The boy dropped to the road, both hands raised as if surrendering to something behind him.

“Please!” he cried. “Please help my mom!”

The biker did not waste a second.

He swung one leg over the bike and stepped down, boots striking the road with a heavy thud. He was broad-shouldered, gray at the beard, with an old leather vest over a black shirt and a scar cutting through one eyebrow. People in three counties knew him as Hawk.
His real name was Ray Donovan.

But almost no one used it anymore.

Behind him, eight other bikes slowed into a staggered stop. Engines growled low. Men and women in leather watched the boy, the house, the windows, the street.

Hawk crouched in front of him.

“Look at me, kid.”The boy tried, but his eyes kept darting back toward the house.

“Name?”

“Eli.”

“How old are you?”

“Nine.”

“Where’s your mom?”

Eli pointed with a shaking hand.

The house looked ordinary from the outside.

Too ordinary.

Small porch. Faded blue siding. Dead flowers in a cracked planter. A porch light buzzing above the front door though the sun had not fully gone down.

A man stood in the doorway.

Glass in one hand.

Sneer on his lips.

He looked like someone waiting for a confrontation he thought he had already won.

“Get away from him!” the man barked.

Eli grabbed Hawk’s wrist.

“Don’t let him take me back.”