But there’s respect. Deep, unshakeable respect.
And every year, on the anniversary of his father’s death, Ryan rides out to the cemetery. Parks his cruiser. Sits by the headstone.
Walt shows up on his bike. Alone. Parks next to the cruiser.
They don’t talk much. Don’t need to.
They just sit with Jack Decker. The man who saved fifty lives and asked for nothing. The cop who chose integrity when it would have been so much easier to look away.
Ryan touches the headstone before he leaves. Every time.
“I’m wearing it right, Dad. I promise.”
And fifty men on motorcycles will tell you he is.
ur speeding tickets, responded to two noise complaints, and helped an old man change a tire. Nothing had prepared him for this.
He’d stopped for coffee at the gas station on Route 9. Routine. End of shift. The kind of stop you make without thinking.
The parking lot was full of motorcycles. He’d noticed them pulling in. Counted about fifty riders. All men. Same club patches on their vests. They were filling up tanks, stretching legs, talking loud.
Ryan didn’t think much of it. Bikers stopped at gas stations. That’s what they did.
He went inside. Got his coffee. Came back out.
That’s when it got quiet.
