"The police didn't want to talk to our friend Leo," Jax said, gesturing toward the 18-year-old standing on the curb. "But we're real good listeners. Why are you circling the kids, pal? Why no plates?"
"I'm just looking for an address," the man stammered.
"Five times around the same playground isn't an address," Big Mike growled, leaning his face close to the glass. "That's a shopping trip, and we don't like what you're selling."
Jax didn't wait for an answer. He reached into the cracked window, grabbed the door lock, and pulled. He swung the door open, revealing a man in his late 30s who looked entirely too ordinary, except for the sweat pouring down his face and the binoculars sitting on the passenger seat. But it was what was in the back seat that made the air turn cold.
There were rolls of heavy-duty duct tape, a set of industrial zip ties, and a pile of children's toys that looked brand new, still in their packaging. The bikers didn't need a jury. They knew exactly what they were looking at.
"Leo," Jax called out, his voice deathly calm. "Come over here."