Looking down the avenue, rolling down the street in a massive, perfectly synchronized V formation, were 50 heavily modified Harley-Davidson motorcycles. The chrome caught the harsh afternoon sun flashing like a sea of mirrors. The riders wore dark denim, heavy leather vests, and expressions carved from stone. On their backs, proudly displayed, was the unmistakable death head insignia. It was a full detachment of the Hells Angels motorcycle club.
They were returning from a memorial ride for a fallen brother, taking a shortcut through Oak Haven to hit the interstate, but the sound of Henry's desperate screaming plea had cut through the rumble of their engines. At the front of the pack rode the charter president, a massive imposing man known as Sully Orr. Sully had a beard that touched his chest, scars that told stories he'd never repeat, and eyes that missed absolutely nothing.
Sully saw the scene: a bleeding elderly woman on the pavement, a crippled man dragging himself across the concrete, and two large thugs standing over them. Sully didn't signal his men. He didn't need to. He simply twisted his throttle, breaking formation and swerving his massive chopper directly onto the sidewalk, cutting off the Evans brothers' escape route to their SUV.
The remaining 49 riders immediately responded. They swarmed the street, executing a flawlessly coordinated maneuver. Bikes angled sideways, locking tires to bumpers. Within 10 seconds, both ends of the block were entirely sealed off by a wall of chrome, leather, and roaring engines. Traffic stopped dead. The street belonged to the Hells Angels.
Sully cut his engine. The sudden silence that fell over the block was more terrifying than the noise. One by one, the other bikers killed their engines, dismounted, and began to close the circle.