Bear stopped in front of Teague, placing a heavy hand on the mechanic's shoulder. "Told you I had a run to Arizona, Teague," Bear said, his deep voice carrying over the low idle of the surrounding motorcycles. "Brought a few friends back with me."
Teague stared at the vast sea of leather-clad riders filling his driveway. "Bear... what is all this?"
The silver-haired Chapter President stepped forward, extending a hand toward Teague. "I'm Jackson. San Bernardino chapter president. Bear told us what happened here last night, Mr. McDonald. He told us about the Evo 1340 engine."
Jackson turned his eyes toward Hoffman, his gaze cold enough to freeze water in July. "He also told us that an old combat medic who gives his last piece of bread to a stranger was about to get tossed out into the dirt by a vulture."
Hoffman tried to regain his composure, stepping out from behind his sedan while hiding behind his two process servers. "Listen to me!" Hoffman shouted, attempting to sound authoritative. "I am Gregory Hoffman, Regional Manager for Apex Commercial Developments! We hold the legal deed and mortgage note on this property! These men are court-ordered process servers! If you do not clear this lot immediately, I will have the Sheriff's department arrest every single one of you!"
The woman in the dark pantsuit stepped out from behind the bikers, popping open her leather briefcase with a crisp double-click. She walked straight past Hoffman's process servers, who actively stepped out of her way, terrified of the massive bikers standing shoulder-to-shoulder behind her.
"My name is Sarah Vance," the woman announced, her voice clear, sharp, and intensely professional. "Senior Partner at Vance, Sterling & Associates, legal counsel for the San Bernardino Motorcycle Association."
She pulled a thick stack of court-stamped documents from her briefcase and held them up in front of Hoffman's face.
"Mr. Hoffman," Ms. Vance said smoothly. "At nine o'clock this morning, an emergency motion was granted in the San Bernardino County Superior Court staying your foreclosure proceedings under the California Military and Veterans Protection Act, pending a full judicial audit of Apex Commercial Developments' predatory lending practices."
Hoffman's eyes bulged. "What? That's impossible! The debt was legally assigned! The redemption period expired!"
"Your firm altered the interest structure on Mr. McDonald's loan while he was acting as a primary caregiver for a terminally ill spouse, violating section 800 of the Military and Veterans Code," Ms. Vance stated with lethal precision. "Furthermore, my clients have just purchased Mr. McDonald's outstanding mortgage debt in full from your parent institution."
She turned to the biker holding the leather saddlebag.
The biker stepped forward, unbuckled the straps of the saddlebag, and unceremoniously dumped its contents onto the hood of Hoffman's pristine black sedan.
Stack after stack of wrapped, bound, hundred-dollar bills tumbled across the shiny black paint, cascading down onto the windshield and sliding onto the gravel.
Forty-five thousand dollars in cash lay piled on the hood of the luxury car.
"There is your cured debt balance, Mr. Hoffman," Ms. Vance said, handing him a receipt for signature. "Paid in full. Along with a court summons for fraudulent administrative fee markup. You have five minutes to sign this receipt, clear your contractors off this land, and remove your vehicles from Mr. McDonald's property before I file an emergency injunction for corporate harassment."
Hoffman stood frozen, staring at the pile of cash sitting on the hood of his car, then at the sharp attorney, and finally at the two hundred heavy, bearded men staring at him with silent, murderous intent.
The tow truck driver didn't wait for Hoffman's orders. He dropped his crowbar into the dirt, sprinted back to his cab, threw the truck into reverse, and tore out of the driveway, kicking up gravel as he fled down Highway 66. The two process servers quietly dropped their clipboards onto the hood of the sedan, turned around, and walked rapidly down the shoulder of the road toward town.
Hoffman's hands shook violently as he snatched the pen from Ms. Vance, signed the court acknowledgment on the hood of his car, and shoved the stacks of cash frantically back into his leather briefcase. He scrambled into the driver's seat of his sedan, started the engine with a panicked roar, and backed out of the driveway so fast he clipped an orange traffic cone, sending it flying into the ditch.