Outside "The Depot" bar, Jack glanced at the small parking lot, filled mostly with old pickup trucks.
Despite Montana's nicknames as the "Treasure State" and "Luxury Car State," the state's geographic climate and low population mean its economic development is relatively modest, with a per capita GDP ranking among the lowest in the nation.
Hence, you rarely see expensive luxury cars in the state. However, throughout the USA, cars and antique cars with Montana plates are everywhere.
The "Treasure State" nickname comes from Montana's rich mineral resources. But since North America is not short of mineral resources, and due to inconvenient transportation and lack of labor, agriculture remains the primary industry in the state.
As for the "Luxury Car State," it's an interesting phenomenon. Montana is a tax-free state, and its laws stipulate that cars bought there do not need annual inspections or emissions checks.
In contrast, buying a $30,000 new or used car in California incurs about $2,000-$3,000 in sales tax. For luxury cars costing over a million dollars, the $100,000 tax is a significant burden even for the wealthy.
Thus, some people set up companies in Montana, buy luxury cars under the company name, and use Montana plates. As long as they don't overdo it, the IRS usually doesn't bother them.
This has led to Montana becoming the state with the most luxury cars in the USA.
Of course, this has nothing to do with the financially struggling locals. From the outdated decor of this bar, it's clear that the so-called "militia" is more like a mutual aid group banding together for support.
This was evident from their help in driving away Diana Goring's husband, rescuing her from the demon's grasp.
They might be poorly educated, hold extreme views, discriminate against minorities, live in poverty, and blame everything on the damn federal government. But Jack still wanted to try communicating with them.
After all, no one knows the local situation better than these people, especially since Francis Goring was once one of them.
Jack entered the bar, which wasn't very large, and a dozen people made it crowded.
"Hello, may I have a local beer, please?"
Jack walked to the bar and flashed a friendly smile at the bartender, a chubby lady, whose face softened at the sight of his dimples. She reached for an empty glass almost automatically.
"This one's on me, as a thank you for saving that unfortunate woman. I heard she almost died. But after you drink it, please leave. Federal lackeys aren't welcome here."
A voice came from a nearby table. Jack turned to see an older white man, probably in his fifties or sixties but looking very capable, watching him.
"Thank you. I guess I'll drink slowly then. I have a few questions. Are you Harris Townsend?"
Receiving no response, Jack continued to smile, took the beer handed to him by the bartender, and took a sip. It tasted quite good, likely homemade with barley.
"Can I get a slice of lingonberry pie? It's my first time in Montana, and I heard it's a must-try. If possible, I'd love a steak too. I'm so hungry I could eat a whole bison."
Jack said, handing over some bills.
"Hey, kid, don't push your luck. Harris said you're not welcome here." The burly man opposite the old white man stood up, glaring at Jack.
"Alright, Bobby, we're not rude savages."
The old white man stood up, pressing down on the burly man's shoulder, and then looked at Jack's waist.
"Glock 22, practical but European."
He patted the revolver at his waist. "Smith & Wesson, pure American. I'm curious which is more reliable."
Jack smiled, opened his jacket to reveal his underarm holster.
"I actually prefer this one, FK7.5, from Eastern Europe. Not long ago, I used it to take down a fully armored guy from 45 yards away."
The bar fell silent, everyone tense, watching the standoff.
"Actually, I'm here for help. An hour ago, we dug up three bodies in Francis Goring's rose garden. They were severely tortured for months before they died."
"You must have seen the news when they went missing. Francis' accomplice is still at large. If you're scared and choose to stay silent, I understand. I can even leave without finishing this delicious beer."
"Enough! Francis and his tagalong are the real cowards!" the old white man roared.
"I am Harris. Lily, get this guy some food. I want to hear what he has to say."
---
Half an hour later,
When JJ, anxious and worried, pushed open the bar door, she was stunned by what she saw.
Jack was surrounded by empty plates, his face greasy from food, while the chubby bartender refilled his beer with a smile.
"Ah-ha, she's here. This is Agent Jennifer Jareau. She's the real hero who saved Angela Miller."
Jack, his cheeks flushed, raised his beer to JJ, who still had gauze on her face.
"To Agent Jareau!"
"To Agent Jareau!"
Everyone in the bar raised their drinks.
JJ was bewildered, not understanding what had happened, when a full beer was shoved into her hand.
---
"I really don't know who Francis' accomplice is. I've only seen him once, through a telescope."
Harris Townsend, his face red from drinking, leaned shoulder-to-shoulder with Jack, speaking earnestly.
"I was hunting with some buddies and saw those two bastards. Francis had been kicked out of the 'militia,' but we didn't know he was the killer. If I had known, I would've..."
Harris downed the rest of his beer in one go, slamming the heavy mug on the table before continuing.
"The guy was in his twenties, very skinny, pale, and followed Francis around like a lackey, always submissive."
"Sorry, that's all I know. But my guys and I will help the sheriff search. If I find that bastard, I'll..."
"Anyway, thank you. And Lily, your lingonberry pie is excellent." Jack shook hands with Harris, handed him a business card, and gave the bartender a peck on the cheek.
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