than my hammering heart.