It didn't sound like a motorcycle. It sounded like an earthquake. The loose gravel around my knees began to physically vibrate. A low, thunderous roar was building on the horizon, echoing off the distant red rock canyons, growing louder by the second.
Kellen turned toward the highway, shielding his eyes from the sun. The rest of the Iron Kings stepped away from my bike, instinctively grouping together as the noise became deafening.
Down Route 66, a massive wall of black metal was approaching.
A fleet of armored, matte-black SUVs led the charge. Behind them, taking up all four lanes of the highway, was a staggered, perfectly organized column of heavy motorcycles. There had to be over a hundred of them. They moved with absolute military precision, a terrifying, rolling thunderstorm of chrome, leather, and exhaust.
“What the hell is this?” Kellen muttered, his bravado finally slipping into genuine confusion.
The armada slowed as they reached the Dusty Skillet Diner. The SUVs blocked both ends of the highway, stopping civilian traffic entirely. The hundred motorcycles swarmed the parking lot, completely encircling the dozen Iron Kings in a suffocating ring of revving engines and unyielding steel.
The men on the bikes didn't rev their engines or shout. They parked, killed their ignitions simultaneously, and sat in absolute, terrifying silence. Every single one of them wore a patch featuring the scales of justice—the elite guard of the National Syndicate Council.
My burner phone had a beacon built into the battery. It activated the moment I manually powered the phone down after receiving a direct message from the National President. It was a failsafe. A flare. I hadn’t used it in ten years.
Kellen, blinded by his own ignorance and desperate for validation, suddenly smiled. He looked at Tank, clapping the terrified man on the shoulder.
“You see that, Tank?” Kellen cheered, regaining his swagger. “That’s Dutch’s personal guard! The National President is here! I told you he was monitoring our progress. He came to see his best charter in action!”
The door of the lead SUV opened.
A man in his late sixties, impeccably dressed in a tailored black suit beneath a heavily patched leather cut, stepped out onto the gravel. Dutch. He had more grey in his beard than I remembered, and he walked with a slight limp, but his eyes were just as sharp.
Kellen immediately turned his back on me. He smoothed his own vest, trying to look respectable, and practically sprinted across the gravel to greet his ultimate superior.
“Dutch! Sir!” Kellen called out proudly, throwing his arms wide open. “Welcome to Mojave! The Iron Kings have the highway totally secured! We were just teaching some trash a lesson about—”
Kellen stopped talking.
Dutch wasn't looking at him.
Dutch was looking over Kellen’s shoulder, staring directly at me, still kneeling in the dust with my shirt ripped open.
I watched as the National President of the most dangerous criminal syndicate in the country stopped walking. The blood completely drained from Dutch’s face, leaving his weathered skin a sickly pale gray. His mouth opened slightly. His cane dropped from his hand, clattering against the asphalt.
The myth wasn’t a myth anymore. The Judge was awake.
CHAPTER 4
“Dutch?” Kellen asked, stepping directly into the National President’s line of sight, trying to regain his attention. “Hey, Dutch, it’s Kellen. Did you see what we—”
Dutch moved faster than a man his age had any right to.
He didn't speak. He didn't warn the boy. Dutch simply stepped forward, grabbed Kellen by the throat with his left hand, and violently threw the young charter president aside. Kellen crashed into the dirt, entirely shocked, scrambling frantically to his feet.
Dutch ignored him. He walked straight past the bewildered Iron Kings, straight past Tank, and stopped three feet in front of me.