Claymore didn’t stop, he didn’t slow down again for what felt like ages. We were back on the highway, taking unfamiliar turns, driving down exit lanes to places I’d never been before. He drove to a secluded spot in the desert, hidden away among the trees, at least a few miles from the main road. It wasn’t until I spotted the array of bikes out front and listened to the sound of power tools running in the garage, even at this hour, did I realize where I was. So this is the clubhouse.
