They turned off the highway in a broad procession, the front riders slowing to let those behind pass through the narrow access road without losing balance. Dust rose over the station until the old green Sinclair sign became a dim shape in a yellow cloud. One by one, the motorcycles entered the yard and took positions around the vehicles, leaving a clear lane between the pumps and the garage.
Leo could see riders from Arizona, Nevada, California, and Oregon. Some were elderly men with white beards and dark glasses. Others were younger, their arms crowded with tattoos and their helmets marked by years of road grit. Their patches identified different chapters and traveling groups. To Leo, who had spent weeks afraid of a single pickup truck, the size of the arriving force was almost impossible to understand.
Later he would learn that there were exactly two hundred and forty-seven riders. In that moment, numbers meant nothing. They were simply more people than he had seen in one place since leaving Flagstaff, and they had arrived behind a rolling wall of sound that drowned out every command Hank tried to shout.
The first row stopped near the pumps. Engines idled while the rear of the procession settled into place. Then, almost together, the riders began turning their keys. The tremendous roar collapsed in stages until the last engine coughed into silence.
A bird called from the roof. Somewhere in the scrap yard a piece of loose tin creaked. The quiet that followed was so complete that Leo could hear Hank breathing through his nose.
At the front of the formation sat a black Road King. Its left-side cover was new, and the fuel plumbing had been properly repaired, but Leo would have recognized the shape of the machine anywhere. The rider wore a leather cut and had a thick bandage beneath his torn sleeve.
Jack Sullivan put his boots on the ground. He removed his helmet and looked across the yard. His gaze passed over the deputy, the silver Dodge, and the discarded bat, then came to rest on the skinny teenager kneeling in the dust.
Leo saw Sully's face change.
The biker had come back to an old gas station looking for a boy who had fixed his machine. He had found the boy bleeding beside the people he had been trying to escape.
For a moment, nobody moved. Then Sully lowered the kickstand, climbed off his motorcycle, and began walking toward them.
Sully did not hurry. The slow pace was not for effect; it came from the wound beneath his vest and from the discipline of someone who had spent too many years watching anger turn a manageable situation into an irreversible one. His expression frightened Hank precisely because there was so little movement in it. The biker's eyes remained fixed on the boy until he reached the old pump, where a shadow crossed his face as he took in Leo's swollen lip and the way he held one arm against his ribs.
'Leo,' Sully said.
The teenager tried to stand. His legs trembled. He got halfway upright before his side protested and he braced a hand against the pump.
'Hey,' Sully said, his voice changing. 'Don't push it. Sit if you need to.'