Paige’s hand stopped halfway to her pocket. I looked at Voss. “You just threatened a federal agent in front of witnesses.” “I advised you against resisting.” He nodded toward the deputies. “Take her.” My first instinct was to fight. Then I saw Emma standing between a deputy and the broken glass, and Frank gripping his chest. I lowered my hands behind my back. “Paige. Call counsel. Preserve everything.”
Mercer shoved me against the bar while a deputy fastened the cuffs. Pain shot through my wrist. “Too tight,” Webb said. “Go direct traffic.” Webb stayed where he was. Outside, our team leader, Daniel Cho, stood behind the sheriff’s SUV with his phone pressed to his ear. He caught my eye through the window and held up one finger. Wait. Federal reinforcements were coming, but a confrontation between armed officers in a packed tavern could turn ugly in seconds.
Voss leaned close as they walked me past him. “Your sister can go home tonight,” he whispered. “If you both forget Frank Sullivan.” I looked back at Paige. She had heard him. At the county jail, they took my phone and separated me from the other detainees. An hour passed before an attorney arrived with Cho. By then, a federal prosecutor had arranged an emergency hearing, and the judge wanted the original warrant application immediately.
“The warrant names a victim from three days ago,” Cho said through the interview-room glass. “Mercer claims you attacked him outside a gas station.” “I was in Kansas City. At a training session.” “We have the attendance records and video.” “Then why am I still here?” “Because Voss says the jail can’t verify the release order.” I stared at him. Cho’s voice hardened. “We’re fixing that.”
When I finally walked outside shortly before dawn, Paige was waiting. She hugged me so hard my bruised ribs protested. “Sorry,” she whispered. “Don’t be.” Then she handed me her phone. Emma’s recording had spread beyond town overnight. But beneath the video was a photograph of Frank’s front door, posted minutes earlier. A notice suspended his liquor license. “They’re destroying him,” Paige said.
At our temporary office, Webb was waiting beside a federal attorney. He had come without his uniform. Mercer had ordered him to write that we attacked first. Instead, Webb had copied photographs from a notebook Mercer kept in his patrol bag. He pushed them across the table. Dates. Business names. Payments. At the bottom of each page: R.V., forty percent. “Voss,” Paige said. Webb nodded. “He calls it his pension.”
“Why help now?” I asked. Webb stared at my wrist. “Because yesterday I almost put cuffs on you just to keep my job.” He swallowed. “My father paid them, too. Hardware store on Oak Street. He sold it last year. Told everyone he wanted to retire.” We arranged protection for Webb and his father. Then Cho brought in the warrant application. The accusation was false, but the signature beside it stopped my breathing. Emma Sullivan.
Paige read it twice. “No.” I called Emma on a recorded line. She answered crying. “They said Dad would lose the building.” “Did you sign a statement?” “A blank page. Last month. Mercer said it was a licensing form.” That was the trap. They hadn’t fabricated the case overnight. They had collected signatures from frightened people and kept them ready.
Our prosecutor began drafting a search warrant for Voss’s office, including his private safe. The notebook photographs matched cash withdrawals from several businesses, and Frank identified the envelope we had supplied for the controlled payment. We had recorded every bill’s serial number. Then Webb’s protected phone rang. Mercer. At the attorney’s direction, Webb answered on speaker.
“Bring me those pictures,” Mercer said. “Sullivan’s tavern. Ten minutes.” “I don’t know what you mean.” A crash sounded through the phone. Then Frank’s voice, strained and breathless. “Tyler, don’t come.” Mercer laughed. “Nine minutes.” Paige was already reaching for her vest. Cho blocked the doorway. “We go together.” Then Emma’s voice cut through the speaker. “He’s got Dad against the freezer. Please hurry.”
Part 3
We reached the tavern in six minutes. Two agents covered the rear while Cho took the front with Paige and me. Through the kitchen window, I could see Mercer holding Frank against the walk-in freezer, one forearm pressed across his upper chest. Emma stood nearby with both hands raised. Mercer’s pistol was still holstered. Cho gave the signal. “FBI! Hands where we can see them!”
Mercer jerked Frank sideways, using him as a shield. Paige moved toward Emma while I kept my weapon trained on Mercer. “Let him go,” I said. “Get back.” His hand dropped toward his belt. “Wade,” Webb called from behind Cho. “It’s over.” Mercer looked past me. That tiny shift gave Frank room to pull away. Mercer grabbed his shirt, but the fabric tore. Frank stumbled into a prep table.
