“Convenient.” He shuffled through his papers. “Seven men dead. All shot execution-style. Security cameras disabled except the one showing your Harley arriving at 11:47 PM. Then you, stumbling away at 12:30, bleeding.”
“If I killed them, why would I shoot myself?”
Wilson shrugged. “To create reasonable doubt. You only hit muscle. Could’ve been self-inflicted.”
The hospital door opened. A woman in a sharp suit entered, her face stern.
“Special Agent Kent,” she introduced herself. “I’ll be taking over.”
Wilson looked surprised. “This is my case—”
“Not anymore. Wait outside.”
After he left, she pulled a chair close to my bed. Her eyes were hard but not unkind.
“Mr. Harmon, I’ve spent twenty years investigating motorcycle clubs. This wasn’t a turf war or a drug deal gone bad. This was personal.”
I said nothing.
