Forty bikers stood perfectly still in the pouring rain outside a tiny blue house on Linden Street — no engines revving, no shouting — and every neighbor on the block assumed something bad was about to happen.
Forty bikers stood perfectly still in the pouring rain outside a tiny blue house on Linden Street — no engines revving, no shouting — and every neighbor on the block assumed something bad was about to happen. It was just after 7 p.m. in Dayton, Ohio. The kind of cold October rain that soaks through jackets and into your bones. Porch lights flicked on one by one. Curtains twitched. At first, people thought it was a mistake. Maybe a wrong address. But the motorcycles kept arriving. One. Then three. Then ten more. By the time the street filled with chrome and leather, nearly forty men stood shoulder to shoulder along the sidewalk. Sleeveless vests. Heavy boots. Tattoos running down their arms. Faces unreadable under dripping rain. They didn’t knock on the door. They didn’t ring a bell. They didn’t speak. They just stared at the small house. Inside that house, a seven-year-old girl was sitting on the floor with her stuffed rabbit, still trying to understand why her father wasn...