The machine slowed.
Stopped.
Chloe remained frozen over the handlebars.
Her whole body shook.
Smoke curled from the primary case.
She slowly put both feet down.
Then she began crying.
Not loudly.
Just exhausted tears.
“No.”
She kicked the starter.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
“Come on.”
Nothing.
She climbed off.
“Please.”
The desert did not care.
The motorcycle was dead.
Chloe dropped the backpack beside it.
There were no buildings.
No lights.
No traffic.
No phone.
No help.
Only stars.
Millions of them.
Beautiful enough to feel cruel.
She sat against the rear tire and pulled Arthur’s jacket tighter.
Her bruised ribs hurt.
She thought of Richard.
How long before he found the route?
How many deputies would he call?
Would he report her as missing?
Runaway?
Mentally unstable?
Would he say she stole something?
Richard knew how to make paperwork serve him.
Chloe closed her eyes.
Her hand moved along the torn seat.
Something hard pressed beneath the foam.
She stopped.
Opened her eyes.
There was metal underneath.
Not the normal seat pan.
A separate box.
She took out the flashlight.
Weak yellow light revealed a small steel compartment welded to the frame beneath the seat.
The crash had shifted the damaged seat enough to expose it.
One edge of the box had opened.
Chloe pulled.
The lid moved.
Inside was a bundle wrapped in an oily rag.
She stared at it.
Then removed it.
Heavy leather unfolded in her hands.
A motorcycle vest.
Old.
Stiff.
Faded.
On the back was the winged death’s-head insignia.
Above it:
HELLS ANGELS
Below:
CALIFORNIA
Chloe stopped breathing.
Everyone around Barstow knew what that meant.
Even people who had never met a member.
You did not wear a club patch that was not yours.
You did not pretend membership.
You did not casually possess colors belonging to a dead rider.
Chloe turned the vest.
On the front was a smaller memorial strip.
DOMINIC “PREACHER” HAYES
PRESIDENT
Her fingers went cold.
She remembered Arthur.
Whoever owned this wasn’t the kind of person who registered everything normally.
“God.”
Chloe dropped the vest.
She backed away.
The motorcycle suddenly looked different.
Not junk.
Evidence.
Something somebody had tried to erase.
The ruined paint.
The damaged VIN.
The hidden compartment.
The bike lying unseen in the desert for years.
Then Chloe noticed headlights.
Far behind her.
One pair.
Then another.
Then another.
At first she thought fatigue was playing tricks.
But the lights multiplied.
The ground began vibrating.
Chloe stood.
She grabbed David’s wrench.
The sound grew.
Not a car.