Hoffman smiled—a cold, razor-thin expression that didn't reach his eyes. "You signed it, Mr. McDonald. The tools inside this building belong to Apex now. Now, step aside, or my deputy marshals will have you removed in cuffs for obstruction."
Teague looked at Hoffman, then at the two process servers stepping up behind him. He knew the law was on Hoffman's side. The legal trap had been laid two years ago when he was sitting by Clara's hospital bed, blindly signing every document the bank put in front of him just to keep her heart beating for one more week. They had engineered his ruin with surgical, bureaucratic precision.
Teague felt a cold fire ignite in his stomach. He didn't move an inch from the doorway. "You're not taking my tools today, Hoffman."
Hoffman sighed, shaking his head with exaggerated pity. "I hoped you wouldn't be difficult. Veterans always think their service entitles them to special treatment under the law. It doesn't." Hoffman turned to the tow truck driver. "Break the lock on the big bay door. Clear out the lifts."
The tow truck driver hesitated, looking at Teague's formidable size and the quiet, dangerous stillness in his eyes. But Hoffman gestured sharply. "Do it now, or I'll fire your company on the spot!"
The driver grabbed a heavy iron crowbar from the bed of his truck and began walking toward the main bay door.
Teague took a step off the porch, his fists clenching at his sides, preparing to do something that would inevitably land him in a county jail cell for the rest of his life. He was fifty-eight years old, he had lost his wife, his health, and his home, and he was damned if he was going to watch a suit in polished shoes strip the skin off his back without a fight.
Before the driver could reach the door, a low rumble echoed from the eastern horizon of Highway 66.
It started as a faint vibration in the earth, a deep, rhythmic tremor that shook the standing water in the driveway puddles. The sound grew rapidly, building from a distant hum into a deafening, thunderous roar that seemed to split the very air above the desert floor.
Hoffman stopped mid-sentence, turning his head toward the highway. The tow truck driver lowered his crowbar, his mouth falling open.
Over the crest of the hill, coming out of the blinding glare of the afternoon sun, came a line of headlights.
It wasn't two motorcycles. It wasn't ten.
It was a wall of black iron and chrome stretching across both lanes of Highway 66 as far as the eye could see. Dozens—no, hundreds—of heavy V-twin motorcycles were riding in tight, military formation, their exhausts roaring in a unified, terrifying chorus that shook the very foundations of McDonald's Wrench and Ride.
The lead rider swung his machine into the gravel driveway, kicking up a massive wave of dirt that pelted the side of Hoffman's pristine black European sedan. Behind him, fifty more bikes flooded into the lot, surrounding the luxury car, the tow truck, and Hoffman's contractors in an impenetrable ring of roaring chrome and gleaming leather. The rest of the pack—easily another hundred riders—pulled up along the shoulder of the highway, blocking the road in both directions with a sea of flashing lights and fluttering colors.
Every single rider wore the same insignia on their leather vests: the winged Death Head patch of the Hells Angels.
The lead bike came to a stop five feet from Hoffman. The rider turned off the engine, kicked down the stand, and swung his massive leg over the saddle.
It was Bear.
He pulled off his dark sunglasses, his scarred face unreadable, and looked around the dusty lot. His eyes locked onto Teague standing on the porch, and a faint, respectful nod passed between them.
Hoffman had turned pale, his expensive handkerchief clutching blindly at his silk tie. He took two frantic steps backward, nearly tripping over his own Italian shoes, until his back slammed against the side of his sedan. "What... what is the meaning of this?" Hoffman stammered, his smooth corporate voice cracking into a high-pitched squeak. "This is private property! You're trespassing!"
Bear ignored Hoffman completely. He turned his back on the executive and walked straight toward Teague.
Behind Bear stepped out three other men wearing heavy club colors. One was a tall, silver-haired man with an air of absolute, terrifying authority—the Chapter President. Beside him stood a man holding a heavy leather saddlebag, and on his left was a sharply dressed woman in a tailored dark pantsuit holding a leather briefcase.