When the knife lunged, the Hells Angel moved with a terrifying speed that defied his massive frame. His heavy, leather-clad hand shot out, grabbing the thief’s wrist.
There was no struggle, just a sickening, distinct snap that echoed off the brick walls of the diner.
The thief screamed, a high, piercing sound of sheer agony, as the switchblade clattered onto the asphalt. Before the man could draw another breath, Rooster drove a devastating right hook into his ribs.
The impact sounded like a baseball bat hitting a side of beef.
The tattooed man collapsed instantly, curling into a whimpering, broken ball on the wet pavement.
The second thief, the one nursing a fractured arm from Rebecca’s tire iron, took one look at his partner and the monster standing over him. He scrambled into the cab of the rusted Ford, threw it into drive, and stomped on the gas, abandoning his friend without a second glance.
The flatbed screeched out of the lot, disappearing into the Bakersfield night.
Rooster ignored the fleeing truck.
He stood over the writhing man on the ground, his heavy boot pressing lightly against the man’s throat.
“If I ever see your face in this county again,” Rooster growled, his voice a low, vibrating hum of pure menace, “they won’t find enough of you to fill a shoebox. Understand?”
The thief choked out a frantic, sobbing sound of agreement.
Rooster kicked him away in disgust.
Only then did the biker turn his attention to the girl leaning heavily against his 1947 Knucklehead.
Rebecca was pale, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a cold, sweeping shock.
The left sleeve of her mustard uniform was soaked in dark crimson, the blood dripping steadily off her fingertips and pooling onto the toe of her sneakers.
She looked up at the towering outlaw, her grip still white-knuckled around the bloody tire iron.
“You’re bleeding on my chrome,” Rooster said.
His tone was rough, but the murderous fire in his eyes had completely vanished, replaced by a sharp, calculating focus.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” Rebecca stammered, her vision blurring at the edges.
Her knees suddenly buckled.
Rooster caught her before she hit the ground. His massive hands, which had just casually shattered a man’s wrist, were surprisingly gentle as they supported her weight.
He stripped off his heavy leather cut, revealing the iconic death’s head patch, and tossed it over the seat of the bike. Then, he tore the edge of his black hoodie, wrapping the thick cotton tightly around her lacerated arm to fashion a crude tourniquet.
“Why did you do that?” Rooster asked, his brow furrowed as he pulled the knot tight, ignoring her wince of pain. “It’s just a machine. You could have been killed over a piece of steel.”
“It’s… it’s all I have,” Rebecca whispered, her teeth chattering from the shock. “My job. Sam would fire me. The diner. If it becomes a crime scene.”