Chapter 6 - The Reckoning at Mercer Ranch
The Mercer ranch was a derelict, unpainted house at the end of a long, unplowed dirt road. Inside, the air smelled of stale tobacco and cheap whiskey. Dale Mercer sat in his recliner, a half-empty bottle in his hand, cursing at the static on his television screen.
"Stupid kid," Dale muttered, taking a swig. "Probably froze to death in a ditch by now. Saves me the trouble of feeding him."
Suddenly, the glass in his windows began to vibrate.
A low, deep rumble shook the floorboards. It grew louder, deeper, until it sounded like a squadron of heavy bombers was landing in his front yard. Dale stood up, confused and angry, grabbing his twelve-gauge shotgun from behind the door.
"What the hell..." he muttered, walking to the window.
When he pulled back the dirty curtain, his heart stopped.
His front yard was a sea of blinding headlights. Seven hundred motorcycles surrounded his house in a perfect, suffocating circle. The engines died all at once, leaving only the sound of the howling wind and the synchronized clink of hundreds of heavy leather boots stepping onto the frozen gravel.
Before Dale could rack the slide of his shotgun, his front door didn't just open—it exploded inward.
Vance Creed kicked the heavy oak door completely off its hinges, sending it crashing into the living room table. He stepped into the house, his massive frame filling the doorway, flanked by Big John and ten other patched members of the executioner squad.
"Who the hell are you?" Dale screamed, raising the shotgun, his hands shaking violently as he looked at the massive bikers filling his home. "Get out of my house! I have the right to shoot!"
Vance didn't even blink at the weapon. He walked forward, his boots crushing the splintered wood of the door frame. With a movement faster than a striking viper, Vance grabbed the barrel of the shotgun with his bare hand, twisting it upward with such brutal strength that Dale's trigger finger snapped with a loud crack.
Dale screamed, dropping to his knees, clutching his broken hand. Vance caught the shotgun, tossed it to Big John, and then reached down, grabbing Dale by the collar of his grease-stained shirt, lifting him three feet into the air until his boots dangled above the carpet.
"You're Dale Mercer," Vance said, his voice so quiet, so cold, it made the room feel colder than the blizzard outside.
"I—I didn't do anything!" Dale gasped, his face turning purple as Vance's grip tightened around his throat. "Is this about the kid? He ran away! He’s a thief! He stole from me!"
Vance leaned close, his graying beard brushing against Dale’s sweating face. "The boy you beat, the boy you left welts on... he just carried my twin sons nine miles through a whiteout while his own ribs were cracked by your boots."
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Vance’s eyes flared with a terrifying, ancient light.
"You told him nobody was coming for him, Dale," Vance whispered. "You lied to him. Look out that window. Look at those seven hundred men. We are his family now. And we don't like people who hurt our family."
