Knox
Old County Road is quiet. No flashing lights, no sirens, no state troopers poking around with flashlights. A police response brings paperwork, questions, and unwanted eyes… and nobody on my payroll gets paid to answer questions. Not that kind, anyway.
Just mine.
I stand at the edge of the tree line, hands jammed deep into my pockets, looking down at the empty stretch of asphalt where my chemical truck was stolen two hours ago. Three of my guys are sweeping the ditch with heavy spotlights, their boots crunching loudly over gravel and crushed pine needles in the freezing night air.
"Stolen logging truck blocked the turn," Cain says, stepping up beside me. My club Vice-President is holding a cigarette between his teeth, his face pale and sickly under the harsh glare of the work lamps
