The rain had been coming down hard all evening, the kind of October downpour that turns small-town streets into rivers and makes anyone with sense stay home. Ethan Cross didn’t have the luxury of sense anymore. He never did. The Harley beneath him hummed like a living thing as he carved through the empty downtown streets of Riverside, California, a city that had seen better days and probably wouldn’t see them again.
He’d been riding for three hours straight, the kind of mindless riding that cleared his head. The Hell’s Angels Redwood Charter didn’t call meetings for him anymore—not officially, anyway. But there was always something. Always someone who needed the kind of help that didn’t involve lawyers or insurance companies. The kind that came from a different understanding of what loyalty meant.That’s when he saw it.
