Chloe pressed herself against the ground.
The lead rider dismounted.
He was huge.
Six feet four at least.
Iron-gray beard.
Broad shoulders.
Weathered face.
His leather cut carried the same colors Chloe had pulled from the hidden compartment.
A name patch read JACK.
Jack O'Connor had been riding for thirty-two years.
For the last eleven, he had served alongside Dominic "Preacher" Hayes.
Preacher had not simply been Jack's president.
He had been his closest friend.
Three years earlier, Preacher disappeared on this exact stretch of desert.
Local law enforcement claimed he crashed while intoxicated.
They said his motorcycle went over a ravine.
They said his body was lost.
They said the bike was unrecoverable.
Jack never believed it.
Preacher did not drink while riding.
Not one beer.
Not one shot.
Nothing.
Preacher had buried a younger brother because of a drunk driver when he was seventeen.
He had been fanatical about the rule.
If you're riding, you're sober.
The club searched for months.
Nothing.
Eventually they held a memorial.
But Jack never stopped looking.
Three days earlier, a tow driver mentioned finding an old stripped Shovelhead in a ditch.
Word traveled.
A photograph reached somebody who remembered Preacher's custom frame modifications.
The club rode immediately.
Now Jack stood in the desert.
He aimed a flashlight at the motorcycle.
His breathing changed.
Even beneath the rust, he recognized it.
The weld.
The modified rear fender mount.
A tiny dent on the tank from the night Preacher dropped a socket wrench while rebuilding the carburetor.
Then Jack saw the vest.
He walked toward it.
Kneeled.
Lifted it.
His thumb moved across the memorial patch.
Nobody behind him spoke.
Jack looked toward the darkness.
Someone had been riding the bike.
Fresh tire marks.
Backpack.
Footprints.
He stood.
"I know you're out there."
Chloe closed her eyes.
Jack's voice carried.
"You've got ten seconds to step into the light and tell me how you got Preacher's bike."
Chloe gripped the wrench.
"Otherwise we're going to find you."
The men behind Jack began spreading slightly.
Chloe believed him.
She stood.
Her legs shook.
She stepped out.
The headlights hit her.
Dozens of faces turned.
Chloe suddenly felt very small.
Jack looked surprised.
Not what he expected.
A nineteen-year-old girl.
Bruised.
Thin.
Dust-covered.
Holding a rusted wrench like a weapon.
"I didn't steal it."
Jack looked at the wrench.
Then her face.
"Put that down."
"No."
A few riders murmured.
Jack raised one hand.
Silence.
"I'm not going to hurt you."
Chloe laughed nervously.
"People say that a lot."
Something in the sentence changed Jack's expression.
"How'd you get the motorcycle?"
"I bought it."
"From who?"
"Arthur Pendleton."
Jack knew the name.
"Salvage yard?"
"Yes."
"For how much?"
Chloe hesitated.
"Forty dollars."
The first laugh came from the back.
Another rider whispered, "Forty?"
Jack did not laugh.
"Forty dollars."
Chloe nodded.
"I had forty dollars."
Jack's eyes moved to her bruises.
"What happened to your face?"
Chloe tightened her grip on the wrench.
"Nothing."
Jack stared.
"Kid."
"I'm not a kid."
"Fine."
He pointed toward her cheek.
"What happened?"
Chloe looked toward the western road.
Headlights could appear at any moment.
"My stepfather."
"Name?"
She remained silent.
Jack waited.
"Richard Croft."
The reaction was immediate.