At the entrance of the "Station" bar, Jack glanced at the small parking lot, which was almost entirely filled with old pickup trucks.
Despite Montana's reputation as the "Wealth State" and the "Luxury Car State," its economic developnt is relatively average due to its geography, climate, and small population, ranking near the bottom in the nation in GDP per capita.
Therefore, expensive luxury cars are rarely seen in Montana, but across the country, luxury cars and vintage cars bearing Montana's na are ubiquitous.
The "Wealth State" title stems from the state's rich mineral resources, but North Arica has no shortage of minerals. Inconvenient transportation and a shortage of labor an that agriculture remains the dominant sector in the state.
As for the "Luxury Car State," it's quite interesting because Montana is a tax-free state, and its laws stipulate that cars purchased in the state do not require annual inspections or emissions checks.
In California, buying a new or used car for $30,000 incurs a sales tax of about $2,000 to $3,000. For luxury cars costing more, the tax is a painful burden for even the wealthy.
As a result, so people register a company in Montana to purchase luxury cars under that company na and register them with Montana license plates. Usually, as long as it's not excessive, the IRS won't bother them.
This led to Montana becoming the state with the most luxury cars in the US at one point.
Of course, all of this has nothing to do with the impoverished locals. This so-called "militia" is more like a mutual aid organization, as evidenced by their actions in helping Diana Goring drive away her husband and rescue her from evil.
Jack wants to try to communicate with them.
After all, no one knew the local situation better than these people, especially since Francis Goring had once been one of them.
Jack entered the bar, which wasn't large, and was packed with about a dozen people.
"Hello, a local beer, please."
Jack walked to the bartender and flashed her a friendly smile. The smile on his face made the bartender montarily lose her composure, her hand unconsciously reaching for the empty glass beside her.
"This one's on , as a thank you for saving that unfortunate woman. I heard she almost died. But please leave as soon as you finish it; associates of the federal governnt are not welco here."
A voice ca from a small table nearby. Jack looked over and saw a white man with thinning hair, probably in his fifties or sixties, but looking very capable, staring at him.
"Thank you. Well, I guess I should drink slower then. I still have a few questions to ask. Are you Harris Townsend?"
Seeing no response, Jack smiled, took the beer from the bartender, and tasted it. It was quite good; it was probably a homade brew made primarily with barley.
"Could I have a cranberry pie? This is my first ti in Montana, and I've heard it's a must-try. If possible, a steak would be even better; I'm so hungry I could eat a whole bison."
Jack said, handing over so bills.
"Hey kid, don't push your luck. Harris said you're not welco here." A burly man stood up opposite the white old man who had spoken earlier, glaring at Jack with hostility.
"Alright, Bobby, we're not rude barbarians."
The white old man also stood up, grabbed the burly man's shoulder, and then looked at Jack's waist.
"A Glock 22, a very practical machine, but it's European."
He patted the revolver tucked into his belt. "Smith & Wesson, pure Arican stuff. I'm wondering which one's more reliable."
Jack grinned, pulling open his jacket to reveal a holster under his arm.
"Actually, I prefer this one, an FK 7.5mm, European. Not long ago, I used it to take down a guy wearing full body armor and a helt from 45 yards away."
The atmosphere in the bar froze instantly. Everyone fell silent, watching the two n locked in a tense standoff.
"Actually, I'm here for help. An hour ago, we dug up the bodies of three innocent people in Francis Goring's rose garden. They were badly wounded, each of them having suffered months of brutal torture before their deaths."
"You all saw the news when they disappeared, and now Francis's crony is still at large. If you choose to keep quiet out of fear, I understand. I could even leave without finishing this delicious beer."
"Enough! Francis and his lackey are the real cowards!" the white old man roared.
"I'm Harris, Lily. Give this man sothing to eat. I want to hear what he has to say."
Half an hour later, when a frantic JJ pushed open the bar door, the scene before her left her speechless.
Jack was surrounded by a ss of dishes and glasses, his mouth greasy from eating, while the plump bartender was smilingly refilling his glass with beer.
"Ah, she's here. This is Agent Jennifer Jareau, the real hero who saved Angela Miller."
Jack's cheeks flushed as he raised his glass to JJ, whose face was still bandaged.
"To Agent Jareau!"
"To Agent Jareau!"
Everyone in the bar raised their glasses.
JJ was completely bewildered, utterly confused about what had happened, when a full glass of beer was shoved into her hand.
"I really don't know who Francis's accomplice is. I've only seen him once, and that was through binoculars." Harris Townsend said confidently, his face flushed from drinking, leaning shoulder to shoulder with Jack.
"I was hunting with a few guys when we ran into those two. Francis, that scumbag, had already been kicked out of the 'militia,' but none of us expected him to be the murderer. If I had known, I would have…"
Harris downed the rest of his beer, slamming the thick beer glass heavily on the table, and continued, "That guy was in his early twenties, very thin, pale-faced, following Francis around like a shadow, always behaving subserviently."
"I'm sorry, that's all I know, but my guys and I will all be out there assisting the sheriff and his n in the search. If I find that bastard, I'll…"
"Anyway, thank you, and Lily, your cranberry pie was really great." Jack shook hands with Harris, handed him a business card, and gave the bartender, Lily, a cheek kiss.
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