{"id":42358,"date":"2026-04-12T03:29:46","date_gmt":"2026-04-12T03:29:46","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/?p=42358"},"modified":"2026-04-12T03:29:46","modified_gmt":"2026-04-12T03:29:46","slug":"a-hells-angel-stopped-for-what-looked-like-a-fatal-crash-on-a-dark-nevada-highway-and-found-a-female-trooper-shot-trapped-and-terrified-of-the-very-officers","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/?p=42358","title":{"rendered":"A Hells Angel stopped for what looked like a fatal crash on a dark Nevada highway and found a female trooper shot, trapped, and terrified of the very officers"},"content":{"rendered":"

My name is Ronan Cade<\/strong>, but most people on the road knew me as Graves<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

If you saw me at two in the morning on U.S. Route 395<\/strong>, somewhere between the Nevada dark and nowhere worth naming, you would have made the same assumptions everyone always did. Harley under me. Cut on my back. Beard, scars, old trouble in my face. The kind of man decent people checked twice in their mirrors and cops remembered for all the wrong reasons. I\u2019d spent enough years riding with men outside polite society to know exactly how I looked in flashing lights.<\/p>\n

That night, I was headed home from a club meeting outside Carson City, running south through wind so cold it sliced right through leather. The desert was flat and black, the highway empty except for my headlight and the occasional jackrabbit dumb enough to test fate. No music. No conversation. Just engine noise and the kind of silence that makes a man hear his own regrets.<\/p>\n

Then I saw fire below the shoulder.<\/p>\n

At first I thought it was a wrecked pickup. Then I caught the reflection of a light bar.<\/p>\n

A patrol cruiser had gone off the embankment.<\/p>\n

It was upside down in a washout, one wheel still spinning, flames licking out from under the front end. Any smart outlaw would\u2019ve kept riding. There are a hundred ways a scene like that turns bad for a man wearing my patch. You stop to help, and suddenly you\u2019re the suspect. You leave, and maybe somebody burns alive while you tell yourself it wasn\u2019t your problem.<\/p>\n

I braked hard enough to fishtail on gravel and went down the embankment on foot.<\/p>\n

The windshield had blown out. The driver\u2019s side was crushed. I could smell gasoline, radiator fluid, blood. Then I heard a sound from the passenger side\u2014small, ragged, human.<\/p>\n

She was half-thrown out through the busted frame, one arm pinned under twisted metal, blonde hair matted dark with blood, state trooper uniform torn open at the shoulder. There was a hole in her vest where the fabric had burned around a bullet entry. Her eyes found mine through smoke, and she did not look surprised to see a man like me.<\/p>\n

She looked terrified for a different reason.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t call it in,\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n

I crouched beside her. \u201cYou\u2019ve been shot.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know.\u201d She coughed, choked, forced the words out. \u201cIf you call dispatch, they\u2019ll finish it.\u201d<\/p>\n

That landed harder than the fire.<\/p>\n

I shoved twisted metal off her trapped arm, burned my palm doing it, dragged her clear just as the cruiser popped and flames rolled through the cab. She screamed once when I lifted her, then bit it down like she\u2019d practiced suffering in silence. I got her to the ditch line and tore open her vest enough to check the wound. Through all of it, her hand stayed clenched around something jammed under her jacket.<\/p>\n

A flash drive.<\/p>\n

Blood slicked her fingers.<\/p>\n

Then headlights crested the ridge above us.<\/p>\n

Black SUV. No siren. No hesitation.<\/p>\n

She looked up at it and grabbed my wrist with more strength than she should\u2019ve had left.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s them,\u201d she said. \u201cIf they see me breathing, we both die.\u201d<\/p>\n

Every instinct I had told me to walk away from a dying cop and a conspiracy I did not ask for. Instead, I hauled her onto the back of my bike while the SUV door opened above us.<\/p>\n

And when the first man stepped out holding a rifle instead of a rescue kit, I knew this was no accident scene.<\/p>\n

So why was a state trooper running from her own people\u2026 and what exactly was on that blood-soaked drive worth killing her over in the middle of the Nevada desert?<\/p>\n

Part 2<\/strong><\/p>\n

You never really know how much weight you can carry until somebody\u2019s life starts sliding off the back of your motorcycle.<\/p>\n

I got her up behind me with one arm locked around my waist and the other clamped over her side. She was fading fast. I could feel it in the way her grip kept loosening, then tightening again on instinct. Above us, the man with the rifle shouted something I didn\u2019t wait to hear. The first shot cracked across the wash just as I kicked the Harley over and tore out through gravel.<\/p>\n

The rear tire spat rock. The bike fishtailed once, caught, then climbed the embankment hard enough to rattle my teeth. Another shot snapped somewhere past my left shoulder. I kept low and opened the throttle.<\/p>\n

There are roads in Nevada that feel less like highways and more like unfinished arguments with God. Route 395 at night is one of them. Long black ribbon, no mercy, nowhere to hide unless you already know the land. Lucky for me, I did. I cut off the highway onto a service track that ran through a dry canyon and killed my headlight for three seconds just to make the SUV guess wrong at the fork. Risky, stupid, necessary.<\/p>\n

The woman behind me made a sound like she was trying not to pass out.<\/p>\n

\u201cStay with me,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

Her answer came back shredded by pain. \u201cName\u2019s Tessa Ward<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGood. Keep using it.\u201d<\/p>\n

She gave a breath that might\u2019ve been a laugh if her lungs weren\u2019t losing a war.<\/p>\n

The SUV stayed with us longer than I liked. Whoever was driving knew enough to push and not enough to survive the canyon. The track narrowed, turned mean, and dropped over a washboard descent lined with rock teeth. I\u2019d ridden it before. They hadn\u2019t. I leaned into the switchback and heard metal scream behind us. Then a crash. Then silence except for my engine and Tessa\u2019s breathing.<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t slow down until the old veterinary barn outside Hawthorne<\/strong> came into view.<\/p>\n

That place belonged to Wes Miller<\/strong>, known to most of us as Doc<\/strong>\u2014former Army medic, part-time horse butcher on paper, full-time patch-up miracle for people who preferred hospitals not know their names. He opened the barn door one look at Tessa and said, \u201cYou have got to be kidding me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShot cop,\u201d I said. \u201cDirty scene. Needs help.\u201d<\/p>\n

Doc glanced at my cut, at her uniform, at the blood soaking my back from where she\u2019d leaned against me. \u201cThat sentence had too many bad ideas in it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Still, he took her in.<\/p>\n

We laid her on an old exam table under hanging lamps that made everything look harsher than it already was. Doc cut the vest away. Entry wound high right torso. Through-and-through? No. Bullet still in. Bad angle. Blood loss significant. He worked fast while I held pressure and Tessa did the kind of gritted-teeth breathing that told me she had more discipline than luck.<\/p>\n

He got the bullet out forty minutes later.<\/p>\n

While he stitched, she finally told us why men in an unmarked SUV had tried to finish her off in a burning ditch.<\/p>\n

Tessa was with Nevada Highway Patrol, attached for six months to a joint narcotics task force led by Captain Adrian Voss<\/strong>. Decorated, polished, media-friendly, the kind of lawman small-town papers like putting beside drug bust tables. Problem was, Tessa found discrepancies\u2014evidence disappearing, seizure logs not matching inventory, confidential routes leaking before interdiction stops. She followed the math and discovered Voss wasn\u2019t stopping cartel shipments.<\/p>\n

He was steering them.<\/p>\n

Using task force intel to clear roads, burn informants, and move selected loads through shell contractors and biker proxies who thought they were working with independent crews. She copied what she could onto the drive she still refused to let go of, then tried to bring it to Internal Affairs. Somebody tipped Voss off first.<\/p>\n

The crash wasn\u2019t random. The bullet in her side proved that.<\/p>\n

I asked the obvious question. \u201cWhy didn\u2019t they take the drive when they hit you?\u201d<\/p>\n

She swallowed hard. \u201cBecause I hid it after the wreck. Got it back before you pulled me out.\u201d<\/p>\n

Smart. Barely.<\/p>\n

Doc cleaned up, handed me a towel, and said, \u201cIf what she\u2019s saying is true, every phone within fifty miles is poison.\u201d<\/p>\n

He was right. Voss could have dispatch, local deputies, task force men, maybe even state channels leaning his way long enough to box us in before daylight. Tessa needed a federal line or a dead-man release bigger than one honest supervisor. And the drive? Turns out it wasn\u2019t enough by itself.<\/p>\n

Encrypted.<\/p>\n

Biometric lock.<\/p>\n

Voss\u2019s print.<\/p>\n

That was when I almost walked.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m telling the truth. I stood by the sink in that barn, blood drying on my hands, and thought hard about getting on my bike and leaving before this swallowed my club whole. Saving a dying woman off the road is one thing. Going to war with a captain running his own pipeline under a badge is something else entirely.<\/p>\n

Then Tessa looked up from the table, pale as ash, and said, \u201cI know what you\u2019re thinking. You don\u2019t owe me this.\u201d<\/p>\n

No. I didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n

But there are moments a man meets the version of himself he can still respect, and they don\u2019t come often.<\/p>\n

I asked, \u201cWhere\u2019s the next piece?\u201d<\/p>\n

She answered without blinking. \u201cA secure mail drop in Fallon. Paper ledger, backup key, and one witness list. If we get that, we can prove motive and chain.\u201d<\/p>\n

Doc muttered, \u201cTerrific. So the bad news had a sequel.\u201d<\/p>\n

We left before sunrise in his rusted feed truck with stolen quiet and very little plan.<\/p>\n

And by the time we reached Fallon, I realized Voss hadn\u2019t just put out a kill order\u2014he had put out a story.<\/p>\n

According to the statewide alert, I had kidnapped a wounded trooper.<\/p>\n

\n

Part 3<\/strong><\/p>\n

The first time you see your own face under the word ABDUCTOR<\/strong> on a gas-station TV, it does something ugly to your sense of humor.<\/p>\n

We caught it outside Fallon just after dawn. Local news running over surveillance stills pulled from some old booking photo of mine and Tessa\u2019s academy portrait, all wrapped in official language. Violent outlaw biker. Armed and dangerous. Injured state trooper believed coerced. Captain Adrian Voss gave a statement that sounded measured enough to fool anyone who liked their lies ironed flat.<\/p>\n

Tessa stared at the screen in the store window and said, \u201cHe moved faster than I thought.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d I told her. \u201cYou just underestimated how long he\u2019s been practicing.\u201d<\/p>\n

The mail drop was out past an agricultural road lined with half-dead cottonwoods and mailboxes that leaned like drunks. Tessa had hidden the secondary packet there a week earlier under a name only she would remember. Smart again. The problem with smart is that corrupt people can do it too. We weren\u2019t alone when we rolled up.<\/p>\n

Two men were already waiting in a dust-colored pickup fifty yards off the box.<\/p>\n

Not uniforms. Worse.<\/p>\n

Plainclothes clean enough to signal law enforcement without ever having to say it, both carrying themselves like men used to being backed by badges even off shift. One stepped out with a pistol low at his thigh, casual as a threat that had worked before.<\/p>\n

Tessa saw them and whispered, \u201cTask force.\u201d<\/p>\n

I got out on the driver\u2019s side and used the truck door for cover. \u201cYou sure?\u201d<\/p>\n

She answered by chambering the deputy\u2019s backup .38 Doc had dug out of old storage. \u201cOne hundred percent.\u201d<\/p>\n

The shooting lasted maybe twelve seconds.<\/p>\n

That\u2019s the truth of violence. People imagine speeches. In reality, it\u2019s motion, noise, and math. First man fired at the windshield. I returned through the door seam. Tessa dropped lower in the passenger seat and took the second shooter in the leg when he tried to flank left. He went down screaming. The first one ran for the irrigation ditch. Bad choice. I caught him with a tackle ugly enough to scrape half my knuckles raw and drove his gun hand into the dirt until the weapon came free.<\/p>\n

Tessa got the packet.<\/p>\n

Ledger pages. Cash entries. License plates. Seizure IDs. Three names marked with stars that turned out to be dead informants. Enough to make a prosecutor salivate\u2014if we lived long enough to hand it over.<\/p>\n

But the drive still needed Voss\u2019s print.<\/p>\n

So I made the worst reasonable decision of my adult life.<\/p>\n

We were going to Tahoe.<\/p>\n

Voss kept a private house near the lake, technically in his brother-in-law\u2019s name, practically a fortress. Tessa knew because she had once followed a money trail there and backed off when she saw unreported vehicles cycling through at night. We didn\u2019t go in through the front. We came up the service access after dark, cut the power to the gate box, and waited until Voss came home from whatever televised concern he had been performing all day.<\/p>\n

I yanked him out of his own SUV before he understood the headlights blocking his drive weren\u2019t security.<\/p>\n

He fought harder than I expected and dirtier than I respected. Elbow to the ribs, thumb to the eye, one of those polished men who still thinks savagery doesn\u2019t count if the cufflinks are expensive. Tessa put a gun in his face before I had to break something permanent.<\/p>\n

His first words weren\u2019t denial.<\/p>\n

They were: \u201cYou have no idea who else this reaches.\u201d<\/p>\n

That line has stayed with me.<\/p>\n

Because guilty men don\u2019t usually volunteer scale unless they think scale can still save them.<\/p>\n

We dragged him inside, got the drive into his biometric safe system, and forced his thumb onto the sensor. It opened. Encrypted folders unfolded into clean horror\u2014shipment maps, payout ledgers, body-cam deletions, sealed disciplinary files leveraged into silence, and a mirror upload queue aimed at federal contacts if someone knew where to push it.<\/p>\n

So we pushed it.<\/p>\n

FBI tip portal. DOJ corruption unit. Three major news desks. State oversight. Every package duplicated, timestamped, and sent before Voss finished promising the kind of protection men like him can\u2019t actually guarantee once digital proof escapes the room.<\/p>\n

Then the house alarms tripped.<\/p>\n

Maybe his private security. Maybe people higher on the ladder. Maybe both.<\/p>\n

Tessa looked at me, blood loss still making her unsteady, and said, \u201cYou need to go.\u201d<\/p>\n

I almost laughed in her face. \u201cAfter all this?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIf they find you here wearing that patch, they\u2019ll make the whole thing about your club.\u201d<\/p>\n

She was right, and I hated her for it.<\/p>\n

I stepped outside under Tahoe pine and cold moonlight, reached up, and pulled my cut off.<\/p>\n

That hurt more than some bullet wounds I\u2019ve had.<\/p>\n

Not because cloth is sacred. Because brotherhood is, and I knew exactly what I was doing\u2014drawing a line between the fallout and the men who had not asked to stand in it. I left the cut folded on the seat of the feed truck, took my bike from where we\u2019d staged it downhill, and disappeared into the dark ten minutes before federal SUVs rolled past me in the opposite direction.<\/p>\n

Captain Adrian Voss was arrested before sunrise.<\/p>\n

Trooper Tessa Ward was cleared within forty-eight hours.<\/p>\n

Officially, I was never thanked.<\/p>\n

Unofficially? A sealed envelope found me three months later at a gas station outside Bishop. Inside was a new driver\u2019s license under a name I won\u2019t repeat, two hundred dollars, and one note in block letters:<\/p>\n

You did enough. Stay gone.<\/strong><\/p>\n

No signature.<\/p>\n

Could\u2019ve been Tessa. Could\u2019ve been Doc. Could\u2019ve been someone inside the machine who wanted one decent outcome left alive.<\/p>\n

I still ride the desert.<\/p>\n

Still wake sometimes hearing the crunch of gravel under that burning cruiser and wondering whether Voss was telling the truth when he said I had no idea how high it went. Maybe he was bluffing. Maybe not. Some stories end in courtrooms. Others just lose volume and keep moving under the surface.<\/p>\n

Tessa made sergeant, last I heard. Then lieutenant. Good. She earned every stripe twice.<\/p>\n

As for me, people say I vanished.<\/p>\n

That\u2019s not quite right.<\/p>\n

I just learned there are times the only way to protect what you love is to leave before the headlines figure out where to point.<\/p>\n

Would you have saved the cop, or kept riding into the desert? Tell me below.<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

My name is Ronan Cade, but most people on the road knew me as Graves. If you saw me at two in the morning on U.S. Route 395, somewhere between the Nevada dark and nowhere worth naming, you would have made the same assumptions everyone always did. Harley under me. Cut on my back. Beard, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":42359,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"tdm_status":"","tdm_grid_status":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[4],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-42358","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","category-purpose"],"yoast_head":"\nA Hells Angel stopped for what looked like a fatal crash on a dark Nevada highway and found a female trooper shot, trapped, and terrified of the very officers - Purposeful Days<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/?p=42358\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"A Hells Angel stopped for what looked like a fatal crash on a dark Nevada highway and found a female trooper shot, trapped, and terrified of the very officers - Purposeful Days\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"My name is Ronan Cade, but most people on the road knew me as Graves. 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Purposeful Days","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/?p=42358","og_locale":"en_US","og_type":"article","og_title":"A Hells Angel stopped for what looked like a fatal crash on a dark Nevada highway and found a female trooper shot, trapped, and terrified of the very officers - Purposeful Days","og_description":"My name is Ronan Cade, but most people on the road knew me as Graves. If you saw me at two in the morning on U.S. Route 395, somewhere between the Nevada dark and nowhere worth naming, you would have made the same assumptions everyone always did. Harley under me. Cut on my back. Beard, […]","og_url":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/?p=42358","og_site_name":"Purposeful Days","article_published_time":"2026-04-12T03:29:46+00:00","og_image":[{"width":1000,"height":1000,"url":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/Tao_mot_buc_202604121022.jpg","type":"image\/jpeg"}],"author":"Phong Nguyen","twitter_card":"summary_large_image","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"Phong Nguyen","Est. reading time":"12 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/?p=42358","url":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/?p=42358","name":"A Hells Angel stopped for what looked like a fatal crash on a dark Nevada highway and found a female trooper shot, trapped, and terrified of the very officers - Purposeful Days","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/#website"},"primaryImageOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/?p=42358#primaryimage"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/?p=42358#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/Tao_mot_buc_202604121022.jpg","datePublished":"2026-04-12T03:29:46+00:00","author":{"@id":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/#\/schema\/person\/4bbf0aec017fee1fb5027b7c39e98951"},"breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/?p=42358#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-US","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/?p=42358"]}]},{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/?p=42358#primaryimage","url":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/Tao_mot_buc_202604121022.jpg","contentUrl":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/Tao_mot_buc_202604121022.jpg","width":1000,"height":1000},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/?p=42358#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"A Hells Angel stopped for what looked like a fatal crash on a dark Nevada highway and found a female trooper shot, trapped, and terrified of the very officers"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/#website","url":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/","name":"Purposeful Days","description":"","potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/#\/schema\/person\/4bbf0aec017fee1fb5027b7c39e98951","name":"Phong Nguyen","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/9e2b64a6c1ed5f8027bfe6755272684b8d3b9607a7de613d6bdb22d00442333c?s=96&d=mm&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/9e2b64a6c1ed5f8027bfe6755272684b8d3b9607a7de613d6bdb22d00442333c?s=96&d=mm&r=g","caption":"Phong Nguyen"},"sameAs":["http:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org"],"url":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/?author=3"}]}},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/42358","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=42358"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/42358\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":42360,"href":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/42358\/revisions\/42360"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/42359"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=42358"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=42358"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/purpose.lifestruepurpose.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=42358"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}