The fire in the barrel burned lower, leaving glowing embers. Jack stood quietly while the group processed what he had said.
Finally someone spoke.
“What happened?”
Jack rubbed the back of his neck slowly before answering.
“A woman was hurt tonight.”
A ripple of anger moved through the riders.
“That’s not something we do,” one man muttered.
Jack nodded.
“You’re right.”
He looked around at the group again, his expression filled not with anger but something closer to sorrow.
Randy noticed it.
“Who did it?” he asked.
Instead of answering immediately, Jack reached down and picked up a pair of black motorcycle gloves lying near the barrel.
Several riders recognized them instantly.
Randy’s voice dropped.
“…Those are Luke’s.”
Luke Mercer.
Jack’s son.
Twenty-six years old and a member of the club for five years.
At that moment, the weight of the situation became clear. If the gloves belonged to Luke and the police were on their way, then something terrible had happened.
Soon the sound of approaching vehicles drifted across the desert road.