By eight o'clock that evening, Lawson Customs looked less like a motorcycle workshop and more like a disaster recovery center.
Damaged motorcycles filled every available space. Some sat on lifts while others occupied workstations.
A few waited outside beneath temporary covers because we had simply run out of room.
The aftermath of the ambush surrounded us everywhere I looked. Bullet holes, cracked panels, bent handlebars, damaged wiring and destroyed lights.
Every motorcycle told part of the story. And every motorcycle needed to be repaired.
I stood beside a workbench studying a damaged fuel tank while Ben organized replacement parts nearby. The poor kid looked exhausted already and unfortunately for him, we weren't even close to finished.
"How are you holding up?" I asked and Ben gl
