The scraping of chairs on the pavement sounded like a declaration of war.
"Big Mike," Jax said, not taking his eyes off the SUV. "Block the north exit. T-Bone, take the south. The rest of you, we're forming a perimeter. Nobody leaves that park until we see what's behind that tint."
In an instant, the peaceful Saturday afternoon was transformed. The bikers didn't run. They moved with a terrifying, organized speed. Within 30 seconds, the roar of 20 engines erupted—a wall of sound that made the birds scatter from the trees.
Leo watched breathless as the Hell's Angels moved like a tactical unit. The driver of the Suburban realized too late that he had been spotted. As he tried to accelerate toward the park's exit, Big Mike's massive touring bike swung across the road sideways, blocking the path. At the same time, T-Bone and three others pulled up behind the SUV, pinning it in. The vehicle was trapped in a cage of chrome and leather.
Jax walked toward the driver's side window. He didn't pull a weapon. He didn't need to. The sheer weight of 20 bikers surrounding the car was enough to crush the spirit of anyone inside.
Jax knocked on the glass with a heavy silver ringed fist.
"Roll it down," Jax commanded.
The window lowered just two inches. A man's voice, high and nervous, came from inside:
"I haven't done anything. You're harassing me. I'll call the police."
"The police didn't want to talk to our friend Leo," Jax said, gesturing toward the 18-year-old standing on the curb. "But we're real good listeners. Why are you circling the kids, pal? Why no plates?"
"I'm just looking for an address," the man stammered.
"Five times around the same playground isn't an address," Big Mike growled, leaning his face close to the glass. "That's a shopping trip and we don't like what you're selling."
Jax didn't wait for an answer. He reached into the cracked window, grabbed the door lock, and pulled. He swung the door open, revealing a man in his late 30s who looked entirely too ordinary, except for the sweat pouring down his face and the binoculars sitting on the passenger seat.
But it was what was in the back seat that made the air turn cold: rolls of heavy-duty duct tape, a set of industrial zip ties, and a pile of children's toys that looked brand new, still in their packaging.
The bikers didn't need a jury. They knew exactly what they were looking at.
"Leo," Jax called out, his voice deathly calm. "Come over here."
Leo walked over, his eyes wide as he looked at the tools of a kidnapper scattered in the back of the car. He felt a wave of nausea hit him. If he hadn't walked across the street, if he had just stayed on his bench, one of those kids would be in that van right now.
"Is this the car?" Jax asked.
"Yes," Leo whispered. "That's him."