Blood on the Asphalt biker
It was the heart of our caravan, and every rider in the pack knew they were effectively human shields for the technology it carried.
Dax rode at the head, his customized Harley-Davidson Road Glide cutting through the wind like the prow of a ship. His left arm was still bound, but he handled the heavy machine with a terrifying, one-handed grace that left no doubt as to who held the gavel. I rode directly behind him, my eyes scanning the overpasses and the tree lines. The note from the workshop was tucked into the pocket of my jacket, the ink-drawn map of the Daytona fuel bunkers etched into my brain.