The reaction from the club was immediate, but not aggressive. Several of the towering men simply bowed their helmets. One rider near the back turned his head away entirely, staring down at his boots. Another gripped his handlebars so tightly his knuckles turned stark white.
Watching their body language, Sheriff Davis felt his own tension evaporate. The hair on the back of his neck settled. He had been a cop long enough to recognize the difference between malice and mourning. What stood before him was not a gang preparing for violence. It was a dam holding back a reservoir of profound grief.
Baker slowly reached up, his leather-clad fingers finding the knot of his bandana. He pulled it down, followed by his helmet. He rested them both on his gas tank and finally raised his eyes.
In them flashed everything he had been trying so desperately to hide. His eyes were bloodshot, swimming in unshed tears. He looked at the neighbor in the blue shirt, then back to the closed door of the house—knowing that whoever was inside was likely listening to every word.
"We didn’t want them to see us crying," Baker said, his voice breaking into a hoarse whisper.
Nobody spoke. All around the semicircle, the glaring smartphone screens were slowly lowered to the residents' sides. The woman who had been recording on her porch covered her mouth with trembling hands.