PART 1 — The Desert Delivers a Stranger
The blood-soaked teen at Hell’s Angels gate appeared at exactly 2:47 A.M., when the Nevada desert was at its quietest and the wind moved through the sand like something alive. The compound sat miles outside Reno, surrounded by nothing but empty highway, scrub brush, and miles of darkness that stretched toward distant mountains. Most nights the place was silent except for the low ticking of cooling motorcycle engines and the occasional laughter drifting out of the clubhouse. But that night, the security alarm chirped once — not loud, not urgent, just enough to pull a man out of sleep.
Garrett “Stone” Mercer lifted his head from the recliner inside the clubhouse. At forty-eight, the Hell’s Angels chapter president had the habit of sleeping lightly, something the Marines had trained into him decades earlier. One strange noise was enough. He pushed himself up and glanced toward the security monitor mounted above the bar.
