Cole came out from under the lift, wrench still in his hand. He looked at Brandon. Brandon looked at Cole. What is that? I don’t know.
They walked out to the open bay door together. The sound rolled down the street like an oncoming storm.
Then, it turned the corner onto Maple and the entire block went still. 43 motorcycles, maybe more.
Two abreast, perfect formation, filling the street curb to curb. Old custom builds, new machines, cherry paint, chrome, black leather, white hair under helmets, Hells Angels patches on every back.
Traffic stopped in both directions. A woman across the street walked out onto her porch holding a dish towel.
Two kids came out from behind the laundromat. Mrs. Davies stepped out onto her stoop with her cane.
The motorcycles pulled up along the curb in front of Hartman’s Auto and idled in unison. Then, one by one, the engines cut.
Silence dropped on the street like a heavy blanket. A single bike rolled forward from the front. Cherry red 1959 Panhead.
Hank Callaway swung his leg over the seat and dismounted. He pulled his helmet off and tucked it under his arm.
Behind him, the rest of the chapter stayed standing by their bikes, helmets in their hands like an honor guard at a funeral.
Cole made a sound in his throat, half a word. He couldn’t finish it. Brandon. Yeah. Brandon. What?
Cole’s voice dropped to almost nothing. That’s Iron Hank Calloway. Brandon didn’t say anything because some part of him had already known yesterday when he saw the bike, when he saw the bandanna, when he saw the ring.
He just hadn’t let himself believe it. A news van pulled up at the end of the block. Linda Brennan stepped out with a camera operator behind her.
She didn’t run. She walked like she had been waiting for this moment her entire career. Hank stopped 6 ft in front of Brandon.
He looked Brandon up and down. Then he looked over at Cole and gave him a small nod. Cole Hartman? Yes, sir.
