Twenty.
Behind them came more.
The roar expanded across the desert like a storm front.
Hank slowly released Leo.
“What the hell?”
Motorcycles continued appearing.
Chrome flashed.
Black leather.
Denim.
Rows of riders stretched so far back that the final motorcycles remained hidden beyond the hill.
Leo stared.
He had never seen anything like it.
Neither had Hank.
The front riders turned toward the abandoned station.
The rest followed.
The roar became physical.
Concrete vibrated.
The old Sinclair sign trembled.
Higgins moved toward his Explorer.
Hank stepped backward.
“Get in the truck.”
Neither managed it.
The riders filled the lot first.
Motorcycles formed rows.
Some parked near the highway.
Others surrounded the station at a distance.
Engines shut down one by one until the impossible thunder became an even more impossible silence.
Later, Leo would learn that there had been 247 motorcycles.
At the time, he could only understand the number as all of them.
At the front sat a black Road King.
Leo recognized the temporary repair instantly.
Sully killed the engine.
Removed his helmet.
His shoulder was wrapped beneath his jacket.
His eyes moved across the scene.
Higgins.
Hank.
Leo.
The swelling on Leo’s face.
The wooden bat.
The open truck.
Something changed in Sully’s expression.
He dismounted.
Heavy boots touched the gravel.
Nobody spoke.
Sully walked past the sheriff’s Explorer.
Straight toward Leo.
“Kid.”
Leo swallowed.
“Hey.”
Sully looked at his face.
“You look terrible.”
“Been a bad morning.”
Sully glanced toward Hank.
“This him?”