The motorcycles stopped one by one along the street outside the courthouse entrance. Engines shut down almost at the same moment, leaving a sudden silence that felt strangely heavy. People nearby instinctively stepped farther back, unsure whether they were witnessing the beginning of a protest or something worse.
The riders slowly removed their helmets.
Many of them had gray hair and long beards that suggested decades on the road. Their leather vests carried a patch on the back that read Steel Brotherhood Riders, a group few people in the town had ever heard of before.
Then one man stepped off the lead motorcycle.
He was taller than the others and clearly older, with a thick silver beard and eyes that seemed to carry a lifetime of difficult memories. His name was Marcus Reed, though no one in the crowd knew that yet. What they noticed instead was the way he moved—slow, steady, completely focused on the courthouse doors.
