The car’s transmission grinds in protest as Willow jams the gear shift into park, the tires skidding to a brutal stop across the crushed gravel of the clubhouse driveway.
Outside, the sleet has turned into a relentless, icy downpour, hammering against the windshield in thick sheets. Through the water-streaked glass, the sprawling timber-and-steel facade of the Grinning Skulls clubhouse looms out of the dark, a lit fortress vibrating with raw, kinetic tension.
Warm, amber light spills from every lower window, cutting through the storm, illuminating the long line of heavy motorcycles parked outside, their chrome catching the rain like scattered teeth.
"We're here, Zara," Willow says, her knuckles white on the wheel. Her breathing is shallow, "We made it."
"I don't know if my legs work,"
