Logan “Ridge” Mercer stood beside his matte-black Harley, arms folded across his chest, watching the horizon with the same quiet intensity he carried everywhere since leaving the Marines over two decades ago, his body still built like a man ready for a fight but his eyes telling a different story—one that had seen too much and learned to expect even less.
Around him, members of the Iron Vultures MC filled the lot, some leaning on their bikes, others sitting on the curb, passing around bad coffee and worse jokes, their laughter rough but familiar, the kind that came from years of shared roads and unspoken understanding.
It should have been just another stop.
Just another afternoon.
Until the car showed up.
It came in slow, uneven, the engine rattling like it might give out any second, an old pale-blue sedan that looked out of place among the heavy motorcycles, and at first, no one paid attention because cars came through all the time, people passing by, stopping for gas or food before disappearing again into the endless highway.
But this one didn’t feel the same.
