Nick felt a chill run down his spine at Jeffrey's words. The sheriff's mood was volatile, unpredictable. It felt as if he was planning something rash, something that could jeopardize the entire investigation.

"Jeffrey, please," Nick implored, his voice stern but tinged with understanding. "Don't do anything stupid. We'll sort this out ourselves, and whoever's responsible will answer to the full extent of the law." Nick and Christian were already at the door when Jeffrey advanced on them, his index finger raised in a threatening gesture.

"I am the law!" Jeffrey shouted, his face contorted with rage. "I'm the sheriff of this godforsaken town!" Spittle flew from his mouth as he yelled, some of it landing on Christian's polished black shoes.

Christian grimaced in disgust, pulling a tissue from his jacket pocket to wipe his shoe clean. Nick tactfully pretended not to notice the exchange.

"Jeffrey, we understand your emotions," Nick said, his voice tinged with exhaustion. "But please, try to calm down. Your wife needs you now more than ever. We'll keep you informed of any developments, alright?"

"Fine, agreed," Jeffrey replied, his glare still filled with malice. But behind his eyes, a different plan was already taking shape…

As soon as Christian and Nick left for the station, Jeffrey stormed out of the house and climbed into his pickup truck. He headed towards the outskirts of town, his mind racing with dark thoughts. Just before reaching the city limits, he veered left onto a narrow paved road that cut through a dense stretch of forest. After about a mile, he made a sharp right turn. There, in the middle of the woods, stood a large, imposing mansion.

Jeffrey harbored secrets that had long made him unpopular in town. Many suspected he took bribes and turned a blind eye to petty crimes, but his biggest secret was his connection to a particular gang known as the Hawks. This large, well-organized group operated across multiple states, with high-level connections that kept them largely untouchable. Their primary business was arms trafficking, and their leader was known only by the nickname "Bison." His real name remained a closely guarded secret.

Bison was an imposing figure – a tall, athletically built African American man with a shaved head. His arms were a canvas of intricate tattoos depicting various weapons. At forty-seven, he cut an intimidating figure. He had a wife and two sons living in a mansion in Caracas, Venezuela, where Bison himself had been born. From childhood, Bison had been shaped by the streets, clawing his way up through a life of crime to reach his current position of power. He had no tolerance for empty words or actions, holding his people to the highest standards of loyalty and efficiency.

Jeffrey and Bison's relationship stretched back eight years. Mary's late father had been an influential figure in town with powerful connections, and it was through these connections that Jeffrey had first made contact with Bison. In return for Jeffrey's cooperation, Bison had pulled strings to ensure Jeffrey became the sheriff of Austin in 2015. Jeffrey had played his part well, keeping the local police oblivious to the Hawks' existence. As a cover, Bison owned several grocery stores and gas stations in Austin and neighboring towns, effectively diverting attention from his true operations.

It was to Bison that Jeffrey now turned, desperation driving him to seek help from the dangerous man he both feared and relied upon.

An hour later, Jeffrey found himself standing before the entrance of the sprawling two-story mansion. The light-colored edifice resembled an impregnable fortress, secured behind an expensive stone fence. A small army of burly guards in black suits patrolled the grounds, their watchful eyes scanning for any sign of trouble.

Jeffrey pulled up to the gates, stepping out of his vehicle with forced confidence. The security detail, recognizing the sheriff, allowed him to pass without issue. Two particularly imposing guards were tasked with escorting the visitor to the house.

As they entered, Jeffrey was struck anew by the opulence of the interior. The massive living room resembled a tropical oasis, complete with a central fountain surrounded by lush vegetation. Subdued lighting cast long shadows across the space, while a large parrot squawked loudly from its ornate cage suspended from the ceiling. The green walls were adorned with expensive frescoes, and the air was cool and crisp thanks to state-of-the-art air conditioning. Oversized dark green leather sofas and armchairs lined the walls, facing an enormous flat-screen TV that dominated one wall.

At the far end of the living room, a grand staircase of expensive white stone with dark wood banisters led to the second floor. The upper level opened onto a long, straight corridor. Its walls matched the green theme of the lower level, with large potted plants lining the hallway. Several closed doors of dark, richly stained wood were visible, with a large panoramic window at the corridor's end. Jeffrey was led through the first door on the left – Bison's office.

The office décor was a stark departure from the rest of the house. A gleaming black floor reflected the bright light from a hanging crystal chandelier. Fresh air wafted in through a large open window, carrying with it the muffled conversations of the guards at the gates. Light gray walls served as a backdrop for an impressive array of weapons – Bison's prized collection, which he treated as a hobby.

The man himself sat behind a massive black wooden desk, lounging in a large dark leather chair. He wore a white tank top that emphasized his muscular physique, a thick gold chain hanging around his neck and resting on his chest.

The most striking features of the office were two Japanese katanas mounted on a stand behind Bison's desk. Opposite sat a slightly smaller black leather chair for visitors. Every detail of the room exuded expensive taste and power.

"Leave us," Bison commanded the guards, who promptly exited the office. "Well, hello Jeffrey. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?"

Bison's tone was all business, tinged with an underlying strictness that put Jeffrey on edge. Despite their long association, Jeffrey genuinely respected – and feared – Bison. He spoke softly, almost pleadingly, as he took a seat in the chair opposite the crime lord.

"I assume you've heard about what happened to my daughter?" Jeffrey began, his hands resting nervously on his knees.

"Yes, I'm aware," Bison replied, his voice devoid of sympathy. "Shit happens. I know everything that goes on in our town. My condolences, Jeffrey. But what does this have to do with me?" He raised an eyebrow, resting his chin on his index finger as he regarded the sheriff with cool detachment.

"I know who killed my daughter," Jeffrey said, leaning forward and placing his hands on the desk. "This guy needs to be dealt with. I need the help of your people."

Bison let out a derisive laugh, looking at Jeffrey not with pity, but with contempt. "Jeffrey, you clearly don't understand what you're asking right now. My people aren't your personal hit squad to solve your problems. That's what the police are for." The gang leader's voice dripped with irony.

"I thought we were partners," Jeffrey protested, unable to hide the hurt in his voice.

"Ha! If we're partners, you especially shouldn't come to me with requests like this. I hope I've made myself clear?"

"How can this be?" Jeffrey's tone grew more insistent, desperation creeping in. "I've been working for you for eight years. I've never let you down. You have to help me."