She paid. She stood by the pickup counter, arms crossed, aggressively projecting confidence. Then, she felt it. Before she heard the sound, she felt the vibration in the soles of her designer flats. The espresso cups on top of the machine began to rattle against their saucers.
It wasn't one bike this time. It wasn't 10. Susan turned slowly toward the front window. Rolling down Oak Creek Boulevard, riding two abreast in perfect disciplined formation, was a column of Hells Angels. The sun gleamed off the chrome pipes.
The sheer volume of the engines was a physical force, a wall of sound that drowned out everything else in the world. 50 bikes, then 100. They turned into the Oak Creek Roastery parking lot. Susan could not breathe. The air inside the Oak Creek Roastery suddenly grew thick, stale, and entirely devoid of oxygen.
Through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, she watched the mechanical invasion. They did not rush. They did not shout or rev their engines aggressively to intimidate. They moved with a terrifying, disciplined military precision. The lead riders killed their engines simultaneously.
The others following in formation did the same, creating a cascading wave of mechanical silence that felt infinitely heavier than the noise. Heavy steel kickstands scraped against the concrete parking lot. Heavy leather boots hit the pavement. 100 men. Susan's fingers clamped around the sharp edge of the wooden pickup counter.
The whites of her knuckles matched the shade of her expensive cashmere sweater. Her eyes darted wildly, looking for an exit. The back door was located behind the barista counter, meant for employees only. She considered hopping the counter and making a frantic run for it. But her legs completely refused to cooperate.
Fear, cold and metallic, anchored her heavily to the polished floorboards. The brass bell above the front door jingled. It was Cole. He stepped inside first, slowly pulling off his heavy leather riding gloves. He neatly tucked them into his thick black belt.
Jim walked in right behind him. Jim wore the exact same faded denim and the heavy leather cut as before. The memorial tattoo on his thick neck looked darker, more prominent under the harsh glow of the Edison bulbs. Susan's heart slammed violently against her ribs. She braced herself physically.
She waited for the yelling. She waited for the brutal confrontation. She waited for the glass to shatter and her world to end. Jim walked right past her. He didn't even turn his head.
He deliberately left 2 ft of space between them, walking straight to the main register. Toby, the young barista, was trembling so hard he nearly knocked over a tall stack of paper cups. "Morning. " Jim said. His deep, gravelly voice echoed in the dead silent coffee shop. "Large black coffee, please. " Toby gulped air loudly.
"Y- yes, sir. Right away. " Cole stepped up to the counter next. "I'll take an espresso. Make it a double, kid. " The brass bell chimed again. Three more massive men wearing the death's head patch stepped inside the building.