The roads trembled before the riders even appeared.
Children ran to windows. Farmers stood beside their trucks. The women working at the diner stepped outside, wiping their hands on aprons, staring down Main Street.
Then came the sound.
A thunder that rolled over the hills.
Three thousand engines.
Three thousand riders.
Black leather. Chrome. Red-and-white patches flashing in the sun.
The sheriff nearly had a heart attack.
“Sweet Lord,” Deputy Harris muttered beside him. “Are we being invaded?”
But the riders didn’t stop at the courthouse.
Continue on the next page:
