Within moments, the bikers formed a tight circle around the officer. Close enough to feel deliberate, close enough that anyone standing too near would sense the intention.
Fear rippled outward like a current.
“They’re surrounding the cop,” someone whispered, and another nodded. “This is going south fast.”
From the outside, it was an image straight from someone’s worst nightmare: a lone, slumped police officer encircled by men in leather and steel. No explanations, no smiles, no signals, just the quiet weight of presence.
One of the bikers stepped forward, slow and measured, a man whose frame suggested he could crush a car tire with his bare hands, though he moved with a careful gentleness. His gray hair fell loosely beneath a frayed bandana, and his vest bore the emblem of the Steel Haven Riders. A stitched name patch read: Greg “Mack” Callahan.
