The master intake log wasn't kept inside the trailer. That was a rigid county policy designed for the overnight shift. The tow drivers deposited their pink carbon-copy slips into a heavy steel drop-box bolted securely to the exterior staircase railing, ensuring they could file paperwork after hours without needing a key to the office. The fire had consumed the front wall, but it hadn't fully reached the metal stairs yet.
I waited, crouching behind the rusted fender of a seized Buick, until Riker turned his back to grab a radio handset from the cab of his truck. I broke from cover, sprinting the final thirty yards across the open gravel to the trailer. The radiated heat was immediately suffocating, singeing the fine hair on my arms and drying my throat instantly.
I reached the steel drop-box. It was padlocked and blistering hot to the touch. I jammed the heavy jaws of the bolt cutters around the thick shackle of the Master Lock. I threw my entire remaining body weight onto the handles. My broken ribs ground together under the strain, sending a shockwave of cold nausea straight through my stomach. I bit down on my lip to stop a scream, forcing the leverage until the hardened steel snapped with a loud, metallic crack.
I yanked the heavy lid open. Inside was a thick, leather-bound ledger book and a massive stack of yellow and pink intake slips. The official gold county seal was embossed on the cover. This was it. The unbroken chain of custody. Combined with my garage's firebox, it formed an airtight federal case that no local judge could ever suppress.
I shoved the heavy ledger into my jacket, zipping it up tight against my injured chest. The sharp corners dug directly into my bruises, but it felt like armor.
"Hey!" a voice barked sharply over the roaring crackle of the fire.
I spun around. Riker was standing by his truck, forty feet away. His hand was resting firmly on the grip of his holstered sidearm. He hadn't drawn it yet, but he was squinting hard through the thick, acrid smoke, trying to identify the silhouette standing by the stairs.
"Step away from the box and put your hands on your head," Riker commanded, unhooking the retention strap on his holster.
I had the corroborating proof, but I was entirely exposed. The heavy bolt cutters were still in my right hand. I didn't raise them as a weapon. Instead, I gripped the handles tight and hurled the heavy steel tool directly at the passenger window of his county pickup.
The cutters smashed through the safety glass with a loud, shattering explosion.
Riker flinched, instinctively ducking away from the flying glass and drawing his weapon in one fluid motion. It bought me exactly two seconds.
I bolted. I didn't run back toward the perimeter fence where I had cut the wire. That would lead me straight back to my parked truck, a vehicle Riker would immediately call in and block. Instead, I sprinted deeper into the maze of the impound lot, weaving erratically between the tight rows of seized vehicles.
"Stop!" Riker yelled, his voice echoing off the metal husks. A single gunshot rang out, the heavy hollow-point bullet ricocheting violently off the trunk of a Honda Civic mere inches from my hip.
He was shooting to kill. There would be no arrest tonight.
I kept running, my lungs burning, the heavy ledger pounding rhythmically against my fractured ribs. I reached the far side of the lot, where the property backed directly up to the steep, muddy banks of the Washita River. The drop was nearly fifteen feet down to the rushing, freezing water below, a dangerous jump for a man my age even with intact ribs.
I looked back. Riker was closing the distance, his flashlight beam slicing frantically through the dark rows of cars. He was calling my position in on his shoulder radio. In three minutes, the deputies from the bridge would abandon the barricade and swarm this lot.
I couldn't go back for my truck. The beloved F-150, along with the gray firebox full of my life's work and carbon copies, was completely trapped on the wrong side of the fence. Leaving my own records behind meant losing my primary defense and potentially my entire business. I was sacrificing the only proof that I was innocent, relying entirely on the proof that Hollister was guilty.
I made a desperate, agonizing choice. The ledger currently zipped under my jacket proved the cars never left the lot. It was enough to force an immediate state investigation, even if Hollister eventually burned my shop's copies. I had to get this single, undeniable piece of evidence across the jurisdictional line, and the only route left was through the water.
I grabbed a heavy logging chain resting on the back of a nearby flatbed, wrapping it tightly around my forearm to provide counterweight against the current, and launched myself over the edge of the muddy embankment. I slid blindly into the dark, freezing current of the Washita River just as Riker's flashlight beam swept directly over my head.
CHAPTER 3: The Ledger At The Boundary Line
The impact with the freezing Washita River drove every ounce of oxygen from my shattered chest. The water wasn't just cold; it was a heavy, suffocating physical force that swallowed me whole, violently shocking my system. I sank beneath the black surface, the heavy logging chain still wrapped tight around my forearm, dragging me down into the deep, churning silt. My steel-toed work boots immediately felt like concrete blocks, pulling my legs toward the riverbed.
I thrashed blindly, kicking against the freezing current. The sharp, burning agony in my ribs forced my mouth open, and I swallowed a foul mouthful of muddy, oil-slicked water. Panic, pure and primitive, flooded my veins. I frantically clawed at my right wrist, unwinding the heavy metal links of the chain, and let the iron drop into the darkness.