She imagined the white SUV appearing at any moment.
Chloe sat beside the rear wheel and pulled her knees to her chest.
Cold penetrated her jeans.
She looked at the sky.
Without city lights, the stars were overwhelming.
Millions.
Her father used to bring her outside when she was little.
He had shown her constellations.
Orion.
Cassiopeia.
The Big Dipper.
Chloe remembered asking how far away the stars were.
"Far enough that you'll never reach them," David said.
She had become disappointed.
Then he added, "But close enough to remind you there's more out there."
Chloe closed her eyes.
"Where are you now, Dad?"
The desert offered no answer.
Her hand brushed the torn motorcycle seat.
Something solid lay beneath the foam.
Chloe frowned.
She pulled out her flashlight.
Slapped it twice.
A weak yellow beam appeared.
She aimed beneath the seat.
There.
A metal box.
Small.
Welded to the frame.
Not factory.
The crash had bent the cover open.
Chloe reached inside.
Her fingers touched fabric.
She pulled.
A bundle wrapped in oily cloth came free.
She placed it in the dirt.
Opened it.
Leather.
Heavy.
Old.
A motorcycle vest.
The smell hit her first.
Motor oil.
Sweat.
Dust.
And something metallic.
Chloe unfolded it.
Large patches covered the back.
HELLS ANGELS.
Winged death's head.
CALIFORNIA.
Chloe froze.
She knew enough to understand what she was holding.
Motorcycle club patches were not costumes.
They were not souvenirs.
They represented identity, loyalty, and belonging.
She flipped the vest over.
A rectangular memorial patch sat above the left pocket.
IN MEMORY OF
DOMINIC "PREACHER" HAYES
PRESIDENT
Chloe's breath caught.
She dropped the vest.
"What the hell?"
She aimed the flashlight at the motorcycle again.
The scratched VIN.
The hidden compartment.
The memorial vest.
Arthur's warning returned.
Whoever owned this, they weren't the kind of people who register vehicles at the DMV.
This was not simply an abandoned motorcycle.
It belonged to someone.
Or had.
The wind shifted.
A sound reached Chloe.
Engine.
She turned.
Far west, headlights appeared over a hill.
Chloe's stomach dropped.
Richard.
She grabbed the wrench.
Looked around.
There was nowhere to hide.
The land was open.
A few creosote bushes.
Rocks.
Low scrub.
No buildings.
No deep ditch.
She moved thirty feet from the road and crouched behind the largest bush she could find.
The headlights multiplied.
Chloe stared.
Not one pair.
Several.
Then dozens.
The engine sound grew.
Not a police SUV.
Motorcycles.
Heavy V-twins.
The vibration became physical.
Light after light crested the hill.
A formation.
Two abreast.
Rows stretching backward.
Chloe's mouth went dry.
She looked at the vest lying beside the broken Shovelhead.
"Oh no."
The first motorcycles reached her.
The lead rider raised one fist.
The formation slowed.
Ninety-seven motorcycles rolled onto the shoulder.
They formed a massive semicircle around the broken Shovelhead.
Headlights flooded the desert.
Engines idled.
The noise was unbelievable.
Then, one by one, engines shut down.
Silence returned in waves.
Ticking exhaust pipes.
Wind.
Boots on gravel.