Toby ran back inside, acting as a ground controller. "Left wall! Angle them in! Next row, pull in beside him! Keep the center clear!"
The bikers responded with military precision. Working in seamless rhythm, they slotted their machines side-by-side at perfect forty-five-degree angles, squeezing eight large touring bikes into a space meant for two family sedans. As the last bike cleared the threshold, Toby jumped to the wall panel and slammed the emergency button. The heavy aluminum garage door rattled downward, sealing them off from the savage tempest outside just as a volley of hail smashed against the exterior panels.
Inside, the sudden cut of the wind left only the ticking of hot engine blocks, the smell of burnt gasoline and wet leather, and the heavy breathing of nine men.
The lead biker kicked down his stand, swinging his heavy leg off the machine. Slowly, deliberately, he unbuckled the chinstrap of his helmet and lifted it off, revealing close-cropped silver hair, a greying goatee, and a deep scar slicing down his left temple. He looked around the tightly packed garage, observing the orderly rows of protected bikes—completely sheltered from the devastating hailstorm outside.
The towering man turned his gaze onto the teenager standing by the workbench, drenched and chest heaving from the adrenaline. He took three heavy strides forward, stopping inches from Toby. The sheer bulk of the veteran rider cast a massive shadow across the boy, but Toby stood his ground, meeting the man's intense blue eyes.