Sam was quiet for a moment. “We’ll be there at nine. You won’t have to worry about a thing.”
I didn’t understand what he meant until I saw them the next morning—a sea of leather vests, weathered faces, and solemn eyes. The Hell’s Angels patches visible as they formed two lines leading to the small chapel, creating a corridor of protection.
The funeral director approached me, panic in his eyes. “Sir, there are… numerous motorcycle enthusiasts arriving. Should I call the police?”
“They’re invited guests,” I said.
When the four boys arrived with their parents, confused expressions turned to fear as they saw the bikers.
Voir la suite sur la page suivante:
