Julian froze, the bat held high in the air. Ivan released my arms, stepping back, his tactical training utterly useless against the sheer volume of the sound approaching us.
I stayed on my knees in the dirt, my chest exposed to the cold wind, the flaming skull on my chest seemingly coming alive as I took a deep breath.
I looked up at Julian Vance.
"You should have let the boy go," I whispered.
The rumble exploded into a deafening roar.
CHAPTER 4
They came out of the dark like a nightmare.
Dozens of blinding, high-intensity LED headlights breached the horizon of the highway all at once. The roar of the engines was apocalyptic, a synchronized, mechanical scream that completely drowned out the desert wind and shook the glass windows of the Desert Rose Diner.
In a matter of seconds, fifty blacked-out Harley-Davidson motorcycles swarmed the parking lot. They didn't just arrive; they performed a perfectly coordinated, tactical envelopment. They poured in from the highway ramp, the dirt access roads, and the alleyways behind the diner, instantly forming an impenetrable ring of chrome, steel, and black leather entirely around Julian’s Lamborghini and the Mercedes SUV.
The riders wore heavy black leather, their faces obscured by dark helmets and bandanas, but every single one of them bore the Flaming Skull on their back. As they killed their engines simultaneously, the sudden silence that descended on the lot was far more terrifying than the noise.
Fifty men reached into their jackets. Fifty heavy, terrifyingly metallic clicks echoed through the air as assault rifles, shotguns, and heavy-caliber handguns were racked and aimed directly at Julian Vance and his two enforcers.
Gage instantly dropped his suppressed pistol onto the pavement and raised his hands, falling to his knees. Ivan, the massive Russian killer, didn't even try to reach for his weapon. He stood perfectly still, his eyes wide, realizing that he was a single second away from being turned into red mist.
Julian was paralyzed. His titanium bat slipped from his trembling fingers, clattering loudly onto the asphalt. He looked wildly around the circle of armed men, his arrogant, aristocratic face twisting into a mask of pure, unadulterated childish terror.
"Hey!" Julian screamed, his voice cracking violently. "Do you know who my father is?! I’m Julian Vance! If you touch me, my father will kill every single one of you!"
A heavy set of headlights suddenly pierced the perimeter. The ring of bikers silently parted, allowing a massive, armored Cadillac Escalade to roll slowly into the center of the parking lot.
It was the escort vehicle. Marcus Vance had been trailing ten miles behind his son, coming to finalize the trafficking deal and collect the kidnapped boy.
The Escalade shifted into park. The doors unlocked. Marcus Vance, a brutal, hardened cartel boss who had ordered the deaths of hundreds of men, stepped out. He was wearing a sharp tailored suit, his face set in a scowl of annoyance, clearly wondering why his son was surrounded by a motorcycle club.
"What the hell is this?" Marcus barked, stepping toward the center of the ring, his own heavily armed bodyguards trailing behind him. "Julian! I told you to make the pickup quietly! Who are these people?"
Marcus strode confidently forward, fully prepared to buy, threaten, or murder his way out of the situation. He pushed past the trembling Ivan and looked down at the old man kneeling in the dirt in front of his son's Lamborghini.
Marcus looked at my ruined, oil-stained jeans. He looked at my broken, hanging left shoulder. And then, his eyes drifted down to my torn, open jacket.