He lived on the edges of Miller Park, a vibrant green space that served as the lungs of an otherwise gray industrial district. Because he sat on the same weathered park bench every day, he noticed the micro shifts in the environment that most people missed. He knew which parents were distracted by their phones, which kids were the runners, and he knew every car that regularly parked on the perimeter.
The black SUV was different. It was an older model Suburban with windows so dark they looked like polished obsidian. It had no license plates, just a dealership tag that looked fake even from a distance. It moved with a predatory slowness, creeping past the swing sets and the sandboxes at a walking pace. Leo had watched it go around the block three times in an hour.
Each time it passed the entrance where the younger children played, it slowed down almost to a crawl. Leo's stomach churned. He had seen predators before. He had survived them in the shelter system. He knew that look, the look of a shark in shallow water, waiting for a moment of vulnerability.
An hour ago, a patrol car had rolled by. Leo had stood up, waving his arms to get the officer's attention. But the cop had barely looked at him, rolling down the window just enough to say, "Not today, kid. Move your gear off the bench, or I'm riding you up for loitering." The cruiser sped off, leaving Leo standing in the heat, watching the black SUV turn the corner for the fourth time, frustrated and feeling the weight of his own invisibility.
Leo looked across the street. Parked in a perfect gleaming row outside the Iron Grill Diner were 20 Harley-Davidsons. The men sitting at the outdoor tables were the local chapter of the Hells Angels. They were loud. Their laughter boomed over the traffic.
And their leather vests bore the death's head patch that made most civilians cross to the other side of the road. Leo knew these men. Not personally, but he knew their code. He had seen them break up a mugging behind the diner once without calling the cops.