The figure groaned, a deep guttural sound of immense pain. Lowering the weapon slightly, Sylvie hurried over.

The man was enormous, easily over six feet tall and built like a freight train. He wore heavy leather boots, denim jeans torn at the knees, and a thick leather coat over a blood-stained flannel shirt. As she aimed the flashlight at his chest, her breath caught in her throat. Emblazoned on the back of his leather vest was the iconic, terrifying insignia: the winged death's head.

Above it, the top rocker read: HELLS ANGELS. The bottom rocker read: OAKLAND. A small rectangular patch on his chest read: RUBBLE.

Sylvie had lived in Nevada long enough to know the reputation of the outlaw motorcycle club. They were fiercely loyal, highly organized, and notoriously dangerous. Finding a patched member bleeding out in her front yard was a complication she could not afford.

"Leave me," the man rasped, his voice rough as sandpaper. He tried to push himself up, but his left arm hung uselessly, and a jagged piece of shrapnel from his shattered fairing was embedded deep in his thigh. Blood pooled rapidly in the dirt.

"You’re going to bleed to death in my driveway, and I don’t have the time or the money to deal with the coroner," Sylvie said, her voice betraying none of the fear icing her veins.

She slung the shotgun over her shoulder, grabbed him by his good arm, and hoisted him up. Together, they stumbled through the blinding dust storm until they finally crashed through the front door of the farmhouse. Sylvie kicked the door shut, sealing out the howling wind, and guided the massive biker to the worn leather sofa.

As he collapsed, he pulled a heavy silver-plated Zippo lighter from his pocket, tossing it onto the coffee table. He looked up at her, eyes cold and calculating, framed by a thick, graying beard.

"You shouldn’t have brought me in here, lady," Jackson "Rubble" Hayes muttered, his chest heaving. "I bring trouble."

"Trouble is already living at this address, mister," Sylvie replied bluntly.

Retrieving her veterinary-grade first aid kit, Sylvie knelt beside him. She didn't ask questions. With surgical precision born of years living on a ranch, she removed the metal shard, flushed the wound with iodine, and stitched it closed with thick nylon thread. She then fashioned a makeshift sling for his fractured collarbone. Through it all, Rubble didn’t make a sound. He simply watched her, taking in the fading wallpaper, the empty gun rack, and the foreclosure notices on the kitchen island.

"You handle blood well," Rubble finally said.

"When you spend your life taking care of things that can't take care of themselves, you get used to it," Sylvie replied. She tossed him a bottle of water and two heavy-duty painkillers. "Take those. Sleep on the couch. I have a shotgun in my bedroom and I know how to use it. Don't try anything stupid."

A faint ghost of a smile touched the corners of his mouth. "Yes, ma'am."

Morning broke with a harsh, unforgiving sunlight that baked the Nevada dirt. Today was her last full day. Tomorrow, Randall Lawson and the sheriff would arrive to take her home.