Chapter Eight #2
I leaned against her car, crossing my arms. “Your mother was tracking financial records, right? Following the money from those shell companies to county officials?”
She nodded. “But most of those transactions were digital. Bank transfers, wire payments.”
“Which leave trails. But there’s always paper somewhere. Signatures, authorizations, receipts. People like to think everything’s digital now, but bureaucracies run on paper. Especially small county offices that don’t have the budget for full digitization.”
“And you think the county clerk’s office will have records connecting the trafficking operation to local officials?”
“I think it’s our best shot. Property records for those motels your mother flagged. Business licenses for the shell companies. Tax records that might not match the income being reported.” I tapped the notebook in her hands. “Your mother was building a case. We just need to find the missing pieces.”
Nova nodded, processing. “How do we get in? I’m guessing we’re not waiting for business hours.”
“Small-town clerks don’t invest much in security systems. Military taught me enough about entry, and I’ve picked up a few tricks from the club’s more… technically inclined members.”
Her eyebrows rose. “You’re going to break in? You?”
I couldn’t help the small smirk that formed. “Surprised?”
“A little,” she admitted. “You always seemed so… by the book.”
“Army medic, remember? Sometimes field medicine happens in places you’re not supposed to be.”
Nova studied me for a moment, like she was seeing something new. Then she nodded toward my bike. “So what’s the plan for my car?”
“Leave it. Less conspicuous if we take the bike. Back roads, no headlights for the last stretch.” I hesitated. “Unless you’re not comfortable riding…”
“I’ve ridden before,” she blurted, then amended, “Well, once. With Uncle Bats a few years ago.”
The image of tiny Nova clutching onto the back of Bats as he tore down country roads almost made me smile. Almost.
“It’ll be cold,” I warned. “We’ll be staying off main roads, taking the long way around.”
Nova was already moving, securing her notebook in her messenger bag and slinging it across her body. “I’m not afraid of a little cold, Doc.”
Five minutes later, she parked her car behind the dilapidated gas station, then climbed onto the back of my Harley. The bike dipped as she settled in behind me, her thighs pressing against the outside of mine.
“Hold on.” I started the engine. “And stay close to my back. Less wind resistance, warmer for you.”
Her arms came around my waist, tentative at first, then tightening as I eased the bike onto the road.
The feeling of her pressed against me sent a current of awareness up my spine that had nothing to do with the night chill.
I focused on the road ahead, hyperaware of her small body molded against mine, her chest against my back, her cheek resting between my shoulder blades.
We took the back roads as planned, avoiding the highway and any chance of being spotted.
The moon provided just enough light to navigate the winding country routes, fields and forests sliding past in shades of silver and shadow.
The night air bit at my exposed skin, and I felt Nova press closer, seeking warmth.
Her hands linked over my stomach, a point of heat in the chilly night.
Twenty minutes into the ride, I felt her shift, adjusting her position. Her mouth came close to my ear so I could hear her over the engine and wind.
“This isn’t how I pictured my first real motorcycle trip.” Her breath was warm against my skin.
“What did you picture?” I slowed for a curve in the road.
“Less running from corrupt cops.” Her voice held a hint of dry humor. “More… I don’t know. Freedom, I guess.”
I navigated around a pothole, feeling her arms tighten instinctively around me. “Next time. When this is over.”
Her arms squeezed slightly in response, a silent acknowledgment of a future neither of us was certain existed.
But in that moment, racing through the darkness with Nova trusting me enough to cling to my back, it was easy to imagine a different ride.
One without fear or urgency. One where her arms around me meant something simpler.
We reached the outskirts of the neighboring town just after midnight.
I cut the engine two blocks from the county building, coasting to a stop in the shadow of an oak tree.
Nova slid off the bike, her legs wobbly after the long ride.
I caught her elbow to steady her, my hand lingering longer than necessary.
“You okay?” I studied her face in the dim light.
She nodded, adjusting her messenger bag. “Ready to find some answers.”
The county clerk’s office loomed ahead, dark and silent. I knew we were about to cross a line we could never erase -- breaking and entering, stealing government documents, committing felonies that would end my medical career if they caught us.
But watching Nova straighten her spine, I knew there was no turning back. Not for either of us.
Some risks were worth taking. Some people were worth risking everything for.
* * *
The county clerk’s office side door had a basic pin tumbler lock that took me less than thirty seconds to defeat.
Nova watched with raised eyebrows as I manipulated the tension wrench and pick it with practiced efficiency, her expression shifting between surprise and something that might have been admiration.
The lock gave with a satisfying click, and I eased the door open, listening for any electronic beep that might indicate an alarm system.
Nothing but silence greeted us. Small-town budget constraints had just become our best ally.
“Is this one of those Army Medic skills?” Nova whispered as we slipped inside, her breath warm against my ear in the darkness.
“You’d be surprised what medics need to access in a hurry.”
The office air hung still and stale, tasting of paper dust and toner.
Emergency exit signs cast red rectangles across the linoleum floor, providing just enough light to navigate without bumping into desks.
I pulled a small tactical flashlight from my pocket, keeping the beam pointed downward to minimize its visibility from outside.
Nova did the same, her light immediately seeking filing cabinets along the far wall.
“County records should be organized by department. Financial records for the sheriff’s department, court documents, property transactions -- they’ll all be filed separately. Police records might be here, but most likely those are kept at Town Hall or the local precinct.”
I nodded, impressed by her knowledge of bureaucratic organization. “I’ll check the computer systems. Might be faster to access digital archives.”
We separated, each focused on our own task.
I watched Nova for a moment as she approached the filing cabinets, her movements deliberate and precise.
She pulled a pair of thin cotton gloves from her bag before touching anything -- another detail that spoke to her mother’s thorough training.
No fingerprints, no evidence of our presence.
I turned my attention to the clerk’s desk, finding the computer exactly where I expected -- central, with the best chair in the office.
Small towns were predictable that way. The person with the most power got the most comfortable seat.
I settled into it, powering up the machine while keeping the monitor brightness low.
The computer asked for a password, of course.
I pulled a USB drive from my pocket -- courtesy of Wire, one of our more technically inclined brothers, who’d helped me with some medical database issues months ago.
He’d given me this “just in case” tool without asking questions, understanding that sometimes access to records meant the difference between life and death in my line of work.
I hadn’t mentioned that I might use it for breaking into government offices.
The program ran automatically, cycling through password combinations faster than the human eye could track.
While it worked, I surveyed the office, taking in details I’d missed on first entry.
Family photos on desks. A coffee maker with what looked like leftover coffee from the day before.
A wall calendar marked with birthdays and vacation days.
Normal people working normal jobs, most of them probably oblivious to any corruption happening right under their noses.
The computer chimed softly as it gained access. I turned back, navigating quickly through the file system. Years of medical record-keeping had taught me how to find what I needed in poorly organized databases.
Across the room, Nova worked with methodical precision, her flashlight beam moving systematically across file labels.
She pulled folders with careful movements, examining the contents before either replacing them or setting them aside in a growing stack.
The contrast between our methods struck me.
We were different in almost every way, yet somehow in perfect sync.
“Doc,” she called softly, urgency in her voice. “I think I found something.”
I joined her at the filing cabinet, where she’d opened a folder labeled Special Disbursements -- County Judiciary.
Inside were financial records showing monthly payments from companies with generic names -- Blue Ridge Holdings, Magnolia Investments, Southern Cross Enterprises -- to various county officials.
The amounts varied but followed patterns.
Five thousand to Judge Harmon on the third of each month.
Thirty-five hundred to Deputy Chief Wallace split between the tenth and twenty-fifth.
There had even been payments to Judge Carlton and Officer Mercer.