Chapter 3 - The Sheriff’s Threat
Sheriff Walter Prescott was a man built like a cinder block, encased in a starched tan uniform that strained across his gut. His silver badge gleamed under the diner lights, but his eyes carried the venom of a small-town dictator whose kingdom had just been breached.
Behind him trailed Chad, Tyler, and Brody. Chad was clutching an ice pack to his cheek, pointing a trembling finger toward the interior of the diner.
“That’s him, Dad! That big son of a bitch choked me! And that dirty girl jumped on my back—she tried to rob me!” Chad’s voice was high-pitched, laced with frantic deceit.
Walter Prescott stepped inside the diner, his hand resting casually on the butt of his Glock 21 holster. Two young deputies flanked him, looking distinctly nervous as they eyed the twelve patched Iron Nomads leaning against the counter and the jukebox.
“Everybody keep their hands where I can see them!” Prescott barked, his voice booming with authority. “Who is in charge here?!”
From the corner booth, Samuel Vance slowly stood up.
He didn't rush. He folded his napkin, placed it beside his empty coffee cup, and stepped into the aisle. Even at sixty-eight, with blood crusting his brow, Samuel carried a posture that commanded instant silence.
“Walter,” Samuel said calmly. “You haven’t changed a bit in twenty years. Still letting your boy run wild, and still showing up with a badge to clean up his puke.”
Prescott froze. The blood drained from his florid face. The sheriff’s hand moved an inch away from his sidearm. “...Vance?”
“Samuel Vance,” the old man confirmed, stepping closer until he stood just five feet from the lawman. “Your son and his buddies ambushed me outside your jurisdiction. He kicked me while my back was turned, pinned me to the asphalt, and raised an eight-pound flashlight with the intent to cave in my skull.”
Prescott’s eyes flicked to his son, then back to Samuel. The sheriff’s jaw tightened. He knew who Samuel Vance was. Everyone who wore a badge in northern Arizona knew that the Iron Nomads weren't some disorganized street gang; they were a vast, multi-state fraternity with legitimate trucking lines, logistics warehouses, and enough legal firepower to tie the county in federal court for a decade.
Chad sensed his father’s hesitation and panicked. “Dad! He’s lying! They’re gang members! Look at the girl! She’s a vagrant! She attacked me first!”
Prescott turned his glare onto Maya, who sat rigid in the booth. His eyes narrowed, instantly identifying the weakest link in the room.
“Is that right?” Prescott sneered, stepping toward Maya. “What’s your name, girl?”
Maya didn't flinch, though her stomach felt hollow. “Maya. Maya Campbell.”
“You got an ID on you, Maya?” Prescott demanded, pulling a pair of handcuffs from his belt. “You got a permanent address in this county? Because right now, you look like a runaway with a history of vagrancy and trespassing. And my boy here says you assaulted him with intent to commit armed robbery.”
“That is an absolute lie!” Maya fired back, rising from her seat. “He shoved this old man without reason! He was going to murder him! Look at the security cameras!”
Prescott laughed—a dry, grating bark. “Cameras? Hank’s cameras outside haven't worked since ninety-eight. It’s your word against the son of the county sheriff. And in my town, a dirty drifter doesn't have a word.”
Prescott took a step toward Maya, his handcuffs raised. “Turn around. Put your hands behind your back. You’re under arrest for aggravated assault and filing a false police report.”
Before Prescott could take another step, Grimm moved.
The massive Vice President stepped directly into Prescott’s path, cutting him off with a chest that was broad as a bank vault. Grimm didn't draw a weapon. He simply looked down at the sheriff, his dark eyes void of fear.
“Touch that girl,” Grimm whispered, his voice vibrating like an idling semi-truck, “and you won't leave this parking lot in that cruiser, Walter. You’ll leave in an ambulance.”
The two deputies drew their tasers, their hands shaking. “Step back! Step back from the Sheriff right now!”
“Stand down!” Prescott shouted to his deputies, his neck turning crimson. He knew the math. Three cops against twelve battle-hardened Nomads inside a diner, with forty more waiting outside under the desert moon. It would be a slaughter.
Prescott glared past Grimm at Samuel. “You protecting this stray, Vance? You’re gonna start a war with the county sheriff’s department over a piece of street trash?”
Samuel Vance stepped up beside Grimm. He placed a gentle hand on his Vice President’s leather shoulder, prompting Grimm to yield an inch. Samuel looked directly into Prescott’s arrogant eyes.
“She bled for me tonight, Walter,” Samuel said, his voice dropping into a deadly, solemn whisper. “She stood between me and your coward of a son when she had nothing to gain and everything to lose. That makes her family. That makes her an Iron Nomad.”
Samuel took Maya’s small, bruised hand into his own.
“Write whatever bogus warrant you want in your little county, Walter. But know this: if one of your cruisers crosses the boundary of our compound, or if you touch a single hair on this child’s head... I will not call my lawyers. I will bring every charter from Reno to Albuquerque to your front porch. And your badge won't save you.”
Samuel turned his back on the sheriff—a gesture of pure, dismissive contempt.
May you like
“Grimm,” Samuel commanded. “Pack her up. She’s coming home with us.”
***
