The teenager sat down directly in front of my Harley at the red light and refused to move, tears streaming down his bruised face. Cars behind me started honking, drivers yelling obscenities, but this kid – maybe fifteen, school backpack still on – just sat there on the hot asphalt staring up at me with desperate eyes. I’d seen a lot in my sixty-three years of riding, but I’d never had someone literally throw themselves in front of my bike to stop me from leaving.
His lip was split, left eye swelling shut, and his hands were shaking so bad he could barely hold the crumpled piece of paper he was trying to show me. “Please,” he gasped. “You’re a true biker, right?
I can see patches. Please, I need help. They’re going to kill him.”
The light turned green.
More honking. Someone screamed at me to “move your damn bike.” But I couldn’t look away from this kid’s face. “Kill who?” I asked, shutting off my engine.
He held up the paper with a trembling hand. It was a photo printed from a phone – another teenager, younger, maybe thirteen, tied up in what looked like a basement. The kid in the photo was wearing the same school uniform as the boy in front of me.
“My brother. They took my brother because I wouldn’t join their gang. Said if I don’t bring them $10,000 by tonight, they’ll…” He couldn’t finish.
“I saw your vest. My dad told me once that bikers help kids. Before he died, he said if I ever needed help and couldn’t go to the cops, find the bikers.”
I pulled the kid to his feet and walked my bike to the sidewalk, ignoring the angry drivers finally speeding past.
Up close, I could see more than just the obvious beating he’d taken. There were older bruises too, yellowing at the edges. This wasn’t his first fight.
“What’s your name?” I asked. “Marcus. Marcus Chen.”
My stomach dropped.
I knew that name. Everyone of my biker friends knew that name. David Chen had been a cop, one of the good ones who actually tried to clean up the neighborhoods instead of just collecting a paycheck.
He’d been killed two years ago in what the department called a “random shooting.” But those of us who rode these streets knew better. David had been getting close to exposing a drug ring that involved some very powerful people, including cops. “Your dad was David Chen?”
Marcus nodded, fresh tears falling.
“You knew him?”
“He helped my grandson once. Got him out of a bad situation without arresting him, gave him a second chance.” I pulled out my phone. “How long ago did they take your brother?”
“This morning.
From school. They just grabbed him at lunch.” His voice cracked. “It’s my fault.
They’ve been pressuring me for months to join, to be their runner. Said I owed them because my dad cost them money when he was alive.”
I was already texting the other Iron Wolves. Within seconds, responses started coming in.
“Where?”
“How many?”
“On my way.”
“Marcus, who exactly has your brother?”
“The Eastside Serpents. Their leader is called Venom. Real name’s Tyler Morrison.”
I knew Morrison.
Twenty-five years old, thought he was tough because he controlled a few blocks and had some teenagers selling for him. He’d made the mistake of trying to recruit one of our member’s grandsons last year. We’d had a “conversation” with him about it.
Apparently, he hadn’t learned. “They operate out of the old warehouse on Pier 47?”
Marcus’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”
“Son, there isn’t much that happens in this city that the Iron Wolves don’t know about.” I looked at the photo again.
“This was taken today?”
“An hour ago. They sent it to prove they have him.”
My phone buzzed. Rex: “Eight brothers en route.
Ten minutes.”
Then another from Snake: “Bringing tools.”
Tools meant more than just wrenches in our vocabulary. “Marcus, I need you to listen very carefully. You’re going to get on the back of my bike, and we’re going to go somewhere safe.
Then my brothers and I are going to get your little brother back.”
“I want to come with you—”
“No.” I cut him off. “Your brother needs you alive and safe. Your father died trying to protect this city.
Don’t make his sacrifice worthless by getting yourself killed.”
Twenty minutes later, we were at our clubhouse, an old bar we’d bought and converted years ago. Marcus sat at a table, holding a cup of coffee he wasn’t drinking, while seventeen Iron Wolves gathered around. Most of us were in our sixties or seventies, but every one of us had seen combat, either in Vietnam, Desert Storm, or Afghanistan.
We might have gray beards and bad knees, but we knew how to handle situations like this. Rex, our president, studied the photo. “Basement windows visible.
That’s the old Pier 47 warehouse, alright. Probably keeping him in the storage area below.”
“How many Serpents we talking about?” asked Tank, our sergeant-at-arms. “Usually about eight to ten during the day,” I said.
“More at night.”
“And they’re expecting Marcus to come alone with money,” Snake added. “Which means they won’t be expecting us.”
Rex looked at Marcus. “Son, did they say what time?”
“Eight PM.
What happened next changed everything…
TAP → NEXT PAGE → 👇
