The Biker President's Runaway Witness

The first gunshot sounds like a file cabinet dropped on concrete. I look up from the spreadsheet on my monitor, one hand still resting on the mouse. Cross Compliance is supposed to be empty except for Adrian Cross and me. The cleaning crew left twenty minutes ago. The front door is locked. The air-conditioning hums over the rows of dark cubicles. Then comes a second shot. Not a cabinet. I am out of my chair before I decide to move. "Adrian?" No answer. The records room is at the end of the corridor, past the conference room and the wall of framed compliance certificates Adrian likes to joke make us look more respectable than we are. The lights inside the records room are on. One of the doors stands open. I reach the corner and stop. A man in a dark jacket is inside. For one frozen second, all I understand is shape: broad shoulders, gloves, an arm extended. Adrian is backed against the cabinets. There is something black in the man's hand. Adrian sees me. His expression changes. "Run." The man turns. I drop behind the copier as another shot cracks through the office. Plastic bursts above my head. I crawl, knees scraping carpet, and hear the records-room door slam. Footsteps move fast in the opposite direction, toward the loading corridor. My phone is in my hand. I do not remember taking it out. Nine-one-one is already on the screen. I hesitate for half a heartbeat, then call. "Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?" "My boss has been shot." My voice sounds too calm. "Cross Compliance. Mesa Vale industrial district. The shooter is leaving through the loading side. I don't know if he's still in the building." The dispatcher starts asking questions. I answer while moving. Adrian is on the floor between two file cabinets. There is blood on his shirt, but I force myself to look at his face instead. He is conscious. Barely. "Ambulance is coming," I say, dropping beside him. His hand closes around my wrist with shocking strength. "No police." I stare at him. "Adrian-" "Listen." "You're hurt." "Maya." His voice cuts through mine. The same voice he uses when a client tries to bury a number in a footnote. "Listen to me." He reaches inside his jacket. I almost stop him because every movement looks painful, but his fingers come out around a small brass coin and a black flash drive. He presses both into my palm. The coin is heavy, old, worn smooth at the edges. A winged figure is stamped over the words IRON SAINTS. I know the name. Everyone who has worked county contracts around Blackridge knows the Iron Saints Motorcycle Club. Towing. Repair. Transport. Bar fights in old newspaper archives. Rumors that never survive into court filings. "Find Rook Maddox," Adrian says. I look down at him. "Who?" "President. Iron Saints." His breath catches. "Redline. Blackridge." The dispatcher is still talking through my phone on the floor. I can hear sirens. Too soon. I glance toward the corridor. "Adrian, the police are almost here." His grip tightens again. "Do not trust the badge." The words settle colder than the gunshots. "Why?" "Northstar." The name means nothing to me. "What is Northstar?" He shakes his head, frustrated by the time his body is refusing to give him. "Drive. Keep it." He looks at my closed fist. "Not them." "Who is them?" His eyes focus on me with painful effort. "You see patterns. That's why-" His hand slips from my wrist. "Adrian." No response. "Adrian." I press my fingers against his neck because I have seen people do it in movies and because doing nothing feels impossible. I cannot tell whether I find a pulse or only my own fingers shaking. The sirens stop outside. A car door slams. Then another. The dispatcher tells me officers are entering the building. My instinct should be relief. Instead I hear Adrian's last clear sentence. Do not trust the badge. I shove the flash drive into the inside pocket of my blazer and the coin into my trouser pocket. Only this afternoon, Adrian had handed me a stack of county vendor records and asked why three towing invoices carried the same approval number even though they belonged to different dates. I had told him it looked like a copied template. He had asked me to check again. "Assume the error is deliberate," he'd said. That was Adrian. He never called a pattern criminal until the paper forced him to. He trusted documents because documents could be tested. Now the man who built a career around verification has handed me evidence without a receipt, without a chain-of-custody form, without an explanation. My stomach turns. I pull my phone from the floor. The emergency call is still connected. I tell the dispatcher Adrian is unresponsive and that I am moving to the hallway. She tells me not to touch anything else. Good advice. Too late. The coin presses against my thigh through my pocket. The flash drive feels much heavier than it should. By the time two uniformed deputies appear at the end of the corridor, I am standing beside the records-room door with my hands visible. One deputy keeps his hand near his holster. The other scans the hall. "Ma'am, step away from him." I do. "I'm Maya Arden. I called. The shooter went toward the loading side." "Did you see him?" "Dark jacket. Gloves. Male, I think. I didn't see his face." The deputy looks past me at Adrian. He does not check Adrian's pulse. He does not ask whether anyone else is inside. He asks, "What did Cross give you?" My heart changes rhythm. I keep my face still. "What?" "He was investigating a stolen data device." The deputy's tone is casual, almost bored. "Flash drive. Small. Black. Did he hand it to you?" I look at his badge. Blackridge County Sheriff's Office. We are in Mesa Vale. "You're outside your county," I say. Something flickers in his expression. "Joint response." The other deputy finally moves toward Adrian, speaking into his radio. I hear the word ambulance. I should feel better. I don't. The first deputy takes one step closer. "Ms. Arden, the drive is evidence. If Cross gave it to you, hand it over now." He knows there is a drive. Not a laptop. Not a folder. Not a phone. A drive. Adrian has been dead less than two minutes. The deputy holds out his hand. "Ms. Arden?" I close my fingers around nothing. And for the first time in my life, the sight of a badge makes me think of a warning instead of safety.