Motorcycles.
Many.
The headlights crested the highway.
Two abreast.
Then more behind them.
A disciplined formation stretching far into the darkness.
Chloe’s stomach collapsed.
“Oh, no.”
She looked at the vest.
At the dead motorcycle.
At the approaching riders.
She understood enough.
They had come for the bike.
Or the vest.
Or whoever had taken them.
Chloe ran into the scrub.
There was almost nowhere to hide.
She crouched behind a cluster of creosote, flattening herself against cold dirt.
The motorcycles arrived.
The sound became overwhelming.
Heavy V-twins filled the night with thunder.
The lead riders slowed.
An arm lifted.
The formation responded.
One after another, ninety-seven motorcycles pulled onto the shoulder and surrounding dirt.
Headlights illuminated the broken Shovelhead.
Then the engines shut down.
Not all at once.
In a rolling sequence.
The silence afterward was shocking.
Cooling engines clicked.
Boots touched gravel.
Leather creaked.
No one spoke.
Then one rider dismounted.
He was enormous.
Not simply tall.
Wide.
Late fifties.
Iron-gray beard.
Long hair pulled back.
His cut was old and meticulously cared for.
The name patch over his chest read JACK.
Jack O’Connor.
He walked toward the broken Shovelhead.
Behind him came another older rider wearing a SERGEANT AT ARMS patch.
Jack stopped.
Saw the vest.
Everything in his face changed.
He bent down.
Lifted it.
Brushed desert dust from the leather.
His thumb moved over the memorial patch.
“Preacher.”
The word was barely audible.
Several bikers removed their sunglasses despite the darkness.
One bowed his head.
Another turned away.
This was not stolen merchandise to them.
It was a missing grave.
Jack straightened.
He looked into the surrounding darkness.
“I know somebody’s out there.”
Chloe froze.
Jack’s voice carried without effort.
“Nobody touches this bike by accident.”
He waited.
“You have ten seconds to step into the light.”
Chloe’s fingers tightened around the wrench.
“After that, we start looking.”
Nobody moved.
Jack counted.
“One.”
Chloe closed her eyes.
“Two.”
She thought of Richard.
“Three.”
She stood.
Every head turned.
She stepped from the scrub.
The headlights hit her.
Chloe lifted one hand against the glare.
The wrench remained in the other.
Ninety-seven bikers stared at a frightened nineteen-year-old girl in dusty clothes and a borrowed jacket.
Nobody expected her.
Jack certainly did not.
His eyes moved across her bruises.
The wrench.
The bleeding scrape on her arm from the crash.
“You?”
Chloe swallowed.
“I didn’t steal it.”
The sergeant-at-arms stepped forward.
“Nobody said you did.”
“I bought it.”
Jack stared.
“For how much?”
“Forty dollars.”
Someone in the second row laughed once from disbelief.
Jack did not.
“Where?”
“Pendleton Auto Salvage.”