Don't touch him, I will. The words tore out of Caleb's throat as he sprinted across scorching asphalt, his boots pounding against pavement that shimmered with heat waves.
Behind him, Uncle Vernon's voice cracked with terror, screaming for him to stop, but Caleb's eyes were locked on the twisted wreckage and the massive body sprawled in a lake of dark blood spreading like spilled oil across the highway.
The screech of metal on metal still echoed in Caleb's ears as he dropped to his knees beside the fallen rider. The man was huge, had to be six feet five inches tall, maybe 280 pounds, and his leather vest was soaked through with blood that pooled beneath him in quantities that made Caleb's stomach lurch. The vest itself bore a patch that made every hair on the back of Caleb's neck stand up, a winged skull with the words Hells Angels arched above it, Arizona below. Kid, get back here. Vernon's voice was shrill, panicked in a way Caleb had never heard before.
You don't know what you're doing.
But Caleb's hands were already moving, ripping off his own shirt and wadding it against the gaping wound in the man's thigh where his femoral artery had been torn open. Blood spurted between Caleb's fingers with each weakening heartbeat. Stay with me, Caleb muttered, pressing harder. Come on, stay with me. The biker's eyes fluttered open, pale gray like storm clouds, but fading fast.
His hand shot up with surprising strength and clamped around Caleb's wrist. You... you saw... The man's voice was a wet rasp. I saw the truck, black Silverado. He swerved right into you, man, deliberate. Dalton.
The name came out like a curse. Sheriff Dalton. Caleb's blood went cold. The sheriff did this. The biker's grip tightened pulling Caleb closer.
His breath smelled like copper and whiskey. In my saddlebag, leather roll. Get it. Hide it. You need to save your strength.
Ambulance is coming. No. The man coughed spraying blood across his lips. Dalton. He'll come looking.
Don't let him. His eyes rolled back. Hey. Hey. Caleb slapped the man's face lightly.
What's your name? Come on. Tell me your name. Arthur. Arthur Caldwell.
The words were barely whispered. You're a good kid. Too good for what's coming.
Behind them Vernon had caught up grabbing at Caleb's shoulder. Boy, do you have any idea what you've done? Do you know who these people are? He's dying, Uncle Vernon. Better him than us.