Twelve minutes later I heard them coming.
If you’ve ever been on a bridge when forty-some Harleys roll under you, you know the sound. It starts as a low rumble in your chest. Then it turns into a wall of thunder you can feel in your teeth.
The waiting room window faced the parking lot. People started turning toward the noise.
The first bike rolled in. Then five more. Then ten. Then I lost count.
The Iron Saints MC. My brothers for thirty years. Most of them veterans. Most of them men I’d bled next to in places I don’t talk about.
Tank came through the doors first. Six-foot-four. Two hundred eighty pounds. White beard down to his chest. He’s a corporate lawyer in his day job, but you wouldn’t know it looking at him.
Behind him came Cooper, who runs a construction company. Mendez, retired sheriff’s deputy. Reverend Bill, who actually is a reverend. And then Pony.
