But the lead rider held the bike steady.
The convoy stopped inches from disaster.
The girl stood frozen in the center of the road.
She could not have been more than sixteen.
Her coat was too thin, the kind of coat that might have worked in October but had no business facing a Pennsylvania winter. Her jeans were torn at one knee, and one of her shoes had duct tape wrapped around the toe. Her dark hair was tucked badly under a knit hat, and her face was pale from cold, but her eyes were wild and burning with terror.
The little boy stopped a few steps behind her.
He looked about ten.
His cheeks were red from freezing wind, and his fingers were wrapped around the flashlight so tightly that his knuckles looked white. The weak beam shook across the bikers’ headlights.
The lead rider lifted his visor.
His name was Caleb Mercer, though almost everyone called him Bear. He was fifty-one years old, broad-shouldered, gray-bearded, and built like a man who had spent his whole life being difficult to move. His hands were thick, scarred, and steady on the handlebars. His eyes, pale blue beneath heavy brows, moved from the girl’s torn shoe to the boy’s trembling flashlight to the empty road behind them.
The other riders respected Bear because he did not waste words, and because when he did speak, he usually meant exactly what he said.
“Kid,” Bear called over the engines, “you trying to get yourself killed?”
The girl shook her head hard.
“No,” she gasped. “I’m trying to stop you.”
The bikers exchanged looks.
A younger rider named Diesel killed his engine first, then the others followed. One by one, the mechanical thunder died. The sudden silence made the falling snow seem louder.