The Man in the Leather Vest
At 6:17 on a cold February morning, Sarah Mitchell was pouring coffee for a man she had never met before.
Twenty minutes later, she would discover that he had known her father.
Twenty-five minutes later, she would learn that her father had not abandoned her.
And before the sun had fully risen over Portland, Sarah would be running for her life with a man wearing a Hells Angels president’s patch telling her exactly where to place her feet on a motorcycle.
But at 6:17, none of that had happened yet.
She was simply a waitress at the Riverside Diner.
The diner had been there longer than Sarah had been alive. Its red vinyl booths were cracked at the seams. The chrome trim around the counter had lost its shine. A neon coffee cup in the front window flickered whenever the weather turned cold.
Sarah liked it that way.
There was comfort in places that did not pretend to be something they weren't.
She had worked there for almost four years. She knew which truck drivers wanted their eggs over hard, which retired teachers wanted half a cup of coffee and three hours of conversation, and which construction workers would complain if the toast wasn't burned enough.
She also knew that the first hour of the morning belonged to silence.
The regulars spoke quietly.
The cooks shouted across the kitchen.
The coffee machine hissed.
Silverware clinked against ceramic.
Outside, rain tapped steadily against the windows.
Sarah moved behind the counter with a coffee pot in one hand and an order pad tucked into her apron.
She was twenty-four years old.
She had her mother's dark hair, her mother's stubbornness, and, according to Diana Mitchell, her father's eyes.
Sarah had never known what that meant.
Her father was a subject her mother avoided with almost professional precision.
Whenever Sarah had asked about him, Diana had given the same answer.
“He wasn't ready to be a father.”
When Sarah was ten, she'd asked if he had loved her.
Her mother had looked away.
When Sarah was sixteen, she'd asked whether he had ever seen her.
Her mother had changed the subject.
When Sarah turned twenty-one, she stopped asking.
She had built her own explanation.
He had left.
It hurt.
But at least it made sense.
People left.
People failed.
People chose themselves.
That was life.
At 6:17 that morning, Sarah was wiping the counter when the front door opened.
The bell above it rang.
She looked up.
The man who walked inside looked like someone who had no reason to be eating breakfast at a diner.
He was enormous.
Not merely tall, but wide through the shoulders, with thick forearms and a weathered face that suggested decades of hard living.
He wore a black leather vest over a dark shirt.
The patch on his chest was unmistakable.
Hells Angels.
And beneath the eagle was another patch.
PRESIDENT.
Sarah's first thought was that he looked intimidating.
Her second was that he looked tired.
He took a booth near the back.
“Coffee,” he said.
His voice was deep but surprisingly quiet.
Sarah nodded.
“Coming right up.”
She filled a mug and carried it over.
“Anything else?”
“Not yet.”
He studied her.
Sarah noticed.
She was used to customers looking at waitresses, but this was different.
He wasn't looking at her the way a man looked at a waitress.
He was studying her face.
Her eyes.
Her jaw.
The shape of her mouth.
It made the skin between her shoulders tighten.
“Have we met?” she asked.
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Sarah frowned.
He looked away.
“My name is Hank Reeves.”
“Sarah.”
“I know.”
The coffee pot in her hand stopped.
“You know my name?”
Hank looked at her.
“Yes.”
Something in his expression made Sarah's stomach turn.
She started to ask another question.
Then she saw movement in the mirror.
The mirror panel behind the pie display reflected the front entrance.
Two men had just walked inside.
Dark jackets.
Dark pants.
No breakfast orders.
No searching for a booth.
No glance at the menu.
They entered like men who already knew exactly where they were going.
Sarah's eyes moved back to Hank.
His expression had changed.
The tiredness was gone.
His eyes were focused on the mirror.
The first man slipped a hand inside his jacket.
The second did the same.
Sarah's breath caught.
Hank spoke without looking at her.
“You're in danger.”
Sarah froze.
“Pretend I'm your dad.”
“What?”
“Don't look at them.”
The men were moving.
“Smile,” Hank said.
Sarah forced a laugh.
It sounded unnatural.
Hank smiled back as though he had just told her a joke.
“Good,” he whispered. “Now pull out your order pad.”
Her hand shook as she obeyed.
“Write nothing. Just hold it.”
“Hank, what is happening?”
“I've been watching those two men watch you for four days.”
Sarah's pulse accelerated.
“What do they want?”
Hank's jaw tightened.
“They got the order this morning.”
“The order for what?”
“To finish what they started twenty-four years ago.”
The words made no sense.
Sarah looked at him.
Hank leaned closer.
“Your father.”