"Do I know you, kid?" Thomas asked, his voice a low, dangerous baritone that carried effortlessly across the quiet room. Jackson swallowed hard, his smile faltering. "Uh, Jackson. Jackson Mure.
We met at the charity run last year. I ride that custom blue bagger out front, the one with the extended front end. Thomas stared at him for a long, agonizing moment. "Right," he said dismissively, turning his back on Jackson and walking toward the bar. Desperate to salvage his pride in front of his friends, Jackson made a critical error, he decided to redirect the attention.
Hey, we were just talking about the parking lot, Jackson blurted out, stepping out of the booth. You see that piece of rusted out junk parked at the end? Some old-timer dragged a literal scrap heap in here? Looks like an old pan head, but it's a total disgrace. I was just telling him he should move it before it infects your bikes with rust.
Thomas stopped dead in his tracks. The entire bar held its collective breath. The enforcers slowly turned to look at Jackson, their expressions shifting from apathy to lethal focus. Thomas didn't look at Jackson. Instead, his eyes scanned the bar, sliding past the terrified weekend warriors, past the pool tables until they landed on the far end of the counter.
They locked on to Andrew Long, who was still sitting quietly, his back to the room, nursing his black coffee. Thomas's demeanor shifted entirely. The dangerous, intimidating aura of the chapter president vanished, replaced by an intense, almost frantic curiosity. He turned on his heel and stroed back out the swinging doors, his heavy boots pounding against the floorboards. His enforcers followed immediately.
Jackson, confused and emboldened, jogged after them, eager to see the angels throw the old man's rusted bike into the ditch. He pushed through the doors just in time to see Thomas and his six massive enforcers standing in a tight circle around Andrew's dilapidated 1948 pan head. They weren't laughing. They weren't kicking it. They were staring at it in total absolute silence.
Thomas stepped closer, his massive hands reaching out to trace the rusted, jagged edge of the front fender. He dropped to one knee, ignoring the gravel digging into his denim, and leaned in to inspect the crankcase. He ran a scarred finger over a series of faint, nearly illeible numbers stamped into the oxidized metal. Brother, one of the enforcers whispered, a tone of sheer disbelief in his voice. Is that I don't know, Thomas murmured, his voice tight with an emotion Jackson had never heard from a man like him.
Reverence. The serial numbers match the era, but the frame, it's been modified. Old school. Nobody cuts a frame like this anymore, unless they rode out of Berdo in the early 50s. Jackson scoffed from the porch.
It's just a piece of junk, guys. The engine is practically held together with spit and wire. Thomas stood up slowly, turning to face Jackson. The look in the president's eyes was so intensely furious that Jackson took a physical step backward, bumping into the wooden railing. Shutter your mouth, boy.
Thomas hissed, his voice trembling with a terrifying edge. Before I have my boys wire it shut for you. You don't have the slightest clue what you are looking at. Thomas turned his attention back to the bike, his eyes resting on the cracked, ugly leather seat bound by old shoelaces. Underneath that seat was a custom welded steel pan, completely obscured by decades of grime and rust.
The saloon doors creaked open behind them. Andrew Long walked out onto the porch. He didn't rush. He descended the three wooden steps and walked slowly across the gravel toward his motorcycle. The six massive Hell's Angels and forces immediately parted, creating a wide, respectful path for the old man.
Jackson watched in absolute bewilderment. These outlaws, men who bowed to no one and feared nothing, were making way for a weathered old man in a dirty denim jacket. Andrew stopped in front of Thomas. The giant chapter president towered over him. But Andrew didn't flinch.
He looked up at Thomas, his pale blue eyes calm and unyielding. "You got a problem with my machine, son?" Andrew asked, his raspy voice cutting through the heavy silence of the parking lot. Thomas swallowed hard, his eyes darting from Andrew's face to the rusted motorcycle, and specifically to the battered seat. "No disrespect intended, sir," Thomas said, his voice stripped of all its previous menace, replaced by a careful, polite tone that shocked every onlooker.
"But I know a Berdo style cut when I see one, and I know the stories. If you are who I think you are, I need to see what's under that seat. Tension hung in the humid Texas air, thick and suffocating. The gravel parking lot, usually a theater for loud revving and boastful shouting, was now dead silent. Dozens of patrons had spilled out onto the porch of the iron horse saloon, their eyes darting between the towering, heavily tattooed chapter president of the Hell's Angels and the stoic old man in the faded denim jacket.
Andrew Long did not break eye contact with Thomas Henderson. The young enforcers standing behind their president shifted their weight, unaccustomed to seeing a civilian, let alone a frail looking senior citizen, hold his ground against their leader. You know your history, son," Andrew finally said, his voice a low, grally rumble that seemed to emanate from his chest rather than his throat. "Not many of your generation do." They just buy the t-shirts and learn the handshakes.
Thomas took a half step back, granting Andrew space. "I was prospected by men who rode the coast in the 60s," Thomas replied respectfully. His hands resting visibly and non-threateningly on his belt. They made sure we knew whose shoulders we stood on. They told us stories about the ghosts of San Bernardino, the men who forged the charter in blood and grease before the world knew what a motorcycle club was.
Jackson Mure, still standing near the wooden railing of the porch, let out a nervous, high-pitched scoff. Come on, Tommy. He's just an old drifter. Look at the bike. It's garbage.
Wyatt, a massive enforcer with a scar slashing through his right eyebrow, whipped his head toward Jackson. He didn't yell. He just pointed a thick leather gloved finger directly at Jackson's chest. Open your mouth one more time, rich boy, and I will personally feed you your own teeth. Jackson snapped his mouth shut, his face draining of color.
He finally realized the gravity of the situation. This wasn't a joke to these men. Andrew slowly reached out and placed his calloused hands on the cracked, weathered leather of the pan head seat. His fingers, knobbyby with arthritis, but still possessing an undeniable mechanical strength, deafly worked the old thick shoelaces that bound the leather to the frame. Chrome is a liar," Andrew murmured, addressing Thomas, but speaking loud enough for the hushed crowd to hear.
"It reflects what you want the world to see. It blinds people to the cracks, to the structural flaws." Rust. Rust is honest. It tells you exactly where a machine has been, what it has endured, and whether the steel beneath it is strong enough to survive the elements.
With a final tug, the thick laces gave way. Andrew lifted the cracked leather seat entirely off the motorcycle. The crowd leaned in. Even Thomas held his breath. Beneath the seat, there was no exposed battery terminal or standard wiring harness.
Instead, welded directly into the original rigid frame of the 1948 pan head was a custom fabricated steel lock box. It was heavily oxidized on the outside, blending perfectly with the neglected aesthetic of the motorcycle. Andrew reached into his front pocket and produced a small brass skeleton key on a faded leather lanyard. He inserted it into a tiny, almost invisible keyhole on the side of the box. Click.
The heavy steel lid popped open on spring-loaded hinges. Thomas stepped closer, his imposing frame casting a shadow over the old motorcycle. He looked down into the compartment. For a long, agonizing moment, the fierce chapter president did not speak, move, or breathe. When Thomas finally reacted, it sent a shock wave through the enforcers and the onlookers.
The giant man slowly, deliberately dropped to one knee in the gravel. Brother Wyatt, Thomas croked, his voice thick with a sudden, overwhelming emotion. Come here. Wyatt stepped forward, peering over his president's broad shoulder. The enforcer's eyes widened to the size of saucers, and he absent-mindedly removed his sunglasses, letting them drop to the dirt.