Page 129 of Finding His Redemption

“Land speculation?” Brandt suggested.

“That’s what I thought at first. But look at this.” Ghost pulled up a map of the town with red dots marking Foster’s purchases. “See the pattern?”

Jax studied the screen, trying to make sense of the scattered dots. Then it clicked. “The railroad.”

“Exactly. Every property he’s bought sits along the defunct rail line that runs from the interstate to the mountain passes. Someone’s planning something for that route.”

“What could he want with a bunch of rotten railroad tracks?” Anson asked, crossing his arms.

Ghost’s expression darkened. “That’s the million-dollar question. But I can tell you this—Bailee Cooper worked part-time at Foster’s real estate office. She had access to his files.”

The pieces started falling into place in Jax’s mind, forming a picture that made his stomach turn over. “You think she found out about whatever Foster’s really planning?”

“I think she found out about more than land deals,” Ghost said grimly. “Foster’s been moving serious money through offshore accounts. The kind of money that doesn’t come from flipping rural property.”

River whistled low. “So what are we talking about here? Drugs? Guns?”

“Could be anything,” Brandt said.

“But whatever it is,” Ghost added, “it’s big enough to kill for.”

Boone, who’d been silent through the entire exchange, finally spoke up. “If Foster wanted Bailee dead, he wouldn’t do it himself. He’d send Trevor.”

“Who?” Brandt asked.

“Trevor Pace,” X said from the doorway. “And, you know, I saw his truck at the Rusty Spur on our way in. What do you say we go have a chat with him?”

That familiar darkness seeped in around the edges of Jax’s control. He remembered Nessie mentioning Trevor Pace inpassing, how he’d been hanging around the bakery a lot lately when he never used to. If that piece of shit had killed Bailee, if he’d tried to burn Nessie and Oliver alive...

“Easy,” Jonah murmured, settling a hand on Jax’s shoulder. “We don’t know anything for sure yet.”

But Jax was already moving toward the door. The need to make someone pay for what happened was a starving beast inside him, demanding to be fed.

“Where are you going?” Brandt called after him.

“To have a chat,” Jax said without turning around.

“Jax, wait?—”

He ignored Brandt and pushed through the door. The federal agents could analyze their data and cross-reference their files to their heart’s content. But he was going to get answers the old-fashioned way.

The Rusted Spur was colloquially known as “The Rusty Spur,” or sometimes just “The Spur.” It sat at the far south end of Main Street, a sagging log building with a roof patched with three different types of metal. Even though it wasn’t noon yet, the parking lot held a respectable collection of beat-up trucks and motorcycles—vehicles that belonged to men who drank their breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Trevor Pace’s rusted-out Chevy sat near the back, surrounded by empty beer bottles and cigarette butts.

“There,” X said, pointing. “Told you he’d still be here.”

Jax pushed through the bar’s front door, his eyes adjusting to the dim interior. It reeked of stale beer and cigarette smoke, and the walls were cluttered with rodeo posters, antlers, and barbedwire art. A “No Spitting” sign hung crookedly by the door, but judging by the sticky floor, nobody took it seriously. A handful of regulars hunched over their drinks, studiously avoiding eye contact.

“Which one is he?” Jax asked.

Boone pointed to the far end of the bar, where a barrel of a man sat, staring into a glass of something amber that definitely wasn’t his first of the day. He looked like hell. Unshaven, hollow-eyed, and wearing the same clothes he’d probably slept in.

Jax walked over and took the stool next to him. The other men spread out around the bar, not threatening exactly, but making it clear that leaving wasn’t going to be an option until they got some answers.

“Trevor.”

The man looked up, his bloodshot eyes struggling to focus. He blinked a couple of times, then something like relief flickered across his face.