By now, highway patrol sirens were wailing in the distance, responding to the
massive traffic jam. A police cruiser maneuvered through the shoulder and came to
a stop. Two officers stepped out, hands resting on their belts, expecting to confront a
gang dispute or a crash. Instead, they walked into a circle of giant, heavily tattooed
men crowding around a tiny, shivering dog.
When Jim explained the situation, the officers’ stern expressions softened. They
took one look at the puppy and nodded. “We’ll give you an escort,” the older officer
said. “Follow us. Let’s get that dog some help.”
It was a sight that Interstate 15 had never seen before. A highway patrol car,
lights flashing and sirens blaring, cleared the way through the traffic. Right behind
the cruiser was Big Jim, riding one-handed, his jacket zipped halfway up with a tiny
puppy tucked safely inside against his chest. Behind him roared a phalanx of ninety-
nine bikers, riding in a fierce, protective formation.
They tore down the highway and exited toward the nearest town, pulling into
the parking lot of the Desert Ridge Animal Hospital. The roar of a hundred engines
outside the quiet clinic sent the receptionist into a panic, but that panic turned to
shock as the massive men poured into the waiting room, parting like the Red Sea to