THERE ARE VERY FEW moments in my life when I can recall feeling content. In fact, I think I can count on one hand how many times in all of my life I have truly felt like I belonged somewhere. Most of those moments, however cliché it may seem, always seemed to involve Sinclair or The Iron Order. Even now was one of those times.
The sound of twenty plus motorcycle engines thundering as we all sped down the practically barren roads was almost deafening. In the blue dark, you could hear the guys hooting and hollering, each and every one of them excited for the free round of drinks they would receive. Each of them celebrating the fact that they and their comrades had lived to see another day. Sinclair's bike was in the center as some of the guys zoomed past him to do tricks while the others eg
