Touring motorcycles with luggage cases.
Old cruisers with scratched tanks.
Brand-new machines polished bright enough to reflect the morning sky.
Some riders wore club colors.
Others wore plain jackets.
Some came alone.
Some brought wives.
Some brought flags.
One rider had driven five hours through the night.
Another had canceled a business trip.
A woman named Grace from Christian Riders handed out coffee.
Tom watched all of it in disbelief.
Snake walked beside him.
"Three hundred easy."
Tom looked toward the entrance.
"Keep them organized."
"Already working on it."
"What about noise?"
"Engines off once the hearse enters."
Tom nodded.
"Good."
Then police vehicles appeared.
The mood changed.
Three patrol cars entered first.
Then six motorcycles from the department traffic unit.
Then two black SUVs.
Uniformed officers stepped out.
Riders stopped talking.
Some folded their arms.
Some looked away.
A few old resentments immediately resurfaced.
Tom saw it happen.
Then a man wearing sergeant stripes walked toward them.
He was about forty.
Latino American.
Short dark hair beginning to gray.
Nameplate: MARTINEZ.
He stopped ten feet from Tom.
Behind Martinez, more officers gathered.
Behind Tom, hundreds of bikers stood among motorcycles.
For several seconds, the cemetery looked like the worst possible place for two communities to meet.
Martinez spoke first.
"What are you doing here?"
Tom kept his voice calm.
"Paying respects."
Martinez looked at the motorcycles.
"All of you?"
"Looks that way."
"To Officer Rivera?"
Tom nodded.
Martinez's eyes narrowed.
"Since when do motorcycle clubs—"
Tom interrupted.
"Since his five-year-old son walked into a diner and asked us."
Martinez stopped.
Tom reached inside his vest.
Several officers shifted.
Tom slowly pulled out Miguel's drawing.
He handed it over.
Martinez looked at it.
His face changed.
He read the words.
Then the address.
Then the motorcycles around the coffin.
"You met Miguel?"
"Yesterday."
Martinez stared at the paper.
Tom continued.
"He thinks his dad needs scary men to protect him."
Something flickered across Martinez's face.
Pain.
Then amusement.
Then pain again.
"That sounds like Miguel."
"You know him?"
Martinez looked toward the cemetery chapel.
"Marcus was my partner."
Tom said nothing.
Martinez handed back the drawing.
"Seven years."
His voice became quieter.
"I rode with him almost every shift for seven years."
Tom nodded.
"I'm sorry."
Martinez looked at the bikers.
Some of the tension left his shoulders.
"You planning a procession?"
"If the family wants one."
"You have permits?"
Tom shook his head.