“Pretty elaborate setup,” he said, almost admiring. “Question is: who hated you enough to massacre your entire MC and frame you for it?”
Only one name came to mind. A man I hadn’t seen in thirty years. A man who swore he’d destroy everything I loved after what happened in ’86.
The FBI agent leaned closer. “You’ve got 48 hours before we process the evidence. After that, you’re looking at death row. But if someone else did this, I need a name.”
I closed my eyes, the faces of my dead brothers floating behind my eyelids. Telling the truth meant breaking the code I’d lived by for four decades.
But keeping silent meant whoever killed my brothers would walk free.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as I tried to focus through the painkillers. My shoulder throbbed where they’d dug out the bullet—a bullet I had no memory of taking.
“Let’s go through it again,” the agent said. His badge read Wilson. Young guy, maybe forty. Not old enough to understand the world I came from. “The meeting ended at eight. Then what?”
“I told you. I don’t remember.”
