16
Shea pulled into the diner’s crowded parking lot. The aluminum skin of the building gleamed like an oversized Airstream. Near the entrance, a Harley Fat Boy and a Road King sat parked next to a Ford Bronco. All three sported the skull and Confederate battle flag—nicknamed the Johnny Reb—that served as the club’s logo. Shea resisted the urge to spit on the Road King’s seat as they walked past to the front door.
Inside, plates and glasses clinked over a hum of conversation. Most of the tables were filled for the breakfast rush. Waitresses in yellow and orange outfits, armed with pots of coffee and trays of food, glided through the aisles like ballerinas.
Hunter sat in a large round booth in the corner.
“Over there.” Shea nudged Wendy in his direction and followed behind her.
Hunter l
