Chapter 4 - The Line in the Grease
The metallic sound of heavy leather creaking filled the small diner as Mike squeezed.
Deputy Miller’s eyes went wide with sudden, agonizing shock. His fingers instantly opened, dropping his Taser onto the greasy linoleum floor with a heavy thud. He tried to pull his arm back, but Mike’s grip was absolute—a three-hundred-pound wall of muscle holding him in place like a fly caught in amber.
"Listen to me very carefully, deputy," Mike said, lowering his head until his dark eyes were six inches from Miller’s face. "You're going to walk out that door. You're going to sit in your air-conditioned car. And you're going to call the Washington State Patrol. You're going to tell them that Big Mike from the Redwood Chapter of the Hells Angels is holding a minor child in protective custody at Rosy’s Diner until an independent state trooper arrives to take a statement."
"You're... you're assaulting a peace officer," Miller wheezed, his face turning purple as he tried to twist his wrist free.
"No," Mike said calmly, releasing his grip so suddenly that Miller stumbled backward two paces, clutching his red, bruised wrist. "I'm protecting a citizen from a cover-up. Now get out."
The second officer behind Miller drew his service weapon halfway out of his holster, his face pale with panic.
Ghost moved like a shadow. Before the second officer could clear his leather holster, Ghost was standing six inches away, his thumb pressed firmly against the top of the officer's gun slide, preventing the weapon from being pulled.
"Don't do it, son," Ghost whispered softly into the young officer's ear. "It's a long walk back to the station in the snow."
Evelyn Miller backed toward the glass doors, her clipboard held against her chest like a shield. "You're all going to prison for this! Every single one of you!"
"Out," Tank roared, his voice rattling the glass salt shakers on the tables.
Deputy Miller spat on the floor, his eyes filled with a terrifying mixture of humiliation and raw hatred. "You think you're smart, biker? You think you can protect this kid from a whole county? Marcus Vance owns half the property in this valley. He's got friends you haven't even dreamed of. You just signed your own death warrants."
Miller turned, grabbed Evelyn by the elbow, and shoved his way out the glass doors. The two officers retreated into the freezing night, slamming their cruiser doors shut.
Through the window, Mike watched as the two police cars backed out of the lot, their tires spinning on the slick slush, before speeding off down Highway 99 toward the north, their red lights disappearing into the white curtain of falling snow.
"They're not calling the state police," Dutch said, standing up from the booth and adjusting his belt. "They're going straight to Marcus Vance."
"I know," Mike grunted.
He turned back to the booth. Lily was sitting quietly, her small hands holding the heavy leather jacket around her throat. She looked up at Mike with a mixture of awe and absolute trust that made the giant man’s throat feel dry.
Thomas Vance dropped into a chair, burying his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
"It's over," Thomas wept. "Miller's going to call Marcus. Marcus has three brothers-in-law who work for the county road crew. They've got guns, they've got heavy equipment... they'll hunt us down before we even make the county line."
Mike walked over to the counter. Clara, the elderly waitress, was standing behind the register, her hands trembling violently as she held a glass coffee pot.
"Clara," Mike said gently, placing a hundred-dollar bill on the counter. "I need you to take your coat, get in your car, and drive home right now. Lock your doors and don't answer the phone until tomorrow morning."
Clara looked at the hundred-dollar bill, then looked at the little girl sitting in the back booth. Her old eyes softened, the fear melting away into a sharp, maternal anger.
"Marcus Vance is an evil man, son," Clara said, her voice raspy from forty years of tobacco. "He bought up my sister's farm after her husband died for ten cents on the dollar. The sheriff eats at his table every Sunday. If you give that little girl back to them, she won't survive the winter."
"She isn't going back," Mike said flatly.
"The phone line in the back is cut," Clara added, pulling her heavy wool coat off a peg near the kitchen door. "I'm turning off the sign lights on my way out. God be with you boys."
She tucked her purse under her arm and slipped out the side door into the snow.
A minute later, the neon OPEN sign flickered once, twice, and died. The diner was plunged into dark shadow, lit only by the soft orange glow of the gas station canopy outside and the flickering light of the wood-burning stove in the corner.
Mike turned to his crew.
"Tank, get the tools out of my saddlebag. We're barricading the back entrance."
"You got it, Mike," Tank nodded, rushing out the side door.
"Dutch, get on the radio. Call the chapter house in Eugene. Tell them I need six bikes, two trucks, and every man who can ride through a snowstorm up here by midnight."
Dutch pulled out a satellite radio handset from his vest pocket. "What do I tell the president?"
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Mike looked at Lily, who was fast asleep now, her head resting against the vinyl cushion, exhausted from hours of terror.
"Tell him we found a reason to ride," Mike said.
