I Rode Into The Town That Covered Up My Wife’s Murder. The Corrupt Cops Thought They Got Away With It… But They Didn’t Know Hell Was Coming For Them On Two Wheels.

Chapter 1: The Smell of Burnt Oil and Rain

The vibration of the modified V-twin engine traveled up my heavy boots, settling deep in my chest. It felt like a second heartbeat.

A cold, stinging drizzle had been falling for hours. It smeared the dead bugs on my dark visor and soaked right through the frayed collar of my jacket.

I didn’t care. The physical numbness was welcome.

Up ahead, the sodium lights of the town limits flickered through the thick fog like sick, yellow eyes.

Welcome to Blackwood Creek. Population 3,412.

I killed the throttle, letting the heavy bike coast. The exhaust growled out a low, guttural warning that seemed to swallow the dead silence of the night.

They told me it was just a tragic accident. A deer in the road, a bad swerve, a dark ditch.

But I saw the police photos. I saw the deep paint transfer on Sarah’s crushed bumper.

There were no skid marks. Just broken glass from a heavy-duty truck grill that didn’t belong to her sedan.

The local sheriff’s department closed the investigation in three days. Three damn days.

They thought I was just some grieving suit from out of state. Someone who would cry, collect the life insurance, and fade away.

I shifted down a gear. The transmission clunked hard, jarring my teeth.

I pulled into the gravel lot of the only diner still open on the edge of town. The smell of stale fry grease and wet dirt hung heavy in the damp air.

Through the rain-streaked diner window, I saw him.

Deputy Miller. He was sitting in a corner booth, throwing his head back and laughing around a mouthful of cherry pie.

His patrol cruiser was parked right out front, the engine still ticking as the metal cooled in the rain.

My hands tightened around the leather grips until my knuckles ached.

I kicked the kickstand down. The heavy iron scraped loudly against the wet gravel.

It was time to ask some questions.

Chapter 2: Blood and Black Coffee

The little bell above the diner door jingled. It sounded entirely too cheerful for what was about to happen.

The heavy glass door shut behind me, cutting off the sound of the rain. The air inside was suffocatingly warm, smelling of burnt coffee and cheap floor wax.

The tired waitress behind the counter paused, wiping a rag in slow circles. She took one look at my dripping leather jacket and the black helmet tucked under my arm, then quickly found something very interesting to look at on the floor.

I didn’t take my eyes off the corner booth. Deputy Miller hadn’t noticed me yet.

He was busy scraping the last bit of cherry pie off a thick ceramic plate. His silver star caught the harsh glare of the flickering fluorescent light above him.

My wet boots squeaked against the linoleum as I crossed the room. Every step felt incredibly loud, but all I could really hear was the heavy, rhythmic rushing of blood in my own ears.

I stopped right at the edge of his booth. The sharp smell of his drugstore cologne hit me, mixing with the sugary scent of the pie crust.

Miller finally looked up. Annoyance flashed across his doughy face, followed quickly by a dull confusion.

“Diner’s closed, buddy,” he grunted, grabbing a paper napkin to wipe his chin. “Waitress just forgot to lock up.”

I didn’t say a word. I reached deep into the inside pocket of my jacket and pulled out a jagged, heavy piece of chrome.

It was a broken fragment of a customized truck grill. I dropped it onto the Formica table with a loud, sharp clatter.

It landed right next to his coffee mug. Miller’s hand froze halfway to his mouth.

All the color drained out of his face. He stared at the piece of metal like it was a live rattlesnake.

“Where… where did you get that?” his voice cracked. His right hand instinctively dropped toward the leather holster on his hip.

I slammed my hand down, pinning his wrist against the table before he could even unsnap the retention strap. The coffee mug tipped over, sending a pool of dark, scalding liquid rushing over the edge.

“You missed a piece at the crash site on Route 9,” I whispered, leaning in close enough to see the beads of sweat forming on his forehead. “Now, you’re going to tell me who was driving that truck.”

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Chapter 3: The Chief’s Boy

Miller thrashed against my grip, his heavy boots scrambling for traction under the table.

The spilled coffee soaked right through his uniform pants. He let out a pathetic, high-pitched yelp that didn’t sound like a cop at all.

I leaned my body weight into his pinned wrist. A dull, sickening pop echoed over the low hum of the diner’s refrigeration unit.

“The truck,” I repeated, the edge of my helmet knocking against his trembling forehead. “Whose is it?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the waitress bolt. The glass front door swung wide open, letting the freezing rain blow sideways across the checkered linoleum.

Miller’s eyes darted toward the exit, trying to calculate his odds. I dug my thumb straight into the radial nerve of his trapped arm.

He choked on a scream, his face turning the color of dirty ash. “Okay! Okay, man, Jesus!”

“Talk,” I said.

“It was Chief Hartley’s kid,” he spat out, saliva flying from his pale lips. “Caleb. He was completely smashed. Took the Chief’s custom rig out for a spin after the bar closed.”

The cold knot in my stomach pulled tight. A drunk teenager, and a small-town boss willing to leave a dying woman in a ditch to protect his own blood.

“I just signed the paperwork,” Miller whined, tears mixing with the sweat on his cheeks. “Hartley paid me five grand to write it up as a deer strike.”

“Where are they?” I asked.

“The precinct on 4th and Elm,” he wheezed, going totally limp in the booth. “Hartley is wiping the dashcam servers tonight.”

I let go of his wrist. He immediately slumped forward, cradling his hand against his chest.

“Stay here,” I told him, turning back toward the stormy night. “If I see you outside, I won’t just break the wrist.”

Chapter 4: What the Rain Couldn’t Wash Away

The ride to 4th and Elm took exactly three minutes. The precinct was a square brick bunker sitting completely dark in the storm, except for a single, pale light glowing in the back room.

I didn’t bother picking the lock. I kicked the heavy glass door right above the deadbolt, and the frame splintered with a loud crack.

The air inside smelled of stale cigarette smoke, damp wool, and burnt ozone.

I found them in the evidence and server room down the hall. Chief Hartley was frantically typing at a terminal, the blue glow of the monitor reflecting off his slicked-back gray hair.

Huddled on a folding chair in the corner was a kid. Caleb. He was pale and shivering, staring blankly at his own shaking hands.

“Transfer is at ninety percent, Dad,” Caleb mumbled, his voice cracking. “Just hurry up.”

I drew the heavy .45 from my shoulder holster and racked the slide. The metallic clack cut right through the steady hum of the cooling fans.

Hartley spun around. His hand instinctively slapped down onto the grip of his service weapon.

He froze the second he saw the black barrel pointed straight at the bridge of his nose.

“Step away from the keyboard,” I said. My voice was completely hollow. It didn’t even sound like me anymore.

Hartley swallowed hard, holding his hands up at chest level. “Look, son. Let’s think about this. You shoot a police chief, you’re going to fry. I can give you money.”

“My wife is already dead, Hartley,” I whispered.

I stepped forward and drove the solid steel butt of the pistol straight into his jaw. The impact sounded like a dropped melon.

He crumpled hard onto the linoleum, spitting blood and teeth. Caleb screamed, scrambling backward until his spine hit the cinderblock wall.

I didn’t look at the kid. I reached over, grabbed the tangled nest of cables behind the terminal, and ripped the main hard drive right out of the rack.

Sparks showered onto the floor as the cooling fans died. I shoved the heavy, metal drive deep into my wet jacket. The State Bureau of Investigation was going to love this footage.

I stepped over Hartley’s groaning body and walked back down the dark hallway.

Outside, the rain was finally starting to let up. I swung my leg over the wet leather saddle and fired up the engine.

The exhaust roared, drowning out the distant sirens starting to wail on the other side of town. Blackwood Creek was finally in my rearview mirror, but the real hunt had just begun.