"How old are you, son?" the leader growled, his voice deep and raspy.
Toby pushed his wet hair back from his forehead, catching his breath. "Sixteen, sir."
The leader fell silent, his piercing gaze sweeping over the boy’s soaked clothes and bruised arms where the hail had struck him on the driveway. The other seven riders dismounted, gathering behind their president in quiet respect.
"Sixteen," the leader repeated, the hard lines around his mouth softening into a subtle, respectful grin. He reached out with a massive gloved hand and clasped Toby firmly on the shoulder. "I’m Marcus. And you just saved about a quarter-million dollars worth of chrome, kid. Not to mention our skulls."
Toby let out a nervous laugh, shaking Marcus’s hand. "My dad’s a mechanic. He always told me that if a storm hits, you protect the iron first."