The biker bar went silent the moment the little boy stepped inside.
He was small, dirty, and terrified. His clothes were torn, his face streaked with tears and mud. He ran straight down the center of the room, past tables of hardened men in leather vests, and stopped in front of the largest, most heavily tattooed man at the back table.
The boy reached out with both hands and grabbed the man’s wrist.
“Please help me.”
The biker looked down, eyes narrowing. “Who’s chasing you?”
“Bad men,” the boy whispered, voice shaking. “They killed my mom. My father told me if anything ever happened, I should find you.”
The biker’s voice was low and rough. “Why come here?”
The boy looked up at him with desperate eyes. “My father told me.”
A long pause. “What’s his name?”
“Ben Doran.”
The biker went completely still. His eyes dropped to the small black bracelet on the boy’s wrist — a simple leather strap with a silver star symbol. Then he slowly lifted his own arm.
On his thick, tattooed wrist was the exact same star symbol, inked deep into his skin.
The boy’s small hand was still holding his.
The entire bar remained frozen.