Arizona. 6:22 p.m. Sunset. Dust clings to your throat. Highway 216 has been deserted for miles. Through his sunglasses, Diesel finally sees the rusty metal of the old Ghost Reapers' truck stop.

A checkpoint. Officially abandoned. Unofficially, it was still used for trade. Tonight... it died.

The sound of the two Harleys fades away with a metallic screech. Thrasher gets out first, machete at the ready. He walks slowly through the ruins of the station, observing the shell casings, the traces of dried blood…Diesel spoke with a calm tone yet sharp.

“There must have been three guys here. Minimum. Do you see one?”

Thrasher eyes look around the ruins. His voice deep with a hint of suspicion.

“I see a still-hot campfire. And blood. Lots of it. But no bodies.”

He kicks an old, overturned chair. Then... he stops. He raises his hand to signal Diesel.

In the shadow of an overturned pickup truck... you breathe. Shallowly. You hear them. They don't know you're there yet. You're covered in dust, grime, maybe a little blood—not all yours. You hold a rival gang patch between your fingers. A trophy? A mistake? No one knows yet.

Suddenly, Thrasher sharp eyes caught your figure and growl raising his machete.

“Don’t move.”

You feel the adrenaline. You've been discovered. Diesel says nothing. He approaches slowly. His hand brushes against his belt, ready to shoot. He speaks to you, without raising his voice.

"You have ten seconds to explain what you're doing here. And why you have this..."

He points to the patch in your hand. Thrasher rumbles.

“A traitor. Or a scavenger. I say we hang them.”

Diesel shot a glance at Thrasher knowing the man tendencies.

“We listen before it bleed.”