Chapter 1 - The Belly That Came OffBlaire Mercer stood beneath a dead streetlight on the edge of Sacramento with one hand pressed against her stomach.
The other held a phone with a cracked screen.
She looked pregnant.
Very pregnant.
At least seven months.
Evan Cross noticed her because nobody should have been standing alone on that stretch of road after midnight.
Industrial buildings sat dark behind chain-link fences.
Traffic had thinned to almost nothing.
Evan eased his large touring motorcycle toward the shoulder.
He did not switch off the engine immediately.
Habit.
“Everything okay?”
Blaire looked relieved.
“Oh, thank God.”
Her voice trembled convincingly.
“My phone died. My sister is waiting up ahead.”
Evan glanced at the screen in her hand.
Dark.
“Where?”
“Maybe two miles.”
She pointed down the road.
“There’s an old warehouse with a blue gate.”
Evan looked at her stomach.
“You need an ambulance?”
“No.”
Too fast.
Then she smiled nervously.
“I’m not in labor. I just… I walked farther than I thought.”
Evan studied her.
Late twenties.
Dark jacket.
Sneakers.
No purse.
No water.
No visible vehicle.
Something was wrong.
But leaving a pregnant woman alone beside an empty road was not an option.
“Helmet?”
“I don’t have one.”
Evan opened the rear storage compartment and removed a spare half-helmet.
“Wear this.”
Blaire blinked.
“You carry an extra?”
“Sometimes people need one.”
She climbed onto the passenger seat.
Her movements were careful.
But not careful in the way pregnant women usually moved.
Evan noticed that too.
He said nothing.
They rode.
One mile.
Then two.
Blaire tapped his shoulder.
“There.”
A side road disappeared between two abandoned distribution buildings.
Evan slowed.
No blue gate.
No sister.
No parked car.
Blaire pointed again.
“Just around the corner.”
Evan turned.
The street became darker.
Then four men stepped into the road.
Evan stopped.
The motorcycle idled beneath him.
Blaire immediately climbed off.
Her fear vanished.
So did her posture.
She stood straight.
Reached beneath her jacket.
And removed the rounded belly.
Foam.
Fabric.
Straps.
She dropped it onto the pavement.
“Now give me the key.”
Evan looked at her.
One of the men laughed.
“Nice bike.”
Another moved toward the saddlebags.
Evan remained seated for several seconds.
Then he shut off the engine.
The silence seemed to make the group more confident.
Blaire folded her arms.
“Phone too.”
Evan stepped off the motorcycle.
He removed one glove.
Then the other.
A tall man with a shaved head moved closer.
“You deaf?”
Evan reached into his jacket.
The men tensed.
He pulled out a narrow leather wallet.
Opened it.
Metal caught what little light remained.
Police badge.
Three men froze.
Blaire’s smile disappeared.
The shaved-head man whispered:
“Oh, hell.”
Evan’s voice stayed calm.
“Sacramento Police.”
Nobody moved.
Then the fourth man looked more carefully.
He was older than the others.
Maybe forty.
Scar along his jaw.
His eyes dropped from Evan’s face to the motorcycle jacket.
Then to Evan’s boots.
Then to the small stitched insignia near his left shoulder.
His expression changed.
Not concern.
Recognition.
He took one step backward.
“Wait.”
Blaire looked at him.
“What?”
The man kept staring at Evan.
“That patch.”
Evan said nothing.
The man’s face went pale.
“You’re motor.”
One of the others frowned.
“What?”
“Motor unit.”
His eyes shifted toward the touring motorcycle.
Then toward Evan’s gloves.
“That’s not his personal bike.”
Evan finally smiled.
Very slightly.
The scarred man stepped back again.
“Blaire.”
She stared.
“What is wrong with you?”
“He’s traffic enforcement.”
“So?”
The man looked at her as if she had missed something enormous.
“No.”
His voice dropped.
“He’s one of them.”
Blaire’s confidence cracked.
Evan closed the badge wallet.
The shaved-head man slowly lowered his hands.
Nobody reached for the motorcycle now.
Blaire looked from face to face.
“What does that even mean?”
The scarred man whispered:
“Motor officers have been hunting the Route 8 crew for six months.”
Evan’s expression did not change.
Blaire stared.
Route 8.
Nobody outside the crew was supposed to know that name.
Then the scarred man looked at Evan again.
“Which one are you?”
Evan answered quietly.
“Cross.”
The man went completely still.
Blaire noticed.
“What?”
He whispered:
“Evan Cross?”
Evan nodded once.
The scarred man backed away as though the name itself had weight.
One of the younger men said:
“Why do you know him?”
The answer never came.
Because red and blue lights suddenly appeared at both ends of the road.
Two unmarked SUVs blocked the exit behind them.
Another vehicle rolled forward from the opposite direction.
Blaire spun toward Evan.
“You set us up.”
Evan looked at her.
“No.”
He glanced at the fake belly lying on the road.
“You chose me.”
Officers stepped from the vehicles.
Commands filled the street.
Hands visible.
Down.
Don’t move.
The four men obeyed.
Blaire did not.
She remained staring at Evan.
Anger slowly replacing shock.
“You were waiting for this.”
Evan shook his head.
“I was waiting for someone.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Who?”
Evan looked toward the scarred man.
The man had gone pale.
May you like
His name was Travis Keene.
And six months earlier, Travis had been the last person seen with Evan’s younger brother before he disappeared.
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