It slowed down near a five-year-old boy who had wandered a few feet away from his mother to chase a ball. Jax didn't finish his coffee. He didn't say a word to his brothers. He simply stood up, and as if moved by a single collective soul, the 19 other men stood up with him. The scraping of chairs on the pavement sounded like a declaration of war.
"Big Mike," Jax said, not taking his eyes off the SUV. "Block the north exit. T-Bone, take the south. The rest of you, we're forming a perimeter. Nobody leaves that park until we see what's behind that tint."
In an instant, the peaceful Saturday afternoon was transformed. The bikers didn't run. They moved with a terrifying, organized speed. Within 30 seconds, the roar of 20 engines erupted, a wall of sound that made the birds scatter from the trees. Leo watched breathless as the Hells Angels moved like a tactical unit.
The driver of the Suburban realized too late that he had been spotted. As he tried to accelerate toward the park's exit, Big Mike's massive touring bike swung across the road sideways, blocking the path. At the same time, T-Bone and three others pulled up behind the SUV, pinning it in. The vehicle was trapped in a cage of chrome and leather.
Jax walked toward the driver's side window. He didn't pull a weapon. He didn't need to. The sheer weight of 20 bikers surrounding the car was enough to crush the spirit of anyone inside. Jax knocked on the glass with a heavy silver-ringed fist.
"Roll it down," Jax commanded. The window lowered just two inches. A man's voice, high and nervous, came from inside. "I haven't done anything. You're harassing me. I'll call the police."