As I groaned and tried to push myself up, Kellen grabbed my ceramic coffee mug. He tipped it aggressively, pouring the remaining scalding hot coffee directly over the back of my neck and my flannel shirt.
The heat seared through the fabric, biting into my skin like liquid fire. I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ground together, but I didn't scream.
“Are you deaf?” Kellen leaned down, his foul breath hot against my ear. “I said get out. And take that rusted piece of junk out there with you before I have my boys toss it in the ditch.”
He shoved me backward. I stumbled, catching my balance on the vinyl booth. I looked past him, through the window, to my Indian Scout.
He wasn't just threatening my bike anymore. He was threatening Sarah's ashes.
The vow of peace I had made to my dying wife began to fray, snapping one brittle thread at a time. I looked at Kellen. He was grinning, entirely unaware of the catastrophic mistake he was making.
“Let’s give grandpa an escort out,” Kellen snapped to his men. “Make sure he understands the rules.”
CHAPTER 2
The desert sun hit my face like a physical blow as Tank and Skiv hauled me backward through the diner’s heavy double doors.
Tank had a massive, unyielding grip on my left shoulder, his thick fingers digging mercilessly into my collarbone. Skiv held my right, his grip nervous and twitchy. They dragged me across the scorching asphalt of the parking lot. The soles of my boots dragged uselessly against the ground. I didn’t fight them. I let them carry my dead weight, my eyes locked on Kellen as he swaggered in front of us, twirling a set of heavy brass knuckles around his thumb.
“Right here,” Kellen ordered, stopping just a few feet away from my Indian Scout.
The two henchmen threw me forward. I hit the rough, jagged gravel of the parking lot hard, the sharp stones tearing through my denim jeans and biting into my palms. I stayed on my hands and knees for a moment, letting the dust settle around me. The scalding coffee on my back had already begun to cool into a sticky, uncomfortable dampness, but my cheek throbbed violently from where it had met the diner table.
About ten other Iron Kings flooded out of the diner, forming a loose, jeering circle around us. They leaned against their shiny choppers, laughing and pointing, treating this like a spectator sport. It was a classic intimidation formation, designed to create a sense of inescapable numerical pressure.
I looked up. Kellen was standing right next to my Indian Scout.
“You know, I actually appreciate the classics,” Kellen said, running his heavily ringed hand along the matte black fuel tank. His hand was greasy. It left a smeared trail of filth on the pristine paint. “But this? This is just sad. You shouldn't be riding something you can't protect, old man.”
“Step away from the bike,” I said. My voice was a low, guttural rasp, sounding unfamiliar even to my own ears.
Kellen paused. He looked down at me, feigning shock, pressing a hand to his chest. “Oh, did I upset you? Is this your pride and joy?”
He lifted his heavy studded boot and slammed it down onto the Indian Scout’s exposed exhaust pipe. The metal creaked under his weight. He ground his heel into the chrome, leaving deep scratches.
My eyes darted immediately to the back fender. The heavy leather straps holding Sarah’s brass urn were completely secure, but if he pushed the bike off its kickstand, the heavy brass would hit the concrete. It might dent. It might crack.
“There is a rule on the highway, son,” I said, slowly getting to my feet, brushing the gravel off my palms. “A very old rule. You never disrespect a man's saddle.”
Kellen burst into hysterical laughter. He looked at Tank and Skiv. “You hear this guy? He’s quoting highway rules at me. Like he’s in some old movie!”
Skiv stepped up behind me and drove the toe of his boot hard into my left kidney.
The impact stole the breath from my lungs. I stumbled forward, my knees buckling, dropping back into the gravel. Before I could recover, Tank delivered a sweeping kick to my right ribcage. I heard the dull, sickening crunch of cartilage yielding. Pain radiated through my torso, hot and sharp, forcing me to curl slightly into myself to protect my organs.
“The only rule on the highway,” Kellen sneered, walking over and standing directly above me, “is that the strong do whatever the hell they want. And you? You're weak. You’re just a relic taking up space.”