“They’re probably dealing with it the biker way,” another replied quietly.
Back in the lot, the riders formed a loose circle. Then the clubhouse door opened.
Jack Mercer stepped outside.
Jack was the president of the Iron Sentinels. Fifty-eight years old, with a gray beard and a reputation for being steady and fair. He was the kind of man who rarely raised his voice but never avoided difficult decisions.
That night, though, he looked worn down. Not the kind of tired that comes from a long day, but the kind that comes from carrying something heavy in your mind.
He walked slowly to the center of the group. No one interrupted him. When Jack called a meeting like this, everyone knew it meant something serious had happened.
Then he did something no one expected.
He removed his leather vest.
The patches reflected in the floodlights. The words President and Iron Sentinels stood out clearly, symbols of more than twenty years of loyalty and leadership.
Without saying anything, Jack pulled a small metal barrel closer. He struck a match.
And then he dropped his vest into the fire.
Flames rose quickly.
A wave of shock moved through the crowd.
“What are you doing?” someone shouted.