50 Bikers Surrounded A Rookie Cop At A Gas Station Then Dropped To Their Knees

They stood. Formed a loose circle around the two of them. Not threatening. Protective. Like they were guarding the story itself.

Walt leaned against the gas pump. Crossed his arms.

“Fifteen years ago, your father was a sergeant running the night patrol division in this county. We were here. Had been for years. Rode these roads, spent money in these towns, never caused serious trouble. Some bar fights. Some noise complaints. Normal stuff.”

Ryan nodded. He knew the club by reputation. His training officer had mentioned them. “Mostly harmless,” he’d said. “Old school.”

“Then a new lieutenant transferred in,” Walt continued. “Name was Garrett Briggs. Ring a bell?”

Ryan shook his head.

“Wouldn’t expect it to. He’s gone now. But back then, Briggs was ambitious. Wanted to make a name for himself. Wanted to clean up the county. And to him, cleaning up meant getting rid of us.”

Walt paused. Looked at the ground.

“Briggs started a campaign. Called it Operation Iron Fist. Officially it was about drug enforcement. Targeting motorcycle gangs involved in trafficking.”

“Were you?”

“No. We weren’t. We’re a riding club. Veterans, mostly. Mechanics. Welders. Truck drivers. We ride on weekends and we raise money for the VA hospital. That’s what we do.”