Page 26 of The Steel Beast’s Heart

Colt goes first. Ridgecrest Holdings, the company behind the poaching operation on Isla's land, traced back through three shell companies to a development firm with a registered agent in Portland and a parent company out of San Francisco. Colt's digital forensics matched their registered agent to a portfolio of coastal acquisitions, all of them targeting rural properties with water access and timber rights. Isla's twelve acres sit in the middle of their expansion corridor.

"She filed months of Fish and Wildlife reports," Colt says. "Every one. Photographs, GPS coordinates, incident logs. Nobody at the agency acted on any of them, but the file is airtight."

Isla leans forward. "Pull their articles of incorporation and cross-reference the registered agent against other LLCs filed in the same quarter. Development firms like this don't run one shell. They run a dozen, and they reuse the same agent because it's cheaper. That's where the pattern breaks open."

Colt types for thirty seconds. His eyebrows go up. "Four more LLCs. Same agent, same quarter. Two of them hold properties on the AG's watch list."

"There's your network," Isla says.

"The cameras on the intake building and the mews caught the raid," Colt continues. "They blinded every unit on the fence line months ago, but they never noticed the ones on the buildings. The whole thing's on film." Knox looks at Rex. "Your contacts?"

"Three counties." Rex folds his arms. "The sheriff's office can't bury a case when three road captains in three jurisdictions are asking the same questions about the same company. Warrants went out this morning for the two from the logging road."

"Ridgecrest?"

"Knox leaned on the sheriff. Sheriff kicked it up to the state attorney general — corporate conspiracy to damage a federally permitted wildlife facility. AG's office opened an investigation yesterday."

My chest loosens for the first time in two days.

"One more thing." Knox looks around the table. "Jax's prospect vote comes up at the next Church. Think about it."

Finn stretches back in his chair and tilts his head toward the hallway where the animals from Isla's center are still housed in temporary cages. "So how's the eagle doing?"

I look at him.

"The big brown one," Finn says. "With the face."

"The barred owl."

"Right. The eagle."

"It's an owl. Barred owl. Strix varia. Brown and white vertical streaking on the breast, horizontal barring on the upper chest. It has never been an eagle."

Finn grins. The table loses it. Garrett drops his head. Rex covers his mouth. Even Knox's jaw moves.

"Two years," Finn says. "Worth the wait."

Isla's shoulder shakes against mine. I look at her. She's biting the inside of her cheek.

"It's not an eagle," I say.

"Sure, brother." Finn winks at Isla. "Whatever you say."

Knox gets word from the sheriff an hour later. The white Dodge, heading back toward Isla's property. The contractors coming to retrieve their gear before the warrants land.

Nine bikes line up at the gate.

Isla rides behind me. Her first time on my Harley, and she doesn't hesitate. She swings on, grips my waist, and her arms tighten when the engine turns over. I feel the press of her against my back through twenty minutes of coast highway and gravel road, and the purring rolls through us both until I can't tell where the engine stops and my chest starts.

We park at the east boundary. The same gate where four gutted coyotes lay arranged ten days ago. The club fans out along the fence line: Knox, Garrett, Finn, Rex, Colt, Chain, Diesel, Bruiser. Jax at the end. Isla stands at the gate with her boots on her own gravel and her arms folded and me at her right shoulder.

The white Dodge comes up the logging road twelve minutes later. Mud on the plates. Two men in the cab. The same truck, the same men. The passenger sees the bikes first. Then the nine patched members, the prospect, and the woman he threatened standing right there.

The driver puts it in reverse.

I step forward. Not fast. I walk to the driver's window, I stand beside the door and wait until the driver looks up at me.

"The human clavicle fractures under forty pounds of lateral force," I say. My voice comes out low and factual. "The orbital floor is thinner. The floating ribs on the left side sit over the spleen. A ruptured spleen bleeds into the abdominal cavity at a rate that gives you about twenty minutes to reach a surgical table." I adjust my glasses. "The nearest hospital is forty-three minutes from here. I've timed it."