There were no thank yous. The gratitude was in the silence that settled over the barn, broken only by the aggressive slurping of hot liquid and the relentless hammering of the rain against the roof. She walked a slow lap around the perimeter. Dutch, her aging shepherd mix shadowed her every step. His hackles were raised, a stiff ridge of gray fur running down his spine.
He didn't bark. He just watched the intruders with a low continuous rumble vibrating in his chest. "Call off the dog, lady. A voice muttered from the shadows. Martha stopped.
She aimed her magite toward the sound. The beam caught a massive, heavily bearded man leaning against a support beam. He had a spiderweb tattooed on his elbow and a fresh, ugly bruise forming on his jaw. His name is Dutch," Martha said. She didn't raise her voice.
"And he lives here. You're the guest. The biker scoffed, shifting his weight. "He bites me. I'll snap his neck.
The sound of a heavy boot scraping on concrete echoed from the center of the room. Cutter stood up from the crate he'd been sitting on. "He didn't shout. He didn't have to. Shut your mouth, Miller.
Cutter said. The words dropped like anvils. You touch the dog, I'll break your hands. She opened the door. We play by her rules.
Miller glared at the dirt floor and mumbled an acknowledgement. Martha didn't thankQ. She didn't acknowledge the defense. She just clicked off the flashlight and kept walking. She needed to assess the structure.
The barn was built in 1924. Arthur's grandfather had framed it with old growth timber, but time and rot were stubborn enemies. The wind was hitting 50 m an hour, catching the broadside of the roof and creating a terrifying groaning sound in the rafters. Dust and bits of ancient hay drifted down from the loft like dirty snow. She walked to the rear double doors.
These faced the slope of the hill leading down to the creek. The wood was cold and slick with condensation. She pressed her ear to the thick oak planks. The sound of the water wasn't distant anymore. It was right outside.
How close? Martha turned. Cutter had followed her. Up close, he was even larger, his broad shoulders blocking the weak light of the Coleman lantern. He held a chipped mug of coffee in one hand.
20 yards," Martha replied, wiping the dust from her cheek. "Maybe less. The bedrock drops off sharp behind the barn. The water pools there before it channels down the valley. Cutter looked at the heavy iron latch holding the door shut.
"Will it hold? The latch will hold. The foundation is what I'm worried about. Martha said, crossing her arms to conserve body heat. If the water undercuts the concrete, the floor gives way.
If the floor gives, £100,000 of motorcycles and men go sliding into the river. Cutter stared at her. You always this optimistic. Ideal, in fact. Martha said, "The fact is we're dry right now, but the rain hasn't stopped and the ground is saturated.
We need to be ready to move. Move where? Cutter gestured to the cavernous space. This is the highest ground for 5 mi. The loft.
Martha pointed straight up to the heavy floorboards of the second level. It'll hold the men. It won't hold the bikes. Cutter looked back at the rows of chrome and steel. To an outsider, they were machines.
To the men in this room, they were livelihoods, identities, and the only things they truly owned. Leaving them to drown wasn't an option they would take lightly. We'll figure it out," Qarer said, his jaw tightening. "You better," Martha replied, turning away. "Because if the floor cracks, I'm taking the dog and going up the ladder.
You boys can sink with your ships. By 4 day a.m., the adrenaline had completely burned off, leaving a bitter, gnawing cold in its wake. The temperature in the valley had plummeted. Wet leather is worse than useless in the cold. It acts as a refrigerator, trapping the chill against the skin.
The men were huddled in small clusters, wrapped in the scratchy wool blankets Martha had provided, but it wasn't enough. The shivering was collective, a constant low frequency vibration in the room. Martha watched them from her workbench. She was wearing two thermal shirts and a heavy carart jacket, and even she could feel the dampness creeping into her bones. Hypothermia was a quiet killer.
It made you sleepy. It made you stupid. And she couldn't afford a barn full of stupid, panicking outlaws if the foundation gave way. She grabbed a crowbar from the wall and walked to the corner of the barn near the old tack room. She wedged the iron bar under the heavy lid of a cedar chest and pried it open with a sharp crack.
The smell of mothballs and old fabric hit the air. Hey! Martha barked, clapping her hands once. The sound cracked like a pistol shot in the quiet barn. A few heads snapped up.
Eyes weary, faces drawn. Blankets aren't cutting it, Martha said, dragging the heavy chest toward the center of the room. "Take off your leathers. Take off your boots. If you stay in wet clothes, you'll be dead before sunrise.
Nobody moved. A biker in his late 40s with a graying braided beard and a patch that read second at arms let out a dry cough. "I ain't stripping down in a freezing barn, lady. Suit yourself," Martha said, reaching into the chest. She pulled out a thick flannel lined canvas coat and tossed it onto the hood of the tractor.
"But your body heat is spending all its energy trying to dry your clothes instead of keeping your organs warm. I got dry shirts, heavy canvas work pants, and dry wool socks. She looked directly at the sergeant at arms. Trench foot will cost you your toes. I don't care how tough you think you are.
You can't ride a kicker with a prosthetic foot. She began pulling out clothes. They were Arthur's flannels, heavy denim, wool sweaters, and thick boot socks. They had been sitting in the chest for over a decade. She hadn't been able to throw them away, and she hadn't been able to look at them until tonight.
"Come get them," she ordered. Cutter walked over first. He didn't hesitate. He peeled off his heavy, soaking wet cut, folding it carefully, and laid it on the seat of his bike. He stripped off his wet flannel and stood barechested in the freezing air, his torso a canvas of faded ink and thick scars.