It was the only extravagant thing Roy had ever bought himself. He didn't want it for showing off; he wanted it because, after giving forty years of his life to his country, he wanted one beautiful thing that was solely his.
On the morning of his 60th birthday, he loaded up his twelve-year-old bloodhound, Digger. Gray in the muzzle with one floppy ear, Digger sat like a king in the custom sidecar bolted to the frame. Years ago, Roy had rigged a small action camera to the dog's collar to record their rides. He turned it on, and together, man and dog rode into Flagstaff to meet the club for a celebratory lunch.
Two sheriff's deputies were parked outside the diner: Deputy Brett Hoyt, a thick-necked kid with a reputation for bullying, and his trailing partner, Deputy Sal Mercer. They saw the $800,000 bike, the old man, and the dog. Hoyt smiled the kind of smile that meant trouble.
Hoyt sauntered over, deliberately scuffing his boots on the gravel. Mercer followed, already grinning.
"Nice bike. Real nice," Hoyt said. "Little rich for a man dressed like you, though."
Roy killed the engine. "Afternoon, Deputy."
Hoyt began his routine, falsely claiming the dog was improperly restrained and demanding the registration, implying the custom build was made of stolen parts. Roy had spent forty years watching men lie; he could smell a shakedown from across the state. He knew exactly what this was: a badge weaponized by a small man.
"Everything's registered," Roy said calmly. "Papers are in the saddlebag. I can show you."
"Don't reach for anything!" Mercer snapped, his hand dropping to his holster.