Gator blinked, staring at me in shock. "You... you know?"
"A setup," I explained, leaning against the corrugated metal wall. "Miller used your pipe tobacco. He probably had someone lift your keys while you were passed out at the bar last night. They deliberately dragged a foot in the dirt to leave a limp in the footprints. They wanted me to find out. They wanted the club to tear itself apart looking for a traitor while the bombs ticked down."
Tears welled up in Gator's eyes. The massive, hardened biker broke down, burying his face in his hands, his broad shoulders shaking with relief. "I thought I was dead, Vance. I thought I lost my brotherhood."
"You didn't," I said, stepping forward and pulling him up to his feet by his shirt collar. "But right now, I need my Road Captain. Miller is coming. He’s bringing a fake tactical squad to wipe us out."
Gator wiped his eyes, his expression hardening instantly from despair to pure, unadulterated rage. "Give me a rifle."
"Go to the roof," I ordered. "Hold the left flank."
As Gator limped out of the container to rejoin the fight, a sudden, heavy mechanical roar echoed across the desert. It wasn't the sound of motorcycles. It was the deep, guttural growl of heavy diesel engines.
I ran around to the front of the roadhouse. The dust plume had arrived.
Four matte-black armored personnel carriers—military surplus vehicles painted over with Sheriff's Department logos—screeched to a halt on the highway, blocking the entrance to our dirt driveway. The back doors of the heavily armored trucks kicked open, and dozens of men poured out.
The deputy hadn't lied. These weren't cops. They wore heavy black tactical vests and ballistic helmets, but there were no badges, no name tags, and their weapons were illegal, fully automatic rifles. They moved with aggressive, predatory speed, fanning out into the scrub brush and taking up positions behind the armored trucks, aiming their weapons directly at the roadhouse.
We were completely outgunned. My men had hunting rifles, shotguns, and handguns. We were facing a private army equipped with military hardware.
The electronic screech of a megaphone feedback loop pierced the air.
From behind the lead armored vehicle, Sheriff Miller stepped out. He was a tall, lean man with slicked-back hair, wearing a Kevlar vest over his crisp tan uniform. He held a microphone in his hand, a smug, confident smile plastered on his face.
"Vance!" Miller's voice boomed over the loudspeakers, echoing off the wooden front of the diner. "This is Sheriff Miller! We have received credible intelligence that the Iron Kings Motorcycle Club is manufacturing illegal explosives at this location!"
I crouched behind the engine block of one of our pickup trucks, my rifle tight against my shoulder. I looked up at the roof. Gator was lying flat, his scope trained on Miller’s position.
"Come out with your hands up!" Miller commanded, his voice dripping with false authority. "Lay your weapons on the ground! You have three minutes to comply, or we will breach the perimeter with deadly force!"
He wasn't going to arrest us. He was establishing a legal alibi for a massacre. If we surrendered, they would execute us on our knees and plant the weapons. If we fought, they would tear the roadhouse apart with heavy machine-gun fire.
"Boss," Huck whispered, sliding through the dirt to crouch next to me. He was clutching the canvas duffel bag filled with the black explosive boxes. "What's the play? We can't hold them off. They have armor."
I looked at the canvas bag. I looked at the flashing red tracker lights bleeding through the fabric. Then, I looked at the line of thirty-eight motorcycles parked in a neat, vulnerable row in front of the diner.
An idea hit me, desperate and reckless.
"Huck," I said, my voice tight. "Are the detonators on those boxes still active?"
"The explosives are stable, but the remote triggers are still wired," Huck replied, his eyes narrowing as he tried to follow my logic. "Why?"
"Because Miller thinks we found the trackers," I said, pointing toward the heavily armored trucks blocking our exit. "But he doesn't know we actually defused the C4. He thinks he's standing outside a building full of active bombs."
Huck looked at the bag, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face.
"Three minutes are up, Vance!" Miller's voice echoed over the megaphone, losing the professional tone and dropping into a vicious sneer. "Light 'em up!"
The first shot cracked through the air. A heavy-caliber bullet shattered the front window of the Desert Roadhouse, raining glass down onto the porch.
The siege had begun.
CHAPTER 4
The sound of shattering glass was immediately swallowed by the deafening roar of automatic gunfire. The tactical squad opened up from behind their armored vehicles, a relentless wall of lead tearing into the wooden facade of the Desert Roadhouse. Splinters of wood, chunks of plaster, and shattered neon glass exploded into the air.
"Keep your heads down!" I roared, pressing myself flat against the dirt behind the pickup truck's tire. The metal body of the truck shuddered violently as bullets slammed into it, pockmarking the steel.