A young girl timidly approached a group of bikers with a quiet plea for help, whispering that her mother warned her they had to remain silent. Her fearful voice instantly caught their attention, suggesting that something far more serious was happening.

Truck engines rumbled in the parking lot.

The jukebox hummed softly with an old rock song.

Inside, twelve bikers gathered around a heavy wooden table in the back corner, their leather jackets hanging over chairs, their voices low and relaxed.

At the center of the group sat Marcus “Stone” Gallagher.

Fifty years old.

Broad shoulders.

A thick gray beard.