She buried her face in her good hand and wept.
It was a silent, suffocating cry of total defeat. She had fought so hard, bled for what was right, and lost absolutely everything.
Then, the floorboards of her apartment began to vibrate.
It started as a low rumble, like distant thunder, before building into a deafening, unified roar of heavy, unbaffled exhaust pipes.
The sound rattled the cheap windowpanes of her second-floor apartment.
Leo dropped his truck, his eyes wide.
“Becca, what’s that?”
Rebecca wiped her eyes, wincing as her stitched arm throbbed, and walked over to the window.
When she looked down into the cracked, weed-choked parking lot of her complex, her jaw dropped.
There wasn’t just one motorcycle.
There were thirty of them.
Thirty custom Harley-Davidsons had completely taken over the lot, parked in a flawless, intimidating diagonal line. The riders were all dismounting, a sea of black leather, heavy boots, and the infamous winged death’s head patches of the Hells Angels Motorcycle Club.
To the residents of the run-down apartment complex, it looked like a terrifying invasion. People were quickly drawing their blinds and locking their doors.
Leading the pack, walking toward the concrete stairs, was Rooster.
Next to him was an older, imposing man with silver hair and a sergeant-at-arms patch on his chest.
A moment later, a heavy knock echoed on her door.
Rebecca opened it slowly.
Rooster stood in the hallway, taking off his sunglasses. He looked completely out of place in the cheap, peeling hallway of the apartment building.
“Heard you were moving, Rebecca,” Rooster said, his gravelly voice remarkably soft.
“I don’t have a choice,” she replied, her voice trembling. “I lost my job. The landlord is locking the doors in an hour.”
Rooster reached into his leather cut and pulled out a thick manila envelope. He held it out to her.
“No, he’s not.”
Rebecca hesitated, then took the envelope with her good hand. She opened the clasp.
Inside was a stack of official documents.