For an instant she was back in the trailer, waiting for footsteps outside the bedroom door. She could feel her shoulders trying to fold around her ribs, could almost hear Richard explaining that nobody would believe anything she said. She looked toward the open desert and considered running, though she knew she had nowhere to go. The light bar kept getting closer.
Jack moved into her line of sight without touching her. "Chloe, look at me," he said. "You don't have to run across the desert. You're not by yourself anymore."
She shook her head. "You don't know what he does when someone embarrasses him. He'll shoot somebody. He'll say he had a reason."
Jack's expression became serious. "Then we're going to make sure nobody gives him that reason," he said. "No one makes a move on him. No one threatens him. We let him tell us exactly why he came out here, and every camera we have keeps recording."
Mace looked ready to object. Jack turned to him before he spoke. "Listen carefully. Preacher deserves the truth, and this kid deserves to get out alive. I won't trade either of those things for a roadside fight. Put the heavy tools away and keep everybody back."
Chloe was shocked by how much she wanted to believe him. Richard had always made violence seem unavoidable, as natural as the weather. Jack was a man surrounded by nearly a hundred riders, yet the first thing he ordered was restraint. She did not know whether that restraint would survive the arrival of a furious deputy. She only knew she had stopped being the sole person trying to keep herself alive.
The riders moved around the roadside in a deliberate, quiet pattern, clearing space near the highway and leaving the broken Shovelhead visible. Most stepped back beside their motorcycles. Jack kept Chloe behind him, with Miller to one side and Mace at the other, close enough to intervene if she fell but careful not to trap her. Luis kept his phone raised, recording the approaching vehicle and the damaged bike within the same frame.
Richard's SUV came over the final rise with its emergency lights flashing. It slowed abruptly when the headlights illuminated the first row of motorcycles, then continued toward the shoulder with a grinding spray of gravel. Chloe heard the brakes engage. The vehicle stopped at an angle across the dirt, its engine idling hard. Before the door opened, she knew he had seen her.
Richard Croft climbed out wearing the same uniform he had worn to work that morning. His face was red, and his movements had the unstable confidence of a man who had spent the day fueling anger. He aimed a flashlight toward the broken Shovelhead, then toward Jack, and finally fixed its beam on the small figure standing behind him. His expression changed into the familiar look Chloe had spent years trying to avoid.
"Chloe!" he shouted. "You ungrateful little brat. Did you really think you could run from me?"
Her legs wanted to move backward. The borrowed jacket hung heavy around her shoulders, and her father's wrench trembled in her fist. Jack remained still, his broad back a dark shape against the waiting headlights. Richard took two steps away from the SUV and raised his voice again.