Through the gap between the parked motorcycles, across the two-lane street, was Miller Park playground. A dozen young children were playing on the swings and jungle gyms, their laughter carrying in the summer air.
Parked parallel to the playground fence, with dark tinted windows and the engine running, was an unmarked black full-sized SUV. The front passenger window was cracked down two inches, a long-lens camera lens glinting subtly through the glass directly aimed at the playground entrance.
Leo pulled back, his young face pale with worry: "It's been circling the block three times. The driver keeps watching the slide."
The biker president looked across the street for two cold, silent seconds. The instincts of a man who spent decades guarding his neighborhood and brothers locked into razor-sharp focus.
He turned his head toward the surrounding tables.