Chapter 229. At the Old Chapel

“That’s a strange cloud.” I looked up into the bruised gray sky as we joined the group of bikers roaring across the countryside towards the main camp for the week-long bikers' Soirée.

“You think there will be a storm?” Colt pulled up his visor, even as I noticed some of the others pointing out the greenish tinge near the horizon where it seemed sunlight was fighting to break out through storm-thick clouds.

“I guess. Those clouds look too low, too heavy,” I responded, and Colt slammed his helmet shut again, reversing immediately without signaling to his colleagues. 

I smiled into his jacket, even among a group of rebels, he was still a rebel. He did not wait for whoever was in charge here to suggest a place to wait out the storm. 

As he drove in the opposite direction, I stared at the bikers we flew past from behind my visor, their bandannas, neck scarfs and arm bands signifying what club they belonged to.

This Hungarian club was different from anyone