Padre surveyed the tools scattered on the floor. “Before you leave, you can make an effort to put those back where you found them. Or you can explain to the deputy why you refused.”
Rusk hesitated. One of the men beside him had already begun gathering fallen sockets, his fingers trembling as he tried to identify their slots. Another righted the wheel rims, moving them slowly to avoid making noise. Rusk looked over the riders and seemed to calculate whether pride was worth provoking two hundred people who had not threatened him. Finally he crouched, picked up a wrench, and placed it on the bench.
It took several minutes to restore the work area to something resembling order. Nobody applauded or jeered. The silence bothered Rusk more than insults would have. Ethan stayed near Jack and watched the man who'd shoved him kneel on the same floor where he had landed minutes earlier. He felt no pleasure in the humiliation. He felt a surprising hunger for the scene to end without anyone else getting hurt.
As Rusk stood, his hand moved toward his waistband. Jack saw it and spoke sharply. “Don't.” Padre raised one open hand to keep the nearest riders in place.
Rusk froze, then lifted his hand clear of his body. No one rushed him. After a strained moment, he moved toward the exit.
“This isn't finished,” Rusk said.
Ethan took one step forward. “You're right. It isn't. The next part will happen with statements, evidence, and people who don't work for Harold Caldwell.”
Rusk looked at him with an expression that held genuine surprise. A thin young man in a borrowed shirt wasn't supposed to speak so steadily after being thrown to the floor. Ethan's palms still hurt, and his breathing was far from calm, but he didn't look away. The men climbed into their truck, reversed carefully through the motorcycles, and drove off without another word.
Only when they were gone did Ethan realize his knees were shaking. Jack noticed and put a hand on his shoulder. “You hurt?”
“My hands, mostly.”
“We'll clean them. Then you sit down.”
“I'm fine.”
“You're not auditioning to be indestructible. Sit.”
A rider who worked as an emergency medical technician took a look at the scrapes and cleaned them with supplies from her motorcycle. Jack hovered nearby pretending to be interested in the medical tape. The rider, a woman named Ruby Chen, told Ethan that pride could wait until after the bleeding stopped. Ethan laughed, though the sound shook a little. He let her bandage his hands and accepted the bottle of water she offered.
By then the riders had begun gathering in small groups around the lot. Some knew Jack from decades earlier; others had come because a friend had asked for support. They were mechanics, retirees, teachers, former soldiers, a paramedic, a truck driver, and people whose ordinary lives happened to include motorcycles. A few had brought food, and somebody asked whether Jack minded if they set up a grill at the back of the property. He stared at the crowd in astonishment, then said they'd better make enough for everyone.