Motorcycles.
From the far end of Maplewood, a line of headlights appeared, one after the other, weaving through red and blue strobe reflections. A single bike. Then another. Then nearly twenty, moving in formation, engines throbbing like distant thunder held deliberately in check. Each machine was a dark silhouette against the flashing lights, chrome glinting like teeth.
People instinctively stepped back, clustering on the sidewalks, eyes wide. The riders parked without urgency, dismounted in silence, and began walking toward Harper. No chatter. No waving hands. Just the slow, deliberate approach of people who were entirely at home in the chaos of the night.
Phones rose automatically.
“They’re heading right for him,” a man muttered, voice tense.
