Sylvie walked into the living room, expecting the biker to have vanished like a bad dream. Instead, the sofa was empty and the front door stood wide open. Stepping out onto the porch, she saw Rubble. He had dragged his heavy Harley into the shade of David’s detached workshop. Despite his broken collarbone and fresh stitches, he was awkwardly but efficiently working on the bike using old socket wrenches.

"You’re supposed to be resting," Sylvie said, coffee mug in hand.

Rubble didn't look up. "Rest is for the dead. Need to get back to Oakland. Blew a tire on scrap metal in the dark." He paused, standing to his full towering height. "I saw the papers on your table. Bank taking the land."

"It’s not a bank. It’s a local developer named Lawson. He choked out my credit lines, bought my debts, and forced a foreclosure."

"Lawson," Rubble repeated, committing the name to memory.

Before Sylvie could say another word, the crunch of heavy tires echoed down the driveway. A sleek black Cadillac Escalade, entirely out of place in White Pine County, pulled up. Behind it followed a rusted tow truck. Dust billowed as they halted aggressively near the porch.

Three men stepped out: two heavily muscled local thugs, and Randall Lawson himself, wearing a tailored suit that sneered at the rural environment.

"Morning, Sylvie!" Lawson called out, dripping with faux politeness. "I know we officially have until tomorrow, but I brought a crew to start clearing out the barn."

"You don't have the legal right to set foot on this property until tomorrow at noon, Randall!" Sylvie yelled back. "Get off my land."

Lawson chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. He gestured to the thugs. "Go start breaking down those old corrals. If she gets in the way, move her."

The larger thug, Craig, grinned and pulled a crowbar from his belt. Sylvie’s hand twitched toward the door, calculating the distance to her shotgun.

Suddenly, the heavy wooden doors of the workshop groaned open.

Rubble stepped out into the blinding sunlight. He wore only his leather Hells Angels cut over his bare, heavily tattooed chest. The winged death's head glared menacingly. In his massive, uninjured right hand, he held a solid steel torque wrench, tapping it rhythmically against his thigh. He walked slowly, with a heavy deliberate limp, and positioned himself directly between Sylvie and the approaching men.

Craig stopped dead in his tracks. The smirk vanished, replaced by pale realization. He recognized the patch. Everyone recognized the patch.

Lawson’s arrogant smile faltered. "Who the hell are you?"

Rubble stared Lawson down, his dark eyes devoid of emotion—the look of an apex predator assessing a loud insect.