Page 108 of Bone’s Choice

“Make it five,” I ordered.

“You know watching it again isn’t going to magically make the picture clearer.”

“Dave,” I drawled.

“Yeah, yeah.” The video jumped backward.

I leaned forward, bracing my forearms on the table.

The clubhouse common room was quiet, which wasn’t normal. Getting this many Grave Prowlers in one room usually meant somebody was talking shit, Taco was running his mouth, or Rowdy was laughing loud enough to drown out everyone else.

Nobody was doing any of that.

Myth sat on my right. Humpty stood behind us with his arms folded over his chest. Dealer was pacing near the end of the table. Bull had a notebook open in front of him. Breaker sat beside him. Hose was at the bar with his coffee, and Taco and Rowdy had pulled chairs around to face the laptop. Even Munch had managed to keep his mouth shut. That was how I knew shit was serious.

“Here,” Dave said.

The video slowed. It was shitty footage.

Black and white and grainy as fuck. The timestamp in the corner read 2:13 A.M.

The camera pointed toward a section of the Milwaukee transfer facility I’d seen plenty of times over the years. Loading docks lined one side. Trucks and trailers sat in rows farther back.

Nothing happened.

Two thirteen became two fourteen. A truck moved in the distance. Then a man walked into view.

Owen Mercer.

At least, Dave said it was Owen Mercer.

The footage wasn’t good enough for me to swear to it, but the height and build matched.

Owen walked directly toward the camera, stopped beneath it, looked up, and then the screen went black.

“Stop.”

Dave froze it.

I stared at Owen. “That’s him?”

“I’m as sure as I can be without having a clear shot of his face.”

“When was this?” I asked.

“Thirteen days ago.”

Myth leaned closer. “His wife reported him missing nine days ago.”

“Right,” Dave said.

I looked at the frozen image.

“So four days before he disappeared,” Bull calculated.

“Yep,” Dave agreed.

“What was he doing there?” Taco asked.