Sully turned to face George and Troy. The air around the biker seemed to drop ten degrees. The other Angels, sensing the shift in their president, tightened the circle. The clinking of heavy silver rings and the creak of leather boots were the only sounds on the street.
"You hit her," Sully said. It wasn't a question. It was a death sentence.
"She... She resisted," Troy squeaked, backing up until his spine hit the glass window of the hardware store. "She assaulted us first. It's legal."
"You struck an old woman," Sully said, taking a slow, heavy step forward. "And you pushed a crippled veteran out of his chair."
"Listen to me," George shouted, holding his hands up in a desperate plea. "We work for Vanguard. Our boss is Richard Sterling. He pays the local precinct. He pays everyone. If you let us walk, I can get you 10 grand. Right now, cash."
Dutch laughed, a cold humorless sound. "Sterling... the suit who tried to muscle the club out of the dockyards last year. You really picked the wrong name to drop, stupid."
Sully didn't blink. He reached out with terrifying speed, grabbing George by the throat of his expensive polo shirt, lifting the 220-pound man onto his tiptoes with one arm.
"There isn't enough money in the world," Sully whispered, his face inches from George's, "To buy your way out of this street."
The bikers closed in, completely blocking the view from the few terrified onlookers watching from the apartment windows above. The street was locked down. No cars could enter. No police cruisers could breach the wall of motorcycles. For the Evans brothers, the world had shrunk down to a circle of furious men who lived by a very different set of rules.
As a distant ambulance siren finally began to wail, trying in vain to navigate the barricaded neighborhood, Sully threw George to the ground at the feet of his men.