The bikers saw it, too, and hurriedly began kick-starting their motors.
The Old Hippie's Harley rumbled up next to Omar's, and he gave the leader's shoulder a rugged massage. “It's no good, man. They've got us pinned.”
Omar's eyes were dark, empty space. “What?” he said. “What?”
Blood was coursing from beneath his leather chaps and filling up his right boot.
The Old Hippie shook him violently. “The cops, man! They've rolled out a goddamn army! What do you want to do?”
Omar squinted at him in the glare. Gleaming sweat had beaded like dew-drops along the dark skin of his forehead, and streamed around his eyes in spidery rivers. “The cops ...?”
“Look, Omar!” The Old Hippie wrestled him around and pointed. “Jesus, our bikes will wind up in the Bonnie and Clyde Museum if we go out there .
