“Of course they are,” Colby muttered. “Got caught with their hand in the cookie jar and now they’re worried about the crumbs.”
Hank’s jaw set. “What happens now?”
Mac checked a page. “From the technical side, the Dragons’ Cup results are void. They lose all points from this weekend. The bike stays impounded until we finish our analysis. Depending on what else we find, the penalty could extend to the rest of the season and likely a permanent ban from racing.”
Diaz added, “From PD’s side, we’re digging into where that hardware came from. I can tell you this much, James. The machining on that bottle, the gauge integration, the switch routing. That’s not something some backyard mechanic cooked up. Someone’s supplying pro-grade illegal kits to whoever’ll pay.”
She let that hang in the air.
Hank felt the old familiar shift in his brain, like someone had flipped a switch from race mode to threat assessment. He’d seen that pattern before, in a different desert, with different hardware. Someone with expertise cuts corners for money; regular people pay the cost.
“Do you think they installed those kits for anyone else here?” he asked.
Mac and Diaz shared a look.
“It’s on our radar,” Diaz said. “Right now, we have no direct evidence of other bikes running that setup in this paddock. That doesn’t mean it’s not happening elsewhere.”
The sponsor rep cleared his throat again. “We can’t go on a witch hunt.”
“No one’s talking about that,” Diaz replied calmly. “We’re talking about following leads. Which, Mr. James, brings us back to you.”
Hank raised his eyebrows. “To me.”
Mac tapped the folder. “You’ve got credibility with other riders. You talk, they listen. If you hear anything about these kits, about people bragging, about a guy who knows a guy who can find speed for a price. You come to us. Quietly.”
It wasn’t a request. It was also not unfamiliar. Back in the Corps, he’d been the guy who kept an ear out for the rumor that saved lives.
He nodded once. “You have my word.”
Diaz studied him for a moment, then relaxed a fraction. “Good. Because whoever’s selling this junk isn’t going to be thrilled that their work just got plastered all over the evening news.”
Hank thought of the way the Dragons’ pit had looked when the cylinder came out of the frame. Shock. Anger. Panic. Somewhere in that mix, he’d seen something that looked a lot like fear.
“I figured as much,” he said. “We’ll keep our eyes open.”
Brian shifted beside him. “We’d appreciate a heads up if the Dragons’ people decide to channel their rage in our direction too.”
Diaz’s mouth tipped up. “Already in motion. Patrol will be heavier around the paddock tonight and tomorrow. We’re not letting this turn into a soap opera in the parking lot.”
The operations woman looked up from her tablet. “That concludes what we need from you for now. Hank, congratulations again on the win. Please don’t let this overshadow what you accomplished.”
“I won’t,” he said. “But I’m glad we didn’t look the other way.”
As they filed out into the hall, Brian let out a low whistle. “Well. That was a party.”
Colby shoved his hands in his pockets. “We poke the bear, now we get invited to the bear’s performance review.”
Hank’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, and his chest eased a notch when he saw the name.
Bree: How’d the meeting go?
He smiled.
Hank: Long. Boring. Good boring. Dragons are officially in trouble.
Her reply came almost instantly.
Bree: Good. I just had a text from Carmen. She wants to meet for coffee. She says she needs to talk, and she understands if I tell her to go to hell.
