They were rail thin, wearing baggy clothes, their heads darting left and right with the erratic paranoia of severe meth addicts. One of them, a guy with a shaved head and a neck tattoo, went straight to the back of the flatbed and pulled out a heavy wooden plank.
The other man pulled a massive pair of bright yellow bolt cutters from his jacket.
Rebecca’s heart slammed against her ribs.
They’re going for the bike.
She knew what kind of men stole motorcycles. They were desperate, dangerous, and usually armed. But stealing a customized Harley that belonged to a fully patched Hells Angel, that wasn’t just grand theft.
That was a profound, catastrophic death wish.
If Rooster walked out and caught them, the violence that would erupt in Sam’s Diner parking lot would make the local news for weeks. The diner would be a crime scene. She would lose her job, the only thing keeping her and Leo off the literal streets.
She turned to rush into the dining area to warn Rooster, but when she burst through the swinging kitchen doors, the corner booth was empty.
The restroom door down the hall was shut.
Rebecca looked back out the window.
The thieves were already moving. The shaved-head guy had wedged the plank against the truck bed, while the other man was creeping toward the Harley, examining the heavy lock chained through the front wheel.
They had less than sixty seconds before they loaded the bike and vanished.
Rational thought completely abandoned Rebecca.
It wasn’t just about the diner, or her job, or even the terrifying biker currently in the bathroom. It was a lifetime of watching things get taken from her.
Her mother taking the last of their money.
Landlords taking her security.
Life taking her brother’s health.
She was so incredibly, violently tired of watching people take what didn’t belong to them while the victims just stood by and suffered.
Without thinking, Rebecca grabbed the heavy, solid iron tire iron that Sam kept propped next to the back door for breaking up ice in the winter. Her fingers gripped the cold metal so tightly her knuckles turned white.
She pushed open the heavy glass doors of the diner and sprinted out into the chill night air.
“Hey!” Rebecca screamed, her voice cracking like a whip across the empty lot. “Get the hell away from that bike.”
The two thieves jumped, dropping the bolt cutters with a loud metallic clatter. They spun around, expecting to see a massive biker.
Instead, they saw a sixteen-year-old girl in a yellow apron wielding a rusty iron bar.
The initial shock on their faces quickly morphed into ugly, contemptuous smirks.
“Back inside, sweetheart,” the tattooed man sneered, stepping away from the motorcycle and toward her. “This ain’t your business. Go pour some coffee before you get hurt.”
“I said, back away!” Rebecca shouted, planting her feet.
Her whole body was shaking with adrenaline, but she didn’t step back. She positioned herself squarely between the men and the Harley.
“Do you have any idea whose bike this is? You touch this, you’re dead men.”
The second man, a strung-out-looking guy with greasy hair, let out a raspy laugh.
“It’s going to be our bike in about thirty seconds. Now move before I make you move.”
He lunged forward, trying to shove her out of the way to get to the handlebars.
Instinct took over.
Rebecca swung the tire iron in a short, brutal arc. The heavy iron connected solidly with the man’s forearm with a sickening crack.
He howled in pain, stumbling backward and clutching his arm.
“She broke my arm! The crazy little girl broke my arm!”
The tattooed man’s eyes went wide with sudden rage. The smugness vanished, replaced by the lethal, unpredictable violence of a cornered addict.
He reached into his baggy jacket and pulled out a switchblade.
With a metallic snick, a four-inch jagged blade locked into place. It glinted ominously in the buzzing neon light of the diner sign.
“You’re going to regret that, you stupid little girl,” he hissed, taking a slow, menacing step toward her.
Rebecca’s breath caught in her throat.
The reality of her foolish bravery crashed down on her.
She was only sixteen.
If she died in this filthy parking lot over a stranger’s motorcycle, who was going to take care of Leo?
The image of her little brother, sleeping soundly in the booth just thirty feet away, flashed brilliantly in her mind.
She raised the tire iron defensively, but her hands were trembling violently now.
The man lunged.
Rebecca swung blindly, but he was faster. He ducked under the iron bar and slashed out with the knife.
Rebecca twisted her body, but she wasn’t fast enough.
The blade sliced through the sleeve of her uniform and bit deep into the flesh of her left forearm. A sharp, searing heat tore through her arm.
Rebecca gasped, stumbling backward against the leather seat of the Knucklehead. Blood immediately began soaking through the cheap mustard fabric, dripping down her hand and splattering onto the pristine chrome pipes of the motorcycle.
“Now,” the tattooed man growled, stepping in close, the bloody knife raised for a second, fatal strike. “Drop the pipe.”
Rebecca closed her eyes, bracing for the impact, praying someone would find Leo in the booth.
But the strike never came.
Instead, the heavy glass door of the diner exploded open with such violent force that it shattered against the exterior brick wall, showering the pavement in a thousand glittering pieces.
“What do you think you’re doing?”