He was enormous, his beard stiff with frozen ice, his leather jacket crusted with snow. A jagged scar ran down his face from the corner of his eye to his jaw. The symbol on the back of his jacket made Evelyn’s grip tighten around the bat.
A skull with wings.
Hell’s Angels.
The man took one step toward her.
Then his legs collapsed beneath him.
“Please,” he croaked, voice cracking like frozen wood. “They’re dying out there.”
Before Evelyn could answer, another biker appeared in the doorway, half-dragging a third man who looked unconscious.
“There’s seventeen more outside,” the second man gasped. “Hypothermia. Some of ‘em ain’t gonna last long.”
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