Chapter Thirty-Four
Something was wrong. It became clear from the moment I pulled up near the Dog House once more. Gone was the throaty rumble of dozens of motorcycles, gone where the crowds of men and women hanging around out front and shooting the breeze. Instead, the quiet hum of the nearby freeway and the general buzz of New York city background traffic filled the air.
Only two men remained out front, and I was willing to bet my Indian these assholes weren’t bikers.
Donnie had evidently come to the same conclusion; she stiffened behind me as we climbed from my bike and strolled as casually as possible toward the entrance. With twenty minutes before noon, we had no time to waste.
I had decided to call on her for help, asking her to swing by on the bike before we both returned to the
