"I said put it down. You don't want to do this."
Something in Leo's chest lurched, but he pressed forward because the adrenaline wouldn't let him retreat. He was already in the door; the law was already broken.
"You don't tell me what I want, old man!" Leo barked, closing the distance by a step. "You put your hands on that table, or I will—"
"You'll what?" Mike interrupted. The question hung in the diner air, thick and suffocating like exhaust smoke.
Leo opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
From the counter, Corey's panicked voice shattered the tension. "Register's locked! Lady, I need you to open this register, right now!" A loud clatter echoed through the room as Corey knocked over Brenda's tip jar. Coins spilled across the linoleum.
Corey swore loudly, and the chaotic sound broke the spell just enough for Leo to take two more aggressive steps toward booth nine, leveling the shotgun squarely at Mike's chest.
"I'm not going to ask again," Leo said, dropping his voice an octave in a desperate bid to sound dangerous. "Hands on the table. Right. Now."
Mike looked at the shaking barrel of the shotgun, then up into Leo's desperate, terrified eyes. He stared at the boy for a long, agonizing moment.
Then, very slowly, very deliberately, Mike reached up with both hands. He grasped the heavy brass zipper of his leather outer jacket and pulled it down. He pulled the jacket wide open.
Underneath was a cut-off denim vest. Sewn onto the back, but clearly visible from the front rockers, were patches in striking red, white, and black.
The Hells Angels Death's Head.
It was the size of a man's chest, radiating decades of violence, brotherhood, and a territorial absolute that made the law of the Mojave Desert look tame.
Leo stopped breathing. The shotgun suddenly felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
"Point that thing at me one more time," Mike Callahan said, leaning forward slightly, the leather of his jacket creaking in the dead quiet of the diner. "And the last sound you'll ever hear is the coffee cup I set down on this table."
To emphasize his point, Mike lifted his ceramic mug and let it hover an inch above the formica table.