Chapter 4 - The Shadow in the Blizzard
The highway leading north toward Duluth was a blinding wall of white.
Big Mike sat behind the wheel of a heavy four-wheel-drive Ford F-350, hauling an enclosed trailer behind it. Beside him sat Two-Ton Tony, the club’s sergeant-at-arms, while two more club members followed closely behind in a secondary support truck.
The wind howled off Lake Superior, shaking the heavy truck like a toy. Snow drifted across the black asphalt in thick, white snakes.
"Visibility is down to twenty feet, Mike," Tony said, staring out through the sweeping windshield wipers. "State patrol is closing the interstate twenty miles ahead."
"We aren't taking the interstate," Big Mike growled, his hands gripping the steering wheel at ten and two. "We’re taking the back county roads. We have fourteen hours to get to that bank, get the box, and turn back south."
Suddenly, the headlights of an unmarked dark sedan appeared in the rearview mirror, tailgating the truck aggressively through the snowstorm.
"We got company," Tony warned, reaching down toward his door pocket.
"Don't do anything stupid," Mike ordered. "Could be a state trooper."
The dark sedan suddenly pulled out into the passing lane, accelerating alongside the truck. Through the ice-crusted passenger window, Tony caught a brief glimpse of two men wearing dark ski masks.
Before Tony could react, the sedan swerved sharply to the right, slamming its side directly into the front fender of Big Mike’s truck.
The heavy truck lurched violently toward the snowbank on the shoulder. Big Mike fought the wheel, his massive forearm muscles bulging under his jacket as he corrected the skid, keeping the heavy rig from flipping into the ditch.
"They’re trying to run us off the road!" Tony shouted as the sedan lined up for a second strike.
"Not today!" Big Mike barked. He stomped on the brakes, letting the truck drop speed instantly.
The dark sedan, expecting another collision, overshot the truck and slid wildly on the ice ahead. Big Mike immediately slammed his foot down on the accelerator, driving the heavy steel bumper of the Ford straight into the rear quarter-panel of the sedan.
The sedan spun out of control, making three full circles across the icy road before plunging backward into a five-foot snowdrift on the shoulder, its engine dying with a cloud of steam.
Big Mike didn't stop. He drove straight past the wrecked car, his eyes focused entirely on the white road ahead.
In the secondary truck behind them, two bikers pulled over just long enough to illuminate the stranded sedan with their searchlights. Through the dark window, they saw the driver frantically trying to clear the snow from his exhaust pipe while holding a phone to his ear.
The biker snapped a clear photo of the sedan's license plate and emailed it directly to Frank Sterling.
Five minutes later, Sterling’s phone buzzed in Cedar Falls. He looked at the plate search results on his screen and let out a long, cold whistle.
The sedan was registered to a shell company owned by Caleb Ross’s corporate law firm in Des Moines.
"He’s getting desperate, Tank," Sterling said, showing the phone to Tank back at the shop. "He tried to intercept Big Mike on the highway. That means whatever is in that safety deposit box in Duluth is enough to put Caleb in prison."
Tank didn't say a word. He walked over to his shop workbench, picked up his heavy leather riding gloves, and pulled them on, one finger at a time.
"Sterling," Tank said quietly. "Call Sheriff Vance. Tell him to get a warrant for Caleb’s bank accounts right now. If he’s hiring men to run my brothers off the road, he’s paying them from somewhere."
"I'm on it," Sterling replied.
At that moment, the door to the shop office clicked open. Daniel walked out, wearing a pair of oversized adult slippers and dragging his blanket behind him. He looked up at Tank with big, wide eyes.
"Santa Biker?" Daniel asked quietly.
Tank instantly softened, dropping to one knee so he was at eye level with the child. "Hey there, little man. Can't sleep?"
Daniel shook his head. "I had a dream about Mom."
Tank’s breath hitched slightly. "What kind of dream, son?"
"She was sitting on your big motorcycle," Daniel said, his small voice echoing in the large, quiet shop. "She told me not to be scared because you were going to fix everything. She said you always know how to fix broken engines."
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Tank reached out and pulled the boy gently into his arms, resting his chin on top of Daniel’s dark curls.
"She was right, Daniel," Tank whispered into the quiet room. "I'm going to fix this. Every single piece of it."
