Heavy snow hammered the windows of Agnes Porter’s old Montana farmhouse, turning the world outside into a white void. At seventy-eight, Agnes knew winter storms well—but even she stiffened when headlights cut through the blizzard.
One… then two… then a whole line.
Moments later, the ground trembled as fifteen motorcycles rolled into her driveway, engines echoing through the valley. Leather jackets, steel studs, patches bearing a name she’d only ever heard in wary whispers: The Night Nomads.
Agnes froze. Alone. No phone service. No neighbors for miles. When three knocks hit the door, her heart nearly left her chest.
“Who is it?” she called, trying—and failing—to hide the quiver in her voice.
A deep voice answered through the storm.
“Ma’am, we don’t want trouble. Roads are closed. We’re freezing out here. Could we… come inside?”
Not a threat. Not a demand. A plea.
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