THE SHELTER AT IRON VALE
Chapter I: The Storm and the Heavy Door
The winter gale howled through the pine forests of the mountain pass, driving horizontal sheets of sleet and snow against the cedar logs of the Iron Vale Roadhouse. Outside, heavy motorcycles sat parked under the snow-laden overhang, their chrome rims encrusted with ice. Inside, the tavern was warm, smelling of cedarwood smoke, hot coffee, and leather.
Seated around heavy wooden tables were members of the Iron Vale Riders—massive, bearded men in heavy leather cuts, sharing quiet stories around mugs of steaming coffee while a football game played silently on the overhead television.
A sudden blast of freezing wind rattled the building.
The heavy front door was shoved open, banging against the wooden frame.