Jake
There was a reason people in this town lowered their voices when they mentioned the Steele Riders.
It wasn’t because we rode expensive motorcycles or wore leather cuts with a skull stitched across the back.
It was because when somebody crossed us, we didn’t forget.
And Calvin Rusk had crossed us six years before I even knew his name.
Five motorcycles rolled through the industrial district just after midnight. Nash rode beside me, Dutch and Mack behind us, with Tank bringing up the rear. The freight depot stood beyond a chain-link fence, its rusted loading doors illuminated by a single yellow security light.
I killed my engine.
Nobody spoke until the last bike fell silent.
“Place looks abandoned,” Mack muttered.
“That’s usually when the fun starts,” Dutch replied.
Nash looked
