The wind outside began to howl, violently rattling the large roll-up bay doors. The Mojave was notorious for its sudden, brutal autumn storms, dropping temperatures rapidly while the sky outside the grime-caked windows turned the color of bruised iron. A torrential downpour, rare but devastating in the desert, was imminent. Teague took a deep drag of his cigarette and coughed, a dry, rattling sound. He was exhausted in a way that sleep could no longer fix. The weight of his fifty-eight years seemed to press down on his chest with the force of a hydraulic lift, every old combat injury and every broken heartstring singing a low chorus of defeat.
He stood up from the milk crate, his knees popping in the quiet gloom of the bay, and walked over to the shop window. Outside, the dust was rising off Highway 66 in thick, yellow sheets. Vehicles were scarce, but through the haze, he saw a solitary shape limping down the shoulder of the road. It was a motorcycle, moving barely faster than a walking pace, sputtering and spitting fire from its pipes before its engine finally died with a wet, metallic clunk right at the edge of his gravel driveway.
Teague watched as the rider wrestled the heavy machine to the shoulder. The figure was tall, broad-shouldered, and clad in a battered, rain-flecked leather vest worn over a thick black hoodie. Even from fifty yards away, Teague recognized the distinct insignia sewn onto the center of the rider's back—the winged skull, the classic Death Head patch belonging to the Hells Angels Motorcycle Club. Below it, the bottom rocker read in bold yellow lettering: SAN BERNARDINO.
The rider swung a leg over the dead bike and kicked the kickstand down with a heavy boot. He took off his helmet, revealing a scarred, bearded face framed by slicked-back grey hair, and let out an audible curse that was lost to the rising wind. He stood there in the dust, looking at the dead engine, then looked up at the faded neon sign of McDonald's Wrench and Ride. The neon wasn't lit—Teague hadn't been able to afford the power bill for the sign in six months—but the painted wood beneath it was clear enough.
Teague hesitated for a second. The world had trained him to mind his own business, especially when it came to outlaw motorcycle clubs. The local authorities viewed them with open hostility, and the average citizen gave them a wide berth. But Teague was a combat medic before he was a businessman, and an old instinct, deeply buried beneath his despair, twitched in his chest. A stranded traveller in the Mojave during a flash storm wasn't an outlaw or a civilian; he was just a man caught out in the open.
Teague pushed open the small side door of the garage, the rusted hinges screaming against the wind. He stepped out onto the gravel, pulling his grease-stained canvas jacket tight around his shoulders against the biting cold air. "Need a hand?" Teague called out, his voice raspy from years of tobacco and desert dust, carrying barely over the gale.
The rider snapped his head toward Teague, his dark eyes narrowing beneath heavy brows. He assessed Teague in a single, practiced sweep—noticing the military posture despite the slump of exhaustion, the calloused hands, and the complete absence of fear in the older man's gaze. The biker sighed, wiping sweat and road grime from his forehead with the back of a gloved hand. "She died on me," the man grunted, his voice sounding like two grinding stones. "Lost spark, then sounded like the bottom end fell out. I was trying to beat the storm to Barstow."
"Push her inside before the sky opens up," Teague said simply, jerking his chin toward the open bay door. "I'm closing up, but I won't leave you out here in a flash flood."
The stranger looked down the highway, then back at Teague, giving a slow, respectful nod. Together, they heaved the heavy custom chopper up the incline of the driveway and pushed it through the bay door, clearing the threshold just as the first heavy drops of rain began to slam against the corrugated steel roof like burst fire.
Inside the shop, the storm sounded like an artillery barrage. The rain hit the tin roof with a deafening, rhythmic roar, turning the world outside into a blurred wall of grey water. Teague closed the heavy bay door, locking out the wind, and turned on a overhead hanging shop light. The yellow bulb swung gently on its cord, casting long, dramatic shadows across the concrete floor.