By the time Sam saw the signs for Dillon, it had already passed six that evening. After a much-needed sleep, he’d appreciated being able to stretch his muscles dealing with Tammy’s husband. After the reception he’d received at the High Five, he was fairly sure a similar welcome awaited him at The Pit.

Word would have travelled fast, and Sam was surprised that a fleet of motorcycles hadn’t already caught up with him on the highway.

The drive had been relatively pain free, and he’d cruised down the I-95 just as Mason had told him, and sure enough, Dillon was on the horizon.

Despite the passing of six months, his shoulder still intermittently stiffened up, the eternal effects of the bullet wound that Alex Stone had nursed for him.

Just another reason he needed to make good on his promise.

The injustice of having her family used as blackmail was something he felt compelled to correct. A final middle finger to the legacy of Wallace’s heinous Blackridge operation.

But above all that, she’d saved his life.

Now he would help her get hers back.

After leaving Fredericksburg, Sam had continued south down the east coast, the highway taking him through Richmond, Virginia, and then just over an hour later, after passing through Jarratt and Emporia, he crossed into North Carolina. Sam pulled over for a small, five-minute stretch and a snack and he stopped on the bridge looking over the Roanoke River, taking in the natural beauty that, despite humanity’s best efforts, was still alive and well.

Two hours later, Sam was passing Fayetteville, a large city in North Carolina. But he kept his foot on the pedal, determined to make it to Dillon before the evening got away from him.

Just as the drive was beginning to aggravate him, he saw the Colossus of Dillon, an enormous landmark of a large man in a sombrero, holding a sign welcoming him south of the border. Sam chortled at the preposterous sign but welcomed the update on his journey.

Sam took the exit and continued down the 501 and sure enough, he soon embarked upon the small town of Dillon. As he approached the first building, the unmistakable roar of a motorcycle piqued his interest, and he kept his eyes firmly on the rear-view mirror.

But the two motorcycles shot by, their riders’ leather vests emblazoned with the Death Rider logo.

This was the place.