THE SENTRY ON HIGHWAY FORTY-NINE
Chapter I: The Dust and the Waving Arms
The morning mist still clung to the towering evergreen canopy lining Highway 49, a winding, narrow mountain pass known for sharp hairpin turns and zero visibility. The rhythmic, low-frequency rumble of a dozen heavy V-twin cruisers echoed through the canyon as the Iron Reapers Motorcycle Club rode in tight double formation.
Leading the pack at the front of the line was Dutch, a hulking road captain with steel-gray in his thick beard, hardened eyes, and a patched black leather cut over his broad chest.
Rounding a steep mountain bend, Dutch suddenly caught sight of movement on the gravel shoulder.
Standing beside a scuffed mountain bike was a ten-year-old boy in a dirt-stained gray t-shirt and backpack, waving both arms frantically in the air while shouting at the top of his lungs:
"Stop!"