PART 1
Chapter 1: The Ghost in the Gas Station
The fluorescent lights of the “Quick & Cold” service station hummed with that specific, agitated buzz that only seems to exist at 4:52 a.m. It was a sound that drilled right into the base of your skull.
Zion slipped through the automatic sliding doors, his head ducked low. He had perfected the art of invisibility over the last six months. If you don’t look at anyone, they don’t look at you. If you shrink yourself down, hunch your shoulders, and move like a shadow, the world forgets you exist.
His stomach gave a violent, hollow lurch. It hadn’t held solid food in three days, not since the half-eaten burger he’d found in a pristine wrapper near a park bench in Tulsa.
He bypassed the gourmet coffee station—the smell of hazelnut and roasted beans hit him like a physical blow, dizzying and cruel—and headed for the back aisle. His hands, shoved deep into the pockets of a hoodie that had once been black but was now a dusty charcoal gray, gripped five crumpled one-dollar bills and a handful of sticky pennies he’d scrounged from a laundromat floor.
It was enough for saltines. Maybe a generic cola if the tax wasn’t too high. The attendant behind the counter, a kid barely older than Zion with headphones on, wasn’t even looking up. Perfect.
Zion grabbed a sleeve of crackers and a lukewarm bottle of water from a rear shelf. His hands trembled as he counted the change in his head. Four dollars and twenty cents. I can make this last two days.
He was halfway to the counter when he registered the sound.
“I told you to back the hell up.”
It was a woman’s voice. Sharp. Tense. Not pleading, but definitely afraid.
A grunt. A thud.
Zion froze. He peered through a gap between the bags of spicy potato chips. In the back corner, near the restrooms, three men in dark, oversized hoodies had cornered a woman.
She was small but wired tight, wearing scuffed riding leathers and clutching a motorcycle helmet like a shield. Her jacket had a patch on the back—a coiled serpent—but Zion didn’t know what it meant. He just saw the threads of silver in her braided black hair and the way her knuckles were white against the helmet.
“That machine outside looks real expensive, lady,” the largest of the three men sneered. He stepped closer, invading her space. “Hand over the keys. Now.”
“You really don’t want to go down this road,” the woman stated. But Zion, who had spent six months learning to read fear in people’s voices so he could avoid it, detected the tremor beneath her defiant tone.
The second man produced a small knife. A switchblade. Click.
Zion’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Every ounce of his survival instinct screamed at him to flee. Run. Leave. Do not get involved. He was fifteen, maybe 120 pounds at most, and he was already bruised from where his stepfather had shoved him into a wall a month ago. He had one rule: stay invisible.
He turned toward the exit, his worn sneakers squeaking faintly on the linoleum.
But then, the woman looked up. Her eyes found his through the aisle gap. They were the same shade as his sister’s had been—that deep, warm brown that looked like rich earth after a rain.
Aisha. His sister who had needed someone to step up. His sister who had been let down.
Zion’s body moved before his mind could object.
He seized the metal wire display beside him, the one precariously loaded with heavy glass bottles of energy drinks, and he shoved.
CRASH.
The rack toppled, shattering across the tile floor in a cacophony of breaking glass and skittering bottles.
“What in the hell?!” the attendant yelled, finally looking up.
The would-be robbers spun to face the sound. Zion was already in motion. He pulled down another rack, this one filled with candy bars and jerky. Packages burst open across the floor. He kicked a pyramid of soda cans, sending them clattering like aluminum grenades.
“Kid, what are you doing?!” one of the men shouted.
But Zion wasn’t finished. He snatched the fire extinguisher from its wall mount, aimed it high, and squeezed the handle. Thick white foam erupted, blanketing the store in a chemical haze. The fire alarm finally began to shriek.
“Trinity, go!” Zion yelled at the woman, though he didn’t know her name.
She didn’t need to be told twice. The biker woman sprinted for the rear exit, helmet still in her grip. The biggest man lunged for Zion, but his boots found the slick energy drink spill. He went down with a hard, cursing thud.
Zion dropped the empty extinguisher and ran.
Chapter 2: The Ghost is Found
His worn-out sneakers gripped the dry spots as he weaved through his self-made pandemonium, aiming for that same back door. His lungs burned. His ribs ached with each breath.
He burst through the exit into the gray pre-dawn light.
The woman was already astride her Harley, its engine thundering to life. She glanced back at him, her eyes wide with shock.
“Get on!” she commanded.
Zion didn’t hesitate. He ran and leaped onto the seat behind her just as the back door flew open. The men stumbled out, coughing and waving away the smoke, but they were seconds too late.
The Harley shot forward with a deafening roar.
Zion wrapped his arms tightly around the woman’s waist, clinging on for dear life as they tore across the parking lot and onto the deserted highway. The wind tore at his hood. The emerging sun painted the asphalt in hues of gold and crimson.
Behind them, the men were scrambling into a dented, rusted pickup truck.
But then, something else occurred that made Zion’s blood run cold.
One of them, the one who’d held the knife, stopped in his tracks. Even from fifty yards away, Zion could see his jaw drop. The man grabbed his accomplice’s arm and pointed directly at the back of the bike. Directly at Zion.
“That’s the Monroe kid!”
His voice carried faintly on the morning breeze, sharp and impossible.
“That kid’s alive!”
The woman, Trinity, must have heard it as well because her body tensed against Zion’s hold. She twisted the throttle harder.
Zion’s mind reeled. Monroe kid.
How could they possibly know his name? How did they know a single thing about him? He had been on the run for six months. He had been meticulous. He used aliases, avoided security cameras, and never stayed in one spot for more than a night.
But these men knew him. Which meant they had been searching. Which meant the incident at the rest stop was not a random act of violence.
They had been waiting. But for whom? Him or Trinity?
The Harley devoured the highway miles, the worn-out pickup truck shrinking in the distance until it was just a dark smudge in the side-view mirror. Trinity finally eased off the gas near a scenic overlook, pulling onto the gravel shoulder. She cut the engine but remained on the bike.
Her hands were visibly shaking on the handlebars.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice strained, without looking back.
Zion’s throat was too constricted to form words.
She turned slowly to face him. Up close, he could see the fine lines around her eyes, a small scar just above her eyebrow, and the determined set of her jaw. She looked like a woman who had faced a thousand difficult choices and was ready for a thousand more.
“That man back there called you Monroe,” she said softly. “And he sounded like he thought you were supposed to be dead.”
Zion slid off the back of the bike, his legs threatening to buckle. He stumbled backward, every nerve ending screaming at him to run again.
“I don’t… I can’t…”
“Hey.” Her voice gentled. “Hey, kid. Just breathe.”
But Zion couldn’t catch his breath because the reality was crashing down on him like a tidal wave. The robbery wasn’t a coincidence. They had found him. After six months of running, after six months of hiding, after six months of believing he was a ghost, they had finally found him.
Trinity caught Zion’s arm before he could bolt into the surrounding desert brush.
“Easy, easy,” she said, her grip strong but not painful. “Nobody here is going to hurt you.”
“You don’t get it,” Zion’s voice cracked. “They’ll keep coming. They never stop.”
“Then we’ll be ready for them.” Trinity led him to a concrete bench overlooking the canyon. “Sit down. You look like you’re about to collapse.”
Zion sat because his legs refused to hold him. His entire body was trembling now, the adrenaline fading and leaving a deep, hollow exhaustion in its place. The crackers and water were still on the floor of the “Quick & Cold.” His stomach clenched with a sharp pang of hunger.
Trinity pulled out her phone. “I’m calling my husband.”
“No!” Zion lunged for the phone, but she held it easily out of his reach. “No police. Please, you can’t call the cops.”
“Rhino’s not a cop,” Trinity said, already dialing. “He’s just going to want to personally thank the young man who saved my life.”
“I didn’t… It wasn’t…” Zion stood up again, eyeing the distance to the highway.
“Sit down before you fall down,” Trinity ordered, her eyes dropping to his side.
Zion realized his hoodie had ridden up, revealing the mottled greenish-yellow bruise that covered his left ribs. He quickly yanked the fabric down, but she had already seen it. Trinity’s expression hardened, shifting from concern to a cold anger—but it wasn’t directed at him.
“Rho,” she said into the phone, her voice now completely steady. “I’m okay. I’m at the Mile 82 lookout point on the westbound route, but I need you here now.” She paused, looking at Zion. “Because I just found someone incredibly brave and incredibly terrified, and I’m pretty sure he needs our help.”
Zion backed away. “I have to go.”
“You could,” Trinity conceded, slipping her phone into her pocket. “But those men in that truck are likely circling back, checking every dirt road between here and Dust Devil Flats. On your own, you’d be a sitting duck.”
She was right. Zion hated that she was right.
“Why did they know your name?” Trinity asked gently.
Zion’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know.”
“You’re a bad liar.”
“I’m an amazing liar,” the words escaped him, sharp and bitter. “I’ve been lying every single day for the past six months.”
Something in Trinity’s expression softened. “Six months on the streets at fifteen? Kid, that’s not lying. That’s surviving.”
The deep rumble of motorcycles cut through the quiet morning before Zion could formulate a reply. His head snapped toward the sound.
A low, powerful thunder growing closer. A lot of them.
Panic seized him. “You said your husband.”
“You didn’t say the Hellbenders,” Trinity finished for him. “It’s our club.”
Eight Harleys roared into the lookout, a vision of chrome, leather, and engine noise that vibrated deep in Zion’s chest. The riders were all large, imposing figures covered in club patches and tattoos. They were exactly the kind of men Zion had spent months learning to make himself invisible to.
The lead rider cut his engine and dismounted. He was a mountain of a man, well over six feet tall, with a salt-and-pepper beard and forearms like steel cables. His leather vest bore a patch over the heart that read: PRESIDENT.
Zion flinched away, tripping backward over the bench.
The man—Rhino—stopped instantly, holding up both his hands.
“Whoa there, son. No one’s going to hurt you.”
“That’s what people always say,” Zion whispered.
Rhino glanced at his wife, who gave a slight, affirming nod. Then, in a surprisingly fluid motion for a man of his size, Rhino slowly knelt, bringing himself to eye level with Zion.
“My wife tells me you saved her life,” Rhino said, his voice a low, gentle rumble. “Is that right?”
Zion didn’t speak.
“Those men at the rest stop had a knife,” Rhino continued. “You created a diversion when you could have just run away.” He paused. “That takes either serious guts or serious desperation. Which was it?”
“Both,” Zion admitted before he could bite back the word.
Rhino’s sharp, intelligent eyes scanned Zion’s face, his frayed backpack, the subtle way he favored his bruised side.
“When did you last eat?”
The question was so unexpected it fractured the defensive walls Zion had so carefully built.
“Yesterday morning… I think.”
Rhino stood and pulled a protein bar from an inside pocket of his vest. He tossed it to Zion, who caught it out of sheer reflex.
“Eat,” he commanded. “Then you’re going to tell us why a group of armed men know your name, and why they think you should be dead.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re not talking to the cops,” Rhino stated firmly. “And you’re not going back to whoever is responsible for those bruises. But you are going to eat that bar, and you are going to tell us what’s going on.”
Zion’s hand shook as he tore open the wrapper. It was dark chocolate and almond. The expensive kind.
He took a bite. Then another.
One of the other bikers, a woman with a fiery red braid, chuckled softly. “When’s the last time this kid had a decent meal, Rhino?”
“We’re about to fix that,” Rhino said. He looked directly at Zion. “There’s a diner about three miles up the road. You’re riding with us. After you’ve eaten, if you still want to walk away, nobody will stop you.”
He leaned in a little closer.
“But those men knew who you were, son. And I can see it in your eyes. You know exactly why.”
Zion swallowed the mouthful of protein bar. It tasted like a lifeline and felt like a trap. But Rhino was right about one thing. The robbers had known his name. And running hadn’t worked.
Maybe it was time to stop running. Just for one meal. Just long enough to plan his next move.
“Okay,” Zion whispered. “Just for breakfast. Then I’m gone.”
Rhino offered a sad, knowing smile.
“We’ll see about that, kid. We’ll see.”
Part 2
Chapter 3: Walls Thin as Paper
The Sun Down Inn looked like it had surrendered to despair sometime during the Clinton administration.
It sat five miles off the main highway, a U-shaped collection of rooms with peeling yellow paint and a buzzing neon sign with a burnt-out ‘N’. There were precisely three vehicles in its cracked parking lot, one of which rested on cinder blocks.
But the attached diner had been surprisingly, shockingly good.
Real scrambled eggs. Thick slabs of Texas toast dripping with butter. Hash browns that were crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. Zion had eaten until his stomach physically protested, and true to their word, no one had asked him a single question while he chewed. They just let him eat.
Now, they were standing in the parking lot. The heat was beginning to rise, shimmering off the asphalt in visible waves.
“Rooms are decent,” Rhino said, dismounting his Harley. “The owner keeps to himself, and the ice machine isn’t broken. We use this spot when we need to lay low.”
Zion remained frozen beside Trinity’s bike.
The other six Hellbenders had ridden off after breakfast, peeling away in a thunder of exhaust to “scout the perimeter,” as the red-haired woman had put it. That left just Rhino and Trinity.
That somehow made the situation feel more intense. More personal. And far more dangerous.
“I should go,” Zion said, shifting his weight. “Thanks for the food. Really. But I can’t stay here.”
“It’s a hundred degrees out here, kid,” Trinity said softly, wiping road dust from her forehead. “And be honest—when was the last time you slept in an actual bed?”
Zion didn’t have an answer. He couldn’t recall. It was mostly bus station benches, the crawl spaces under highway overpasses, and one time an unlocked sedan in a junk yard.
Rhino came back from the front office with two key cards. He pressed one into Zion’s hand.
“Room 112. Bathroom’s got soap. There’s a deadbolt on the door. Use it if it helps you feel secure.” He paused, his voice dropping an octave. “We’re in 114, right next door. You need anything—anything at all—you knock.”
Zion accepted the key card as if it were a live grenade.
The room was basic but clean. It smelled of lemon pledge and stale cigarettes. The window air conditioner rattled loudly, sounding like a dying tractor, but it churned out blessedly cold air.
Zion locked the door. Then he checked the window to make sure it opened (escape route). Then he bolted the door again. A force of habit.
He stood in the shower for a full thirty minutes. He watched the water turn brown as it swirled down the drain—road dirt, sweat, grease, and fear. It all washed away until he was just a skinny teenager with tightly coiled hair and ribs that were too visible beneath his skin.
The bruise on his side had faded to a sickly greenish-yellow, almost gone. His stepfather’s handprint had been clearly visible for the first week.
Zion turned off the water before the memories could pull him under. He wrapped a scratchy, white motel towel around his waist and crept to the wall that adjoined Room 114.
The walls here were thin. Cheap drywall.
Muffled voices filtered through.
“…recognized him, Rhino. They called him Monroe and said he should be dead.”
“I heard.” Rhino’s voice was grim. “I put a call in to a contact while he was in the shower.”
Zion held his breath, pressing his ear flush against the cheap floral wallpaper.
“Monroe,” Rhino continued. “There was a family with that name down in Cypress Creek, a small town a few hours south. Had some trouble about ten months ago.”
“What kind of trouble?” Trinity asked.
“The kind nobody wants to talk about. But there were rumors of a sophisticated theft ring hitting homes in the area. Got violent a couple of times. The Monroe family was mixed up in it somehow.”
Zion’s heart hammered against the wall. They know.
“God,” Trinity whispered. “And the kid?”
“Official report says he ran away after his stepfather’s drinking got out of hand. Abuse was suspected—multiple calls from neighbors—but nothing was ever proven. Stepfather’s still in Cypress Creek, living in the family house. But the state lost track of the boy about six months back.”
“Because he’s smart enough not to be found,” Trinity said quietly. “Rhino, those guys at the rest stop… they weren’t just random thugs. They were either looking for him, or they stumbled on him by accident and it spooked them. Either way, this is all connected.”
There was a long silence. The air conditioner rattled.
Then, Trinity spoke again. “What are we getting into?”
“We’re keeping him safe until we find out what he’s running from,” Rhino replied, his voice vibrating through the wall. “And then we’re going to make damn sure he never has to run again.”
Zion pulled back from the wall, his chest heaving.
They knew. Not the whole story—not the part that mattered most—but enough. Enough to know his stepfather was a violent drunk who had blamed him after Aisha died. Enough to know Cypress Creek was a place full of ghosts he could never return to.
But they didn’t know about the pendant.
They didn’t know about the man with the distinctive limp who had shaken his stepfather’s hand at Aisha’s funeral. The man who had offered condolences while wearing Aisha’s stolen obsidian pendant on a chain under his shirt.
They didn’t know that Zion had seen the flash of black stone. They didn’t know he had followed the man to a bus station four months later. They didn’t know he had been tracking the theft ring ever since, moving from town to town, piecing together their methods like a detective with nothing left to lose.
They didn’t know that Zion Monroe wasn’t just running away. He was hunting.
A soft knock on his door made Zion jump.
He grabbed his dirty clothes—stiff with sweat—but paused.
“Zion?” It was Trinity’s voice. “You doing okay in there?”
He opened the door a crack, leaving the chain latch on. Trinity stood in the hallway holding a plastic shopping bag.
“Figured you could use these.” She held up the bag through the crack. “Inside is a clean T-shirt, jeans, and socks. Rhino’s nephew left some stuff at the clubhouse. He shot up like a weed last year, so they should be about your size.”
Zion stared at the bag.
When was the last time anyone had given him something without expecting something in return? Without wanting him to look the other way? Without wanting him to be silent?
He undid the chain and opened the door.
“Why are you doing this?” The question came out raw, vulnerable.
Trinity’s expression softened. She looked tired, but her eyes were fierce.
“Because you helped me when you had no reason to. Because you’re a kid who deserves a hell of a lot better than whatever life has thrown at you.” She paused. “And because I recognize that look in your eyes. That ‘I will survive no matter what’ look. My own brother had it once.”
“What happened to him?”
“He finally decided to let someone have his back,” Trinity said quietly. “And now he’s a guidance counselor helping other kids who are going through hell.”
She handed him the bag.
“Get some rest, Zion. We’ll be right here in the morning.”
She was gone before he could argue.
Zion locked the door again, clutching the bag of clothes. He should leave. He should climb out the window, cross the field, and vanish before the sun came up. That was the smart play. That was the survival play.
But his body felt like it was filled with lead, and the bed looked impossibly soft.
Just for a few hours, he promised himself. Then I disappear.
He lay down on top of the covers. He was asleep in thirty seconds.
Chapter 4: The Hunter and the Hunted
Zion woke to a firm knocking on his door and a jolt of pure panic. He was halfway to the window before he remembered where he was.
“Easy there, kid. It’s just Rhino.” The voice was calm, muffled by the wood. “It’s 9:00 a.m. Figured you’d want some breakfast before we hit the road.”
Zion blinked at the red glow of the digital clock. He’d slept for nearly fifteen hours. His body felt heavy, weighted down with the kind of exhaustion that comes from running on adrenaline for far too long.
“Hit the road where?” he called out, his voice raspy.
“Echo Canyon. A town about two hours east,” Rhino replied. “We’ve got some business there.”
Business? The word made Zion’s stomach tighten.
He pulled on the clean jeans and the plain black T-shirt from the bag Trinity had given him. They were a near-perfect fit. He looked in the mirror. For the first time in months, he didn’t look like a homeless runaway. He looked like a normal teenager.
Twenty minutes later, he was on the back of Rhino’s Harley with the rest of the Hellbenders riding in formation around them.
Eight bikes in total this time, moving like a single organism down the highway. Zion had half-expected them to leave him behind at the motel. The fact that they hadn’t filled him with a confusing mix of anxiety and a sliver of hope he hadn’t felt since before Aisha got sick.
Echo Canyon was smaller than Dust Devil Flats, little more than a wide spot in the road surrounded by red rocks. Main Street consisted of about a dozen buildings, a third of which were boarded up.
The Hellbenders pulled into the gravel lot of a general store with a faded, hand-painted sign that read POP’S SUNRISE.
“Why are we stopping here?” Zion asked as Rhino cut the engine. The silence that followed the roar of the bikes was heavy.
“Four weeks ago, this place was hit by the same crew that you ran into,” Rhino said, his gaze serious. “They got away with about forty grand in jewelry, high-end electronics, and cash. No one got a good look at them, and no one was hurt, but it was a close call.”
Zion’s pulse began to race. “How can you be sure it’s the same people?”
“Because we’ve been on their trail for three months,” Trinity said, removing her helmet and shaking out her hair. “They’ve hit five small towns along this exact highway corridor.”
She looked at Zion, her eyes sharp.
“Always the same MO,” she continued. “Small independent businesses. Isolated spots. In and out before anyone can react. Yesterday was the first time they ever got sloppy. The first time anyone ever fought back.”
Rhino headed into the store. The others dispersed, chatting with a few locals, appearing casual but moving with clear, tactical intent. Zion followed Rhino inside.
An old man with a deeply lined face and suspenders looked up from behind the counter. A cautious smile formed on his lips.
“Rhino. Didn’t figure I’d see you again so soon.”
“Hey, Pops. This is Zion. He’s helping us out with something.” Rhino gestured towards the teenager. “Would you mind if he took a look at your security tapes from the night of the robbery?”
Pops’ eyes narrowed slightly. “The Sheriff’s department already looked at ‘em. Said it was too grainy to be of any use.”
“We’re not the Sheriff’s department,” Rhino said simply. “And Zion here has a sharp eye for details.”
Pops studied Zion for a long, silent moment. He seemed to be weighing the boy’s soul. Finally, he shrugged.
“Computer’s in the back office. The files should still be on there.”
The office was small and smelled of stale coffee, sawdust, and old paper. Pops clicked the mouse, pulling up the pixelated black-and-white footage from four weeks prior.
Zion leaned in, his breath catching.
On the screen, four figures in dark clothing and ski masks moved through the store with a chilling efficiency. They weren’t frantic junkies smashing and grabbing. They were precise. They knew exactly where to go. They knew which file cabinets held the cash. They knew where Pops kept the expensive hunting scopes.
They were professionals.
But then, one of them turned toward the camera to adjust his mask.
“Wait,” Zion whispered. “Go back. Go back about five seconds.”
Pops rewound the footage.
“Stop. Right there.”
Zion pointed at the screen. His finger left a smudge on the dust.
“Look at his left leg,” Zion said, his voice trembling. “The way he moves. See that?”
It was subtle. Most people would miss it. But Zion had watched this man walk for two hours straight while hiding in a drainage ditch four months ago.
“That slight hitch in his gait,” Zion explained. “He drags his foot just a fraction before planting his weight on it. Like an old injury that never healed right.”
Rhino leaned in closer, squinting at the grainy image. “You recognize that?”
“That’s him,” Zion breathed. “That’s the man with the limp.”
“You’re sure?” Rhino asked, his voice heavy.
Zion’s hands were trembling again. He had been chasing a ghost for months, following whispers and rumors from one desolate truck stop to the next. And here he was. On a video screen. As clear as day.
“He was at my sister’s funeral,” Zion said. The words spilled out of him before he could stop them.
The small office fell silent. Even the hum of the computer fan seemed to vanish.
“He shook my stepfather’s hand and said he was sorry for our loss,” Zion continued, his voice gaining strength from the anger boiling in his gut. “But he was wearing her pendant. Her obsidian pendant with the silver chain. ‘Aisha, My Star.’ My grandmother had it made for her before she passed.”
Trinity appeared in the doorway. She hadn’t made a sound coming in.
“Your sister?” she asked softly.
“Aisha. She died two years ago. Leukemia.” Zion’s voice was flat, devoid of emotion. It was the only way he could talk about it without shattering. “After the funeral, our house was burglarized. They took everything of value. Including her pendant. It was the only thing I had left of her.”
“And you’re sure this was the man wearing it?” Rhino asked quietly.
Zion nodded. “Four months ago, at a bus depot in Parksville. I recognized the limp first. Then I saw the chain. I tried to follow him, but he got on a bus before I could…”
He trailed off. Before he could what? Tackle a grown man? Get killed?
“So, you’ve been tracking them?” Trinity stated. It wasn’t a question. It was a realization.
“They hit small towns along the main highways, always moving South,” Zion said. “I started following the pattern. Listening for talk about recent robberies. Hoping I’d get a chance to see him again.”
Zion looked up at Rhino, his eyes burning with unshed tears.
“Yesterday wasn’t an accident. I saw a news report last week that said that ‘Quick & Cold’ had been robbed three months ago. I figured they might hit it again. I was watching the place when you and Trinity pulled in.”
Rhino’s expression was impossible to read. “You were using yourself as bait.”
“I didn’t think they’d know who I was,” Zion said quietly. “I thought I was invisible.”
“Sweet Jesus, kid,” Pops muttered, shaking his head. “You’ve been hunting a crew of armed robbers all by yourself.”
“I wasn’t going to do anything!” Zion insisted, desperation creeping into his voice. “I just wanted to find him. I just wanted to get her pendant back. That’s all I wanted.”
Rhino and Trinity exchanged a long, silent look. Something unspoken but decisive passed between them. A transfer of intent.
Rhino placed a heavy hand on Zion’s shoulder.
“Well, you’re not by yourself anymore,” Rhino said, his voice firm as granite. “And we are going to get your sister’s pendant back.”
He paused, his dark eyes narrowing.
“But first, we need to understand why these men seem to think you’re supposed to be dead. If they raided your house and know your stepfather… this goes deeper than a stolen necklace.”
Rhino turned to Trinity.
“Call the boys. Tell them to get ready. We’re going hunting.”
Chapter 5: The Kill Box
The ambush happened at sunset.
The Hellbenders had spent the rest of the afternoon gathering intel around Echo Canyon—talking to gas station clerks, waitresses, anyone who might have seen unfamiliar faces. By the time we mounted up to leave, the sky was a brilliant canvas of bruised purple and bleeding orange.
I was on the back of Rhino’s Harley again. The open highway stretched out before us, a ribbon of gray cutting through the red desert rock. The other seven bikes formed a protective diamond formation around us.
For the first time in six months, I felt a sensation that was almost like safety. The engine’s vibration was steadying. The heat of the day was breaking.
That’s when the pickup truck appeared.
It came barreling out of a concealed dirt access road near an old, abandoned factory complex. The engine screamed, high and tortured, as it aimed directly for the center of our convoy.
I recognized it in a heartbeat. The same dented, rust-colored truck from the “Quick & Cold.”
“Rhino!” Trinity’s voice crackled over the helmet intercoms—I could hear it faintly through Rhino’s earpiece.
Rhino didn’t need the warning. He twisted the throttle, and the massive Harley surged forward with a lurch that snapped my head back.
Behind us, the other Hellbenders broke formation with military precision. Three peeled left, four peeled right.
The truck swerved, its bumper missing my leg by inches, aiming for Trinity’s bike instead.
“Hold on!” Rhino barked.
The Harley veered hard to the right, launching off the shoulder and onto the gravel. I clamped my arms around Rhino’s midsection like a vice as the bike fishtailed, stones and dirt spraying in a violent wake. Rhino wrestled the machine back under control, decades of instinct guiding us back onto the pavement.
But the truck was just the hammer. The anvil was waiting ahead.
A second vehicle—a black SUV with blacked-out windows—materialized from a side road, slewing sideways to block the highway completely.
We were trapped. The highway was blocked ahead. The truck was closing in from behind. On our left was a steep drop-off into a ravine. On our right, a high chain-link fence guarding the derelict factory.
“They planned this,” I gasped, the wind tearing the words from my mouth. “They knew we’d be on this road.”
“Damn right they did.” Rhino’s voice was like ice. “Follow my lead, kid. Do not let go.”
Rhino slammed on the brakes, the Harley’s tires screeching in protest. The truck, caught by surprise by our sudden stop, shot past us, unable to brake in time.
In that brief, chaotic window, Rhino cranked the handlebars and accelerated directly at the fence.
I saw the opening—a section of chain-link that had been pulled down, creating a narrow, jagged gap into the factory grounds.
“Oh no,” I whispered.
“Head down!”
We hit the gap at forty miles an hour. Metal screeched against chrome, sparks showered around my legs, but we were through. We were inside the factory grounds, tearing across a landscape of cracked concrete, waist-high weeds, and rusted machinery.
Behind us, the other Hellbenders followed, their bikes roaring through the opening one after another like angry hornets.
The truck attempted to follow but was too wide. It slammed into a concrete fence post with a sickening crunch of metal, effectively stuck.
But the SUV was nimbler. It smashed through a weaker section of the fence, its tires biting into the dirt as it gave chase through the maze of abandoned buildings.
Rhino navigated the complex as if he’d memorized its layout. We wove around rusted-out excavators, between looming warehouse walls, and over old railroad tracks that rattled my teeth.
The SUV was gaining on Trinity. It sideswiped her back tire. I watched in horror as her bike wobbled violently. She fought it, her body moving in sync with the machine, somehow managing to keep it upright.
“Trinity!” Rhino’s voice cracked with a fear that was more terrifying than the chase itself.
The red-haired woman—I think they called her Red—circled back. She planted her bike directly in the SUV’s path, then locked her brakes, skidding sideways.
The SUV driver had two choices: hit her head-on and wreck his radiator, or brake.
He slammed on the brakes. Tires screamed. The SUV skidded, dust billowing up in a choking cloud.
“Go! Go!” Red yelled, spinning her bike around and accelerating away before the SUV could recover.
The Hellbenders surged toward the far end of the factory grounds where a service gate hung open. We poured through it, engines redlining, and burst back onto a different highway.
We rode without stopping for twenty miles.
Rhino finally pulled over at a deserted rest area, the other Hellbenders forming a tight, protective circle around him and me. Everyone was breathing heavily. The smell of burnt rubber and hot engines filled the air.
Trinity pulled off her helmet. Her hands were shaking so hard she almost dropped it.
“How did they know we’d be there?” she asked, her voice trembling with rage.
“The motel,” one of the other bikers, a man with a long gray ponytail, said darkly. “Someone must have spotted us. Made a phone call. We stayed in one spot too long.”
Rhino’s jaw was clenched tight enough to break teeth. He looked at me.
“They’re not just afraid of what you might have seen, kid,” he said. “They are actively hunting you. That ambush was a kill box. They didn’t want to scare us. They wanted to wipe us off the road.”
Before I could process that, Red called out.
“Rhino. You need to see this.”
She was standing by the old, boarded-up rest stop building, staring at something on the side of a derelict truck trailer parked nearby.
Rhino and I walked over. The paint was fresh. The black spray paint was still glistening in the dying light.
THE BOY BELONGS TO US.
My blood went cold. The world tilted on its axis.
“What does that mean?” I whispered.
“It means they think they own you,” Trinity said, coming up beside me. Her voice was low and furious. “Like you’re a piece of property. Like you’re a loose end to be tied up.”
“But why?” My voice cracked. “I’m just a kid. I saw a man with a pendant. That’s not… it doesn’t make sense for them to go to this much trouble. Why risk a shootout on a highway for a necklace?”
Rhino studied the painted words, his expression growing darker by the second.
“Unless the pendant is just the tip of the iceberg,” he murmured. “Unless it’s connected to something much bigger.”
He turned to me, gripping my shoulders.
“Zion, listen to me. What else was stolen from your house? Besides the pendant. Think back. The day of the burglary.”
I struggled to remember. It had been pure chaos. My stepfather had been drunk, screaming at the police, throwing things. The house had been ransacked.
“Cash,” I said. “My mom’s old jewelry. The TV. Normal stuff.”
“Think, Zion. Think harder,” Rhino pressed. “Anything that wasn’t normal. Papers? Documents?”
My mind flashed back to the scene. The splintered wood of the desk in my stepfather’s home office. The file cabinet ripped open, folders scattered like dead leaves.
“My stepdad’s work files,” I said slowly.
“What did he do?”
“He’s an accountant,” I said. “He does the books for a bunch of small businesses in the area. Mechanics, construction companies, that kind of thing. The thieves took his work computer and all of his paper records.”
Rhino and Trinity exchanged a look that sent a shiver down my spine.
“They’re not just thieves,” Trinity said quietly. “They’re cleaning house. Erasing a trail.”
“A trail to what?” I whispered.
Rhino’s face was grim. “Money laundering. Or worse. If your stepfather was cooking books for a criminal organization, and he messed up, or got greedy… stealing those files wasn’t a robbery. It was a foreclosure.”
“And you,” Rhino said, looking me in the eye, “are the only witness who can tie the man with the limp—the enforcer—to your stepfather’s house.”
I felt sick. Physically sick.
“That’s why they need me dead,” I realized.
Rhino pulled out his phone.
“We’re taking you somewhere safe. Somewhere they won’t be able to touch you. Somewhere with walls thicker than cheap drywall.”
“Where?”
“Iron and Steel,” Rhino said. “And then I’m making a call I should have made six hours ago.”
Chapter 6: Iron and Steel
The safe house didn’t look like a safe house. It looked like a fortress disguised as a mechanic shop.
It was a sprawling, two-story brick building on the outskirts of the next city, with a hand-painted sign that read IRON AND STEEL. A high fence topped with razor wire surrounded the perimeter, and two Rottweilers patrolled the yard.
“Deacon and Mama Rose retired from the club a decade ago,” Rhino explained as we pulled into the secure courtyard. The gate rolled shut behind us with a heavy, reassuring clang. “Now they dedicate their time to kids who’ve been dealt a bad hand.”
“Foster care?” I asked, my guard instantly going up.
“Not officially,” Rhino said. “More like a waystation. A place to land and figure things out before the system chews you up.”
We climbed the exterior metal staircase. The door at the top opened before Rhino could knock.
A black woman in her late sixties stood in the doorway. She had silver hair styled in elegant locs, a pair of reading glasses dangling from a colorful chain, and a posture that commanded instant respect.
Her gaze went immediately to me. It wasn’t pity. It was assessment.
“This is him?” she asked Rhino.
“Mama Rose, meet Zion.”
“Zion,” she tested the name. “Strong name. Biblical. A promised land.” She looked at Rhino. “And flattery won’t get you out of explaining why eight Harleys just descended on my parking lot like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”
“We had some trouble on the road,” Rhino admitted.
“I can see that. You look like you wrestled a semi-truck and lost.” She stepped back. “Come on in, child. You look like you could use a hot meal and a soft chair that doesn’t vibrate.”
The upstairs apartment was massive, warm, and filled with life. There were mismatched but comfortable sofas, walls covered in photographs of smiling teenagers, and the smell of something slow-cooking with garlic and onions.
One corner was set up with desks and computers like a small classroom. Another was piled neatly with sleeping bags and blankets.
“We’ve had fifty-two kids come through here,” Rose said, noticing my gaze. “Some stay for a night, some stay for a year. They all leave knowing they have a place in this world.”
Rhino and Trinity spent the next twenty minutes explaining everything to Rose and her husband, Deacon—a quiet, white-haired man with the build of a retired linebacker who listened intently without saying a word.
They talked about the robbery, the chase, the graffiti, and the missing accounting files.
“And this boy has been on his own for six months,” Rose said quietly, her eyes landing on me again.
It was a statement, not a question.
“I’m fine,” I snapped. The words came out harsher than I meant, a reflex from months of defending myself. “I’ve been doing fine. I don’t need…”
My voice broke.
Rose didn’t flinch. She just watched me with patient, knowing eyes.
“I don’t need help,” I tried again, my voice softer, trembling. “I just need to find that pendant and then I can… I can…”
“You can what?” Deacon’s voice was surprisingly gentle. “Keep running? Keep sleeping under bridges? Keep staying one step ahead of men who clearly want you silenced for good?”
“They don’t want me dead,” I lied.
“Yes, they do,” Rhino said, crouching down in front of me. “Zion, look at me. You’ve been carrying this all by yourself for months. Whatever it is—whatever happened in that house before you ran—you can let it go now. You’re safe here. Truly safe.”
Something inside me finally broke.
A dam of fear, loneliness, and grief I’d held back for so long just crumbled. The adrenaline crashed, leaving me raw.
“My stepdad,” I whispered. “After Aisha died… he changed. The drinking got worse. He started hitting me when he was angry. He said it was my fault she was gone. Said I should have been the one who got sick because she was the ‘good one.’”
Rose made a soft sound of anguish.
“Social services came by once,” I continued, the words tumbling out now, unstoppable. “But he sobered up for the visit. Told them I was just a clumsy kid, always getting banged up playing ball. They bought it. Everyone always bought his act.”
I let out a bitter, wet laugh.
“So, I ran. After the house was robbed, after I saw that man wearing Aisha’s pendant… I knew I couldn’t go to the police. My stepdad would just lie his way out of it and get me back. And if that theft ring stole his files, it had to be for a reason. It meant my stepdad was involved with them somehow.”
I looked up, tears finally streaming down my cheeks. I didn’t wipe them away.
“I can’t go back there. I can’t. He’ll kill me.”
The room was deathly quiet. Rhino’s jaw was clenched so hard I could see the muscles twitching. Trinity’s eyes shone with unshed tears.
“You saved my life,” Trinity said quietly, her voice thick with emotion. “You put yourself in harm’s way for a total stranger when you could have just walked away. You are fifteen years old, and you’ve been surviving on your own because every adult in your life has failed you.”
She knelt down next to Rhino.
“Now it’s our turn. Our turn to save you.”
“You can’t,” I whispered. “Those men… they have resources. They have my stepdad.”
“Those men are going to prison for a very long time,” Rhino said flatly. “We have the security footage from Echo Canyon. We have your testimony. And I have a friend who’s a U.S. Marshal and owes me a major favor.”
He paused.
“We’re going to handle this the right way. Legally. Safely. And you are never setting foot in your stepfather’s house again.”
“Social Services will just put me back in the system,” I said. “I’ll just run again.”
“Not if you have legal guardians who are willing and able to take temporary custody,” Rose said. She looked pointedly at Rhino and Trinity. “Are you two thinking what I’m thinking?”
Trinity nodded slowly. “If Zion will have us.”
I stared at them, my mind reeling. “You don’t even know me.”
“We know you’re brave,” Rhino said. “We know you’re loyal. And we know you have more courage and integrity than most men twice your age.”
He held out a hand. It was calloused, scarred, and covered in road dust. But it was steady.
“What do you say, kid? Will you give us a chance to be the family you deserve?”
I looked at Rhino’s outstretched hand. For six long months, I had trusted no one. For six months, I had survived. But surviving wasn’t the same as living.
Slowly, I reached out my own hand and took Rhino’s.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Okay.”
Rhino squeezed my hand, then stood up. The gentle look in his eyes vanished, replaced by the hard, dangerous glint of a war general.
He turned to Deacon.
“Can we use the secure line?”
“It’s ready,” Deacon said.
Rhino pulled out his phone. “Those men wanted a war? They just got one.”
“Who are you calling?” I asked, wiping my face.
Rhino looked back at me.
“Everyone. I’m calling everyone.”
Chapter 7: The Army of Chrome
The call went out before dawn.
I didn’t sleep much. How could I? I lay in the sleeping bag in Mama Rose’s living room, listening to the low hum of voices downstairs. Rhino was on the phone for hours.
When the sun began to paint the sky in shades of bruised pink and orange, I dragged myself to the window.
Rhino was standing in the parking lot of Iron and Steel, his phone still pressed to his ear. He looked like a general surveying a battlefield.
Then, I heard it.
At first, it was just a low rumble, like distant thunder rolling over the desert. But the sky was clear. The sound grew deeper, louder, vibrating the glass pane against my forehead.
First came the rest of the Hellbenders. All thirty-four members, not just the eight from yesterday. They rolled in with precision, parking in a tight line.
Then came the Desert Scorpions. Then the Steel Disciples. Then the Road Warriors.
By 7:00 a.m., the courtyard was overflowing. Bikes lined the street outside the gate, their chrome catching the first rays of morning light like a river of diamonds. Riders in leather and denim, wearing the patches of a dozen different clubs—some who were supposedly rivals—stood together in quiet solidarity.
“What’s happening?” I asked Rose, who had come to stand beside me with two mugs of coffee.
She smiled, and it was the kind of smile that could light up a city block.
“News travels fast in our world, Zion. Rhino put the word out late last night. He said a kid saved his wife’s life, and now that kid needs saving right back.”
She gently squeezed my shoulder.
“You’re about to see what true loyalty looks like.”
By 8:00 a.m., there were over two hundred motorcycles.
By 9:00 a.m., that number had tripled.
The plan, Rhino explained when he finally came upstairs, was straightforward. We were going to escort me and the evidence we’d compiled to the State Capital, a two-hour ride away. The U.S. Marshal Rhino knew would meet us there, along with state investigators and Child Protective Services.
It would all be handled by the book. I would be surrounded by a wall of protection so thick not even a ghost could slip through.
But word had clearly leaked. The theft ring knew we were making a move. That’s why Rhino had called for backup.
“How many?” Trinity breathed, staring down at the sea of motorcycles that now stretched for several blocks in every direction.
“Last I heard, thirty-five clubs had confirmed,” Rhino said, checking his phone. “But they’re still rolling in.”
By 10:00 a.m., the local news helicopters had arrived. The thwup-thwup-thwup of their rotors mixed with the idling rumble of engines. Reporters were broadcasting from street corners, trying to make sense of the unprecedented gathering in Liberty Point.
“This is Channel 4 News with breaking coverage. We’re witnessing a massive, multi-state gathering of motorcycle clubs. The reason for this assembly is still unclear, but sources suggest…”
I stood in the middle of the living room, feeling small. Smaller than I had felt when I was starving.
“This is too much,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Someone is going to get hurt because of me. I’m not worth this.”
Deacon shook his head, his white hair gleaming.
“They aren’t here because they’re bored, son. They are here because one kid had the courage to do the right thing when no one was watching. That means something to men and women like us. It means everything.”
At 11:00 a.m., Rhino knocked on the door frame.
“It’s time, Zion.”
The walk down the metal staircase felt like a march into a dream. My legs were shaking. My ribs ached. My mind was screaming at me to run and hide in the dark, where I belonged.
But then I stepped out into the sunlight.
I froze.
More than two thousand motorcycles filled every street, every alley, every spare inch of pavement.
Riders stood by their bikes. Men and women of every age, race, and background. Some looked terrifying—covered in tattoos, with scars that told violent stories. Others looked like grandfathers. But they were all united by the leather on their backs and a shared code of honor.
A cheer went up when I appeared.
It wasn’t a polite golf clap. It was a roar. A primal, chest-thumping sound that rivaled the engines.
Rhino’s hand landed on my shoulder.
“They’re here for you, kid.”
“I don’t deserve this.”
“You saved Trinity. You survived hell on your own. You deserve this and a whole lot more.”
Rhino guided me toward his Harley.
“Now,” he growled, putting on his sunglasses. “Let’s go make sure those bastards can never hurt anyone ever again.”
Chapter 8: The River of Steel
I climbed on behind Rhino. Trinity pulled up beside us, her bike gleaming.
Around us, two thousand engines roared to life simultaneously. It was a deafening symphony that shook the very ground. The smell of gasoline and exhaust filled the air—the perfume of freedom.
We rolled out in formation. A river of steel and chrome moving as one through the streets of Liberty Point.
Traffic came to a standstill. People lined the sidewalks, their phones held high, filming the incredible spectacle. Children waved. Old men saluted.
We hit the highway, and the formation tightened. I was in the center, the beating heart of a beast made of two thousand machines.
Fifteen miles outside the city, I saw them.
Three vehicles blocking the highway ahead. The dented pickup truck. The black SUV. And a white panel van I didn’t recognize.
My heart seized. The kill box again.
“Rhino! I see them!”
Rhino’s voice was calm in my ear. “Hold on tight.”
The convoy did not slow.
The theft ring had chosen their spot well—a narrow stretch of highway with concrete barriers on both sides. There was nowhere to go but straight through them.
What they hadn’t accounted for was an army.
The front line of motorcycles—the Hellbenders and their closest allies—spread out across all lanes of traffic. Behind them, thousands more followed. A solid wall of steel and grim determination.
The men in the vehicles realized their fatal miscalculation far too late.
I saw the driver of the pickup truck try to turn and run. It was pathetic. Two dozen bikes broke from the main group and effortlessly swarmed it, boxing it in without ever making contact, forcing it to a halt through sheer, intimidating presence.
The SUV tried to ram its way through the line.
The riders parted like water around a rock, then immediately reformed behind it, tighter than before. The SUV was now trapped in a rolling cage of chrome, unable to move forward or back.
The driver of the white van didn’t even try to fight. He simply put his hands on the dashboard and surrendered.
State Police, alerted by news crews and a flood of 911 calls, arrived within minutes.
They found the members of the theft ring completely surrounded by thousands of bikers who hadn’t laid a single hand on them but had made any chance of escape physically impossible.
Rhino never even slowed down. The main convoy flowed around the police activity like a river parting around a boulder, continuing its inexurable journey toward the capital.
I looked back just once.
I saw officers putting handcuffs on a man with a distinctive limp. The man who had worn my sister’s pendant.
Tears streamed down my face, stinging my eyes in the wind. But for the first time in two years, they were not tears of sorrow or fear. They were tears of relief. The monster wasn’t under the bed anymore. The monster was in handcuffs.
The State Capital building had never witnessed such a sight.
Two thousand motorcycles filled the parking lots, the surrounding streets, and the entire downtown area. The silence that fell when the engines finally cut was heavy with reverence.
Rhino, Trinity, and I walked up the wide marble steps.
We were met by U.S. Marshals and state investigators. The folder of evidence the Hellbenders had collected—security footage, witness interviews, license plate numbers, and financial records Deacon had helped uncover—was handed over.
My official testimony was taken in a quiet office with a child advocate present. Trinity sat beside me, holding my hand the entire time.
I told them everything.
The robbery at my home. My stepfather’s abuse. The man with the limp and Aisha’s pendant. The pattern of thefts I had tracked for six months. The rest stop. The ambush. The spray-painted threat.
The lead investigator, a sharp, no-nonsense woman named Detective Harding, listened without interruption. When I was finished, she closed her notepad and looked me directly in the eye.
“You did something incredibly reckless and dangerous,” she said quietly. “And also incredibly brave. The information you’ve provided has connected this ring to twenty-one armed robberies across three states. You’ve likely saved people from getting seriously hurt. Or worse.”
“What happens now?” I asked, my voice small.
“Now, we do our jobs. The men in custody will face a long list of federal charges. Grand larceny, aggravated assault, witness intimidation. And that’s just for starters. Once we get into your stepfather’s files, I suspect we’ll find a lot more.”
She paused.
“As for you… CPS needs to determine your placement.”
My stomach plummeted.
“I’m not going back to him.”
“No,” Harding said firmly. “You are not. Your stepfather is now under investigation as an accessory to these crimes. He’s being picked up as we speak.”
Trinity squeezed my hand. “We’ve already started the paperwork.”
I turned to her, my eyes wide with a hope I was afraid to feel.
“What?”
Rhino was standing in the doorway, his arms crossed, his expression soft.
“Temporary emergency guardianship,” he said. “If you’ll have us.”
“Why?” The single word came out as a broken whisper. “Why would you do all this?”
“Because six months ago, you could have kept on walking past that ‘Quick & Cold’,” Rhino said. “You could have stayed invisible, just like you’d been doing. But you chose not to. You risked everything to help a stranger.”
He stepped into the room.
“That tells me everything I need to know about the kind of man you are, Zion. All the rest of it—the fear, the pain, the running—that’s just what was done to you. It’s not who you are.”
I couldn’t speak.
“I don’t know how to be part of a family anymore,” I choked out.
“Neither did I, at one point,” Trinity said softly. “Rhino and the club… they taught me. Now we get to teach you.”
The legal proceedings took another three hours. Interviews, forms, and background checks that Rhino and Trinity passed with flying colors. Child Protective Services agreed to the temporary placement, pending a full hearing.
It was nearly dusk when we finally walked out of the building.
The two thousand bikers were still there. They hadn’t moved. They hadn’t left.
When I emerged onto the steps, a cheer went up. Riders revved their engines in a salute, a thunderous roar that echoed off the massive granite columns of the capital.
“They waited all day,” I whispered in awe.
“Told you,” Deacon said, appearing at my side with Rose. “You’re one of them now.”
Before we left, Detective Harding approached us one last time. She was holding a small plastic evidence bag.
“We processed the contents of the van,” she said. “This was inside the glove box.”
She handed the bag to me.
Inside was an obsidian pendant on a silver chain.
My hands trembled violently as I opened the bag and took it out. The stone was cool to the touch. The engraving on the back was still clear, though worn.
Aisha, My Star.
I clicked open the pendant. My sister’s smiling face looked back at me, gap-toothed and radiant. Forever seven years old.
I finally broke.
I clutched the pendant to my chest and sobbed with a force that buckled my knees. Rhino caught me, holding me steady, letting me cry into the worn leather of his vest until the tears ran dry.
“She would be so proud of you,” Rhino murmured into my hair. “So damn proud.”
Two weeks later.
The Hellbenders threw a barbecue at Iron and Steel on a sunny Saturday afternoon. The entire club was there. Mama Rose made her famous ribs, and Deacon told embarrassing stories about Rhino’s early days on a bike.
I laughed so hard my sides ached. It was a feeling I had forgotten existed.
At the end of the day, Rhino called me to the front.
“Zion Monroe,” he boomed, silencing the crowd. “You showed a kind of courage that most men never find in a lifetime. You protected our family when you had every reason to only protect yourself. And you walked through fire to get here.”
Rhino held up a small, circular leather patch.
“The club held a vote. It was unanimous.”
The patch was simple. It just said: FAMILY.
“It’s not a full membership,” Rhino explained, his eyes twinkling. “You’re too young for that, and you have school and a whole lot of healing to focus on. But it means you’re one of us. It means we will always have your back. No matter what.”
I took the patch. Trinity sewed it onto my new leather vest right then and there, as the entire club cheered.
That evening, I rode on the back of Rhino’s Harley as the sun set, painting the sky in fiery colors. Trinity rode on one side of us. Red and the others flanked us.
The wind was cool on my face. The engine rumbled beneath me, a steady, powerful heartbeat. Aisha’s pendant was warm against my chest.
For six long months, I had been running from a life of pain.
Now, finally, I was riding toward something better.
I was riding home.
