Before the officer could respond, another engine entered the lot. Then another. Three motorcycles rolled in, parking behind Travis’s Harley in measured formation. Riders dismounted without hurry — men and women in their forties and fifties, American veterans judging by the military insignia sewn beneath their club patches. They didn’t shout. They didn’t crowd. They simply stood a few paces behind Travis, silent and observant.
Delgado’s posture shifted subtly. “Is this necessary?” he asked.
Travis nodded once. “I asked for witnesses.”
Pike threw up his hands. “This is intimidation.”
“No,” Travis replied evenly. “This is transparency.”
More bikes arrived — not a flood, not chaos, but enough to make it clear that Travis hadn’t acted impulsively. Within minutes, a half-circle of riders stood across the lot, their presence structured and controlled rather than chaotic.
Delgado crossed his arms thoughtfully. “Mr. Pike, has he damaged property?”
“No.”
“Threatened anyone?”
“No.”
