Page 40 of Torgash

"You're supposed to stay safe long enough to see justice done."

My ribs tighten around my lungs. Not because he's wrong, but because he's right—and because the concern in his tone sounds genuine instead of possessive.

"The Caldwell farm is fifteen minutes away," I say, moderating my tone. "Santos rides with me, we check it out, file a report. Standard police work."

"Not alone."

"Santos will be—"

"Not just Santos." Ash's jaw tightens. "If you're going out there, I'm going with you."

"Like hell you are." The automatic refusal surprises even me with its force. "I don't need a babysitter."

"You need backup that knows how to handle threats more sophisticated than drunk vandals."

"You think I can't handle myself?"

His laugh is tight. "I think you're stubborn enough to walk into danger just to prove you don't need help. And I think whoever's watching you is counting on exactly that kind of predictable behavior."

My jaw clenches. The words hit their mark because they're accurate. I have been making choices based on pride as much as practicality, refusing assistance that might actually keep me safer just to maintain my independence.

But admitting that feels too much like surrendering ground I can't afford to lose. Not to him. Not now. But if he's not going to let me out of the room until I agree, I don't have much of a choice.

"Fine," I say finally. "You can follow at a distance. As a civilian. But you don't interfere unless shots are fired."

"Agreed."

We'll see about that.

Twenty minutes later, Santos and I pull into the farm's gravel drive, Ash's bike a discreet distance behind us.

The Caldwell farm stretches across a few hundred acres of pasture, but most of the fields stand empty. A few head of cattle cluster near the farmhouse—maybe a dozen where there should be hundreds. The barn needs paint, the fence posts sag, and the whole place looks like a victim of time and economics.

The vandalism is clear before we exit the cruiser. "SELL OR DIE" screams across the barn's weathered siding in blood-red letters three feet tall. Beyond that, the real damage becomes clear—fence posts snapped clean through, gates hanging off their hinges, tire tracks cutting deep ruts through what used to be carefully maintained pasture.

"When did you discover this?" I ask Tom Caldwell, noting the exhaustion in his weathered face.

"This morning," he says. "Heard the cattle bellowing around five, came out to check, found this mess." He gestures toward the barn, anger and resignation warring in his expression. "Took me three hours to round up the stock, and I'm still missing two head."

Santos documents the scene while I walk the perimeter, cataloging details. The fence cuts are clean, marking this as Royce's work, not teenage vandals. This was meant as a clear message to get the hell out of town before worse happens.

"Has anyone approached you recently about selling?" I ask Tom. "Real estate agents, developers, investors?"

His mouth tightens. "Matter of fact, yes. A man came by last week. Didn't give a name, just said there were parties interested in acquiring agricultural properties for development. Offered twice what the land's worth."

"You turn him down?"

"Course I did. This land's been in my family for four generations. If I didn't sell out to Victor Hargrove, I'm not selling to some developer who wants to pave it over for condos."

The pattern fits perfectly with everything we've documented about Royce's operation. Identify undervalued properties. Make generous offers. When those are refused, apply pressure through legal harassment, economic sabotage, or, in this case, direct intimidation.

"I'll need a full description of this man," I tell Tom. "Vehicle, approximate age, anything distinctive you remember?"

Tom's stare drifts past me toward the tree line, and his expression hardens. "That one of them biker things watching us?"

I follow his gaze to where Ash waits in the shadows. "He's providing security backup."

"Security." Tom spits into the dirt. "Didn't think you'd be fool enough to get mixed up with those... creatures. Bad enough they're squatting in our town without the sheriff cozying up to them."

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