Cresting the ridge behind Sylvie's farmhouse, kicking up a massive storm of red Nevada dust, came a column of motorcycles. They rode in a tight, disciplined formation—two by two. Ten bikes. Twenty. Fifty.

The chrome of fifty Harley-Davidsons caught the noonday sun. The riders wore matching leather cuts. The winged death's head of the Oakland charter was everywhere. They swarmed the property, surrounding the farmhouse, blocking the driveway, and boxing in the sheriff's cruisers and Lawson's Escalade.

The engines cut out in unison, leaving a heavy, threatening silence.

Rubble stood up from his rocking chair, flicked his cigarette into the dirt, and walked down the steps. The president of the charter, a man with a scarred face and cold eyes, dismounted and handed Rubble a heavy manila envelope.

Rubble walked over to Lawson's Escalade. The developer was trapped inside, his face the color of spoiled milk. The sheriff, seeing fifty heavily armed outlaw bikers surrounding his deputies, wisely kept his hands firmly away from his duty belt.

Rubble tapped the steel torque wrench against the driver's side window. Trembling, Lawson rolled it down.

Rubble tossed the manila envelope into Lawson's lap. "That's forty thousand dollars in cash," Rubble said, his voice a low, gravelly threat. "The lady's debt is paid. The lien is cleared. You and your friends are going to drive back to town, file the paperwork, and tear up the foreclosure."

Lawson looked at the cash, then at the sea of leather and iron surrounding him. "Y-yes. Considered it done."

"And Lawson?" Rubble leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for the corrupt developer. "If a fence post breaks on this ranch... if a cow goes missing... if the wind blows too hard against her windows... Oakland will hold you personally responsible. Do we have an understanding?"

Lawson nodded frantically, utterly broken.

Rubble stepped back. With a nod from the charter president, the bikers parted, leaving just enough room for the Escalade and the cruisers to reverse in absolute humiliation and speed away down Route 50.

The dust settled. Sylvie stood on her porch, the shotgun forgotten by her side, staring at the miracle in her driveway.

Rubble walked back over to his Road Glide, swinging his good leg over the saddle. He looked back at Sylvie, touching two fingers to his brow in a silent salute.

"Like I said," Rubble rumbled over the sound of his engine firing up. "Oakland pays its debts. Take care of yourself, Sylvie."

With a twist of the throttle, Rubble and the fifty angels merged back onto the asphalt of Route 50, leaving the barren Nevada sand exactly as they found it—except for one farmhouse, which was finally, truly, safe.