“Dive Down!” The Boy Shielded The Girl, Unaware Her Dad Was The Hells Angels VP.

The first bullet shattered the front window of Joe’s diner before Weston Callaway’s mind could catch up to what his eyes were seeing. He’d been watching the gray sedan crawl past for the third time in 15 minutes. In some primal part of his brain, the part that had kept him alive in neighborhoods where sirens meant, “You were already too late,” had been screaming wrong, wrong, wrong.

The barrel emerged from the passenger window like death taking aim. black metal, cold purpose, and it was swinging toward the corner booth where she sat. The girl, the beautiful sad girl who’d been coming to Joe’s every day for 3 weeks, the one who ate alone despite looking like she could sit anywhere with anyone.

The one whose name Wes didn’t even know, but whose presence had become the only bright spot in his carefully invisible life. Get down. The words tore from Wes’s throat as his body launched forward. He didn’t think. Thinking takes time, and time was measured in heartbeats, and heartbeats meant the difference between life and death.

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The corner booth was exactly 12 ft away. West’s worn sneakers, the ones held together with duct tape and hopefound purchase on Joe’s grease slicked lenolium floor. His shoulder dropped, his arms extended. 12 feet became nine became six became three. The girl looked up, her gray eyes impossibly large, and her pale face found his.

Confusion flickered across her features. She didn’t understand how could she. Girls who look like her, who carried designer backpacks and wore clothes that cost more than West’s entire wardrobe. They didn’t know what gunfire sounded like outside of movies. Three feet became zero. West hit her like a freight train. He’d never had the strength to be on any football field.

His shoulder caught her in the chest. His arms wrapped around her waist. His momentum carried them both backward. the chair clattering her calculus homework scattering like autumn leaves. They crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs and terror and Wes twisted midfall every instinct screaming one command.

Put your body between her and the window. Make yourself the wall. Make yourself the shield. The world exploded into sound and fury. Tat tat tat tat tat tat. The window didn’t just break. It disintegrated. Glass became a thousand crystalline daggers. Each one catching the afternoon light as they flew. The wood paneling that had been standing since 1987 splintered into shrapnel.

Vinyl booth seats erupted in puffs of yellow foam. The smell hit West’s acurid and unmistakable gunpowder mixed with frier grease in the sharp copper tang of fear. Pain blossomed across West’s back. First bloom just below his left shoulder blade. The bullet punched through him like a white hot fist, and for a fraction of a second, Wes’s entire universe condensed to that single point of agony.

Then came the second bloom lower near his spine, just above his beltline. This one burned hotter, deeper, and Wes felt something fundamental break inside his body. His lungs couldn’t find air. His vision began to tunnel darkness, creeping in from the edges, like a vignette closing on a photograph.

Beneath him, warm and alive and trembling like a trapped bird, the girl was screaming. But she was screaming, which meant she was breathing, which meant West had done it right. He tried to push himself up, tried to check if she was okay, but his arms had stopped taking orders from his brain. Everything felt distant and wrong, like he was underwater or wrapped in cotton. Don’t move.

The girl’s voice cut through the chaos, small but sharp as broken glass. Oh god, don’t move. You’re There’s so much blood. Blood. Wes could feel it now, hot and sticky, soaking through his thrift store t-shirt that proclaimed him a member of a 5K run he’d never actually participated in. The shirt had cost $2 at Goodwill.

Now it was ruined. Funny what the brain focused on when it was trying not to think about dying. “Am I okay?” Wes heard himself ask, though he definitely wasn’t. The words came out slurred, like he’d been drinking, though he’d never touched alcohol in his life. Are you okay? You’re shot. The girl’s hands were on his face now, and even through the encroaching gray fog, Wes could feel they were shaking. You’re shot. Oh, God.

You’re shot. Why did you You don’t even know me. Why would you? Her voice broke. She was crying. Wes could see tears tracking down her cheeks, cutting clean paths through the dust and debris that had settled on her perfect face like fallen snow. “Seemed like the thing to do,” Wes managed.

His smile probably looked more like a grimace, but he tried anyway. Somewhere far away, sirens began to wail. Getting closer, but not fast enough. Never fast enough. But something else was closer. Something louder. The roar of motorcycle engines. Lots of them. like a swarm of mechanical thunder converging on this shitty diner in this shitty part of town from every direction at once. The girl heard them too.

Something changed in her face in the set of her jaw. The tears stopped like someone had flipped a switch. She fumbled for her phone with blood sllicked hands, her fingers leaving red smears on the screen. She punched a number, held it to her ear. Code red. Her voice had gone cold. Controlled nothing like the terrified teenager of seconds before.

Joe’s Diner, Route 9, and Riverside. They found me. A pause. Wes tried to focus on her face, but the gray edges were eating more of his vision with every heartbeat. I’m okay, but the boy who saved me. Her eyes found Wes again, and now there was something new in them. Something that looked like recognition and fear and determination all mixed together. Dad, he’s dying.

Dad, please. Dad. The word echoed in Wes’s fading consciousness. She’d called someone dad. And whoever that was, they commanded the kind of respect that made a dozen motorcycles appear in under three minutes. The thunder of engines grew louder, so loud Wes could feel it in his bones, in his failing chest, and the blood pooling beneath them both on Joe’s checkered lenolium.

The last thing he saw was the girl’s face hovering above him like a moon, beautiful and terrible and afraid. The last thing he heard was her voice, rough with tears, but steady with promise. I’ve got you. Stay with me. You can’t die. You don’t get to die after saving me. But West’s body had other ideas. The darkness that had been circling finally rushed in like a tide.

And Weston Callaway, 16 years old scholarship student, invisible boy, drowned in it. The girl, whose name he still didn’t know, held his hand and refused to let go even as the world went black. What Wes couldn’t know as consciousness slipped away and his blood formed a growing pool around them was that the hand holding his belonged to Scarlet Brennan, who called herself Lety.

What he couldn’t know was that her father was Dalton Havoc Brennan, vice president of the Iron Reaper Motorcycle Club. What he couldn’t know was that he just saved the one person in the city whose life was worth more than money, more than territory, more than peace. What Wes couldn’t know was that he just earned a debt paid in iron and loyalty.

and the Iron Reapers always paid their debts. Three weeks earlier on the first day of October junior year at Riverside High Western Callaway had been perfecting the art of being invisible. It was a survival skill really. When you’re the scholarship kid at Riverside High, when your clothes come from Goodwill and your sneakers have more duct tape than original rubber.

When your lunch consists of whatever you can afford with the $3 and change you’ve scred from your nana’s couch cushions, you learn to occupy space without taking up space. You learn to eat in bathroom stalls. You learn which hallways to avoid during passing period when Derek Mitchell and his football cronies are prowling for prey.

You learn that eye contact with guys like Derek is an invitation for a locker room beating or a swirly if you’re lucky or both if you’re not. So West had become a ghost, a shadow, the boy who sat in the back of every class, who never raised his hand even when he knew the answer. And he usually did because studying was free and West’s grades were the only thing keeping his scholarship alive.

He could slip through crowds like smoke could make himself so unremarkable that people’s eyes would slide right past him as if he were part of the wallpaper. Joe’s diner was his sanctuary. the corner booth by the emergency exit, the one with the ripped vinyl seat that no one else wanted, that was his fortress. Every day after school, Wes would scrape together $247 exact change for the smallest order of fries and a water cup he’d fill with Sprite when Joe wasn’t looking.

He’d make those fries last an hour, sometimes longer, doing homework by the greasy light of the neon open sign, pretending he had somewhere better to be. He didn’t. Home was a two-bedroom apartment Wes shared with Nana Evelyn. His father’s mother, the only family he had left. Dad had disappeared when Wes was three, just walked out one day and never came back.

Mom had died when Wes was seven. Cancer that ate through their savings before it ate through her. Nana Evelyn had taken them in without question, but she was 70 years old and living on a fixed income that barely covered rent. Home was the place where the heat got shut off every winter until they could scrape together the reconnection fee.

Home was where eviction notices accumulated like snow drifts on the kitchen counter. Home was where Wes lay awake at night listening to his nana’s wet cough, the one that had been getting worse for 2 years, and calculating whether her medication or their rent was more important this month. So yeah, Joe’s Diner was better.

It was a Tuesday, the second week of October junior year, the kind of fall day where the sun sets too early and the world feels like it’s holding its breath. West had been sitting in his usual booth making his fries last when she’d walked in. The girl, she’d materialized like a vision, all smooth, dark hair that caught the light and sharp cheekbones and an expression that radiated, “Leave me the hell alone in every direction.

” West had seen her before, of course. Everyone at Riverside had seen her. She’d transferred in exactly one week ago, dropped into AP Calculus like she’d fallen from another dimension. Scarlet Bennett, that was the name on the attendance sheet. West had heard Mrs. Chin call it out, but everything else about her was mystery. She ate lunch alone, which was weird because girls who look like her didn’t eat alone.

They held court at the popular table, surrounded by admirers and imitators. But this girl, Scarlet, she seemed to actively avoid attention. Always with a book or homework, always with earbuds and always projecting an aura of don’t even try. Wes respected that, understood it. Even what he didn’t understand was why she’d started coming to Joe’s Diner.

This place was for kids like him. Kids who couldn’t afford the trendy coffee shop downtown or the organic smoothie place by the mall. Scarlet’s backpack probably cost more than Wes entire wardrobe. Her phone was the newest model, the kind with the three cameras. Even her pens looked expensive, sleek metal things that probably wrote in liquid gold or something.

But every day for the past week, she’d been here. Same booth by the window. Same Cobb salad she barely touched. Same calculus homework she definitely didn’t need help with based on the perfect scores she’d been getting. West had tried not to stare. He really had. But there was something about her that made his invisibility training fail.

Maybe it was the way she chewed her bottom lip when she was concentrating. Maybe it was the sadness that lived in her eyes, the kind of sadness that matched his own, that recognized its reflection across a greasy diner. Maybe it was just that she was beautiful in a way that made his 16-year-old brain shortcircuit and forget how to function.

Whatever it was, West had noticed her. And on this particular Tuesday in mid-occtober, as the sun dipped below the horizon and Joe’s filled with the afterchool crowd, Wes noticed something else. The gray sedan. It cruised past at exactly 447. West only caught it in his peripheral vision.

A beat up Chevy Malibu with tinted windows and a distinctive dent in the rear quarter panel driver’s side. Nothing special, nothing worth remembering, except it came back. 452. Same car, same slow crawl past the front window. This time, Wes saw the driver, a man in a black baseball cap, face shadowed eyes hidden behind sunglasses, even though the sun was almost down.

West’s stomach tightened. That old instinct, the one honed by years of walking home through neighborhoods where every dark doorway might hide danger, started whispering wrong. “Something’s wrong.” He glanced at the girl at Scarlet. She was bent over her calculus textbook, completely absorbed, oblivious.

Her dark hair fell across her face like a curtain shutting out the world. She had no idea she was being watched. Stalked. The sedan passed a third time at 4:58. This time it slowed to a crawl, then stopped. Right in front of Scarlet’s booth, right where she sat by the window, backlit and perfect and exposed. Wes’s heart began to hammer.

He put down his cold fries, his mouth suddenly dry. Around him, Joe’s was the usual chaos. Sophomore girls giggling over their phones. Freshman boys having a ketchup pack at war. The eternal smell of burnt beef and frier oil. Normal, safe. But that car was wrong. Wes stood up, his chair scraped against the floor.

A few people glanced at him, their attention sliding away almost immediately. Background noise. Not important. The invisible boy doing invisible things. The sedan’s passenger window rolled down. Wes could hear it. That mechanical were somehow audible over the restaurant den. Like his ears had suddenly become supercharged, like the universe was putting everything in slow motion so he could see exactly what was about to happen.

A hand emerged from the darkness inside the car. The handh held a gun. Not a pistol. Something bigger. Something that looked military and wrong and very, very real. An AR-15 West brain supplied from some half-remembered news report. Semi-automatic rifle, 30 round magazine. Rate of fire, 45 rounds per minute. The barrel swung towards Scarlet’s booth like a compass finding north.

And West’s body moved. The rest was physics and desperation and 12 feet that felt like 12 miles. Now, as Wes floated in darkness, that might have been death or might have been unconsciousness, he couldn’t know that Scarlet Bennett wasn’t her real name. He couldn’t know that 3 weeks ago, someone had firebombed the Iron Reapers clubhouse in a coordinated attack that left two brothers in the hospital and one in the ground.

He couldn’t know that war had been declared between the Iron Reapers and the Scorpions Motorcycle Club, and that in war there are no non-combatants. He couldn’t know that Scarlet Bennett was really Lety Brennan, daughter of Dalton Havoc Brennan, and that her father had moved her to Riverside High under a fake name, scrubbed her identity from social media, and assigned two prospects to watch her every move.

He couldn’t know that those prospects had gotten stuck in traffic on I35, a fender bender, creating a 15-minute deli that became the difference between protection and catastrophe. He couldn’t know any of this because he was 16 years old and invisible and had never even spoken to her. But Letty knew.

Letty had always known this day might come. The Iron Reapers arrived like the wrath of God, made manifest in chrome and leather. 12 motorcycles, maybe more Harley-Davidsons, mostly their riders clad in cuts, emlazened with the club logo, a skeleton and a hooded cloak holding a sythe wings of flame spreading from its shoulders.

They formed a perimeter around Joe’s diner with military precision. Bikes positioned, nose out engines idling in a symphony of controlled thunder. Riders dismounted with weapons already drawn, not pointed at anyone but visible. Ready, a clear message. This area is now under our jurisdiction. Two of them breached the shattered entrance immediately.

Garrison Tank Wade came through first 6’5 and built like his road name suggested with a shaved head covered in Nordic runes and arms thicker than most people’s legs. He’d served two tours in Iraq as a marine before the Iron Reapers gave him a home. Behind him came Colt Phantom River smaller leaner, but his eyes held the kind of cold calculation that made smart people nervous. Princess.

Tank’s voice rumbled like distant thunder as he dropped to one knee beside Letty, who still cradled Wes’s unconscious bleeding form. You hit I’m not the one bleeding out. Lett’s voice came out sharp, close to breaking. Help him, please. Tank’s massive hands went immediately to West’s neck, finding a pulse. Strong enough.

Kids a fighter. His eyes tracked the wounds through and through both of them upper back. He rolled West slightly, and Letty saw the exit wounds. is the blood soaked front of West’s shirt. Lungs might be compromised. He’s drowning. Then do something. Letty’s control was cracking now.

Fear leaking through the cracks in her armor. He saved me. He just He saved me. Phantom already had a trauma kit from his cut. Already packing gauze into the wounds with practice deficiency. These men weren’t EMTs, but in the MC world, you learn to treat gunshot wounds or you didn’t survive long. IV line and tank said his hands surprisingly gentle for someone so massive. Phantom call it in.

Tell them we got GSW male juvenile critical. The ambulance arrived 90 seconds later, sirens wailing, but by then West had been stabilized barely. The paramedics took one look at the scene at the ring of bikers at Letty’s blood soaked hands and wisely asked no questions. As they loaded West onto a stretcher, Letty tried to follow.

Tank’s hand on her shoulder stopped her. Your old man’s orders. You ride with us. But Tank’s hand was immovable. Princess now. Lety looked back at Wes’s unconscious form one last time, memorizing his face. The sharp jawline that looked too angular like he didn’t get enough to eat. The dark eyebrows that were too expressive for someone who tried so hard to be invisible.

The generous mouth that had smiled at her earlier this week actually smiled like she was worth smiling at before the world exploded. “I’ll see you at the hospital,” she whispered. knowing he couldn’t hear. I promise. Then Tank was lifting her like she weighed nothing, carrying her toward the bikes as police cars began to arrive, their lights painting Joe’s destroyed facade and alternating red and blue.

Lety caught a glimpse of her calculus homework still on the table, now decorated with blood spatter and broken glass. Guess she wouldn’t need to turn that in after all. Phantom had already started his bike. Letty climbed on behind him, wrapped her arms around his leatherclad waist, and then they were moving.

The entire convoy peeled away from Joe’s with a roar that drowned out the police sirens heading east toward Mercy General Hospital. But first, they made one stop. The Iron Reaper’s clubhouse sat on 5 acres of fenced land on the industrial edge of town, a converted warehouse surrounded by bikes and brotherhood. Sacred ground where club business was conducted and club justice delivered.

Letty had grown up here in the apartment above the meeting room, lullabied to sleep by the rumble of engines and the laughter of men who would kill for her without hesitation. The bikes pulled into the compound and Lety saw the rest of the club assembled. All of them, every patch member, every prospect, every hangaround who’d earned enough trust to be invited inside the fence during a crisis.

And standing at the center of them all, arms crossed over his massive chest face carved from stone and fury was her father. Dalton Havoc Brennan was 42 years old and looked like he’d been sculpted by an angry god. 6’3″, 240 lbs of muscle and scar tissue with a shaved head and a beard that was more gray than black these days.

He’d earned his road name the oldfashioned way by causing havoc for anyone who threatened his brothers. On his left hand, he wore his wedding ring. Even though Letty’s mother had died, bringing her into the world 16 years ago, the ring had never come off. He wore his cut over a black t-shirt, his massive arms covered in ink that told the story of a life lived hard.

As Letty dismounted, her father’s eyes tracked her with the intensity of a predator identifying prey. He was scanning for injuries for blood that might be hers for any sign that his daughter, his world, had been harmed. She knew the moment he confirmed she was safe because his shoulders relaxed a microscopic amount.

Then his eyes found the blood on her hands and clothes and his jaw turned to granite. “Report,” he growled. “The word wasn’t a request.” Tank stepped forward. “Drive by shooting. Route 9 and Riverside Joe’s Diner. Gray Chevy Malibu older model dent rear quarter driver side tinted windows. Full auto spray 30 rounds minimum.” He paused.

Princess wasn’t hit. Dalton’s voice could have etched glass. The boy tank’s expression was grim. Critical. Two GSWs to the back through and through. He covered the princess with his body. Took all the hits. Other paused. This one waited with meaning. Saved her life. Havoc. Silence fell over the assembled club members like a shroud.

Every one of them understood what that meant, what it had to mean. You didn’t save an iron reaper’s daughter and walk away empty-handed. That wasn’t how this world worked. Dalton turned to Lety, his expression softened, but only barely, only enough. Tell me. So she did. She told him about the gray sedan circling. About Wes’s warning shout.

About how he’d crossed the distance between them in heartbeats. About how he’d covered her body with his own. How he’d taken bullets meant for her without hesitation or question. About the blood, so much blood pulsing hot between her fingers as she tried to keep him alive. He didn’t know who I was. Lety finished her voice cracking.

He just saw someone in danger and he moved. He didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate. He just moved. Dalton stared at her for a long moment. Then he looked at Knox Preacher Sullivan, the club’s president, a lean man in his 50s with silver hair and the kind of quiet authority that made people instinctively obey.

The Scorpions, Knox asked, though they all knew the answer. Has to be, Dalton replied. They leaked her location. This was a hit. His hands clenched into fists. We can’t let that stand. No. Knox agreed. We can’t. He looked back at Lety and his expression shifted into something she’d seen before. Respect. Baby girl, I need to know.

Do we go to war now or do we make sure that boy lives first? Help me prioritize. It was the greatest sign of respect Knox could give her, treating her like an equal rather than a child to be protected. Lety didn’t hesitate. The boy first, she said, meeting her father’s eyes. Vengeance second, she held his gaze. He saved me, Dad. That debt comes before everything else.

Dalton nodded slowly, pride flickering across his scarred face. Then he turned to the assembled club, and his voice carried the weight of absolute authority. Phantom tank, hospital security detail. Nobody gets near that kid without my approval. I don’t care if God himself shows up with flowers. He turned to Knox. Preach.

Call the brothers in Waco. Tell them we need eyes everywhere. The scorpions just declared war. And the boy, it was Dax Viper Cross, the club sergeant-at-arms, a scarred man with dead eyes and quick hands. Dalton’s expression was unreadable. When he wakes up, I’ll thank him. When he’s healed, we will figure out how to repay a debt that can’t be repaid.

He looked at Lety because whatever we give him, it won’t be enough. The club erupted in grim agreement, fists pounding on tables, voices raised in unified fury. But as the club organized itself as bikes roared to life, and plans were made, Dalton walked over to Letty and pulled her into a hug that smelled like leather and gun oil in safety.

“You okay, baby girl?” he whispered into her hair. “Really okay?” Letty nodded against his chest, letting herself be small for just a moment. “He was so brave, Dad. He didn’t even know me. and he was so brave. Then we’ll make sure his bravery meant something. Dalton pulled back his callous hands, gentle on her shoulders. Go clean up, change clothes.

You’re covered in his blood, and when he wakes up, I don’t want that to be the first thing he sees. Letty headed for the stairs to her room, but halfway up, she paused and looked back. Dad, his name is Weston Callaway. Everyone calls him West. Dalton repeated the name like a prayer. Weston Callaway. The boy who saved my daughter. He nodded slowly.

That’s a name the Iron Reapers will remember. And when the Iron Reapers remembered your name, you were family, whether you wanted to be or not. Wes woke to the sound of beeping. Steady, rhythmic, annoying as hell, like an alarm clock he couldn’t shut off. He tried to move his arm to swat at it, and that’s when the pain introduced itself with enthusiastic brutality.

Holy mother of God. His entire back was on fire flames, licking up his spine and across his shoulder blades. Every breath felt like someone was driving hot knives between his ribs. His mouth tasted like he’d been chewing on pennies and cotton balls. West’s eyes snapped open. White ceiling, fluorescent lights, the smell of disinfectant and floor wax, a machine beside him making that goddamn beeping noise, an IV line in his left arm.

hospital. Memory came flooding back in disjointed fragments. The gun, the window, the girl’s gray eyes wide with terror. The impact of bullets punching through his back. Blood, screaming, darkness. Easy there, kid. Don’t try to sit up. Wes head whipped toward the voice, and even that small movement sent agony shooting down his spine.

Sitting in a chair beside his bed was a man who looked like he’d been carved from a mountain. massive shoulders, arms covered in ink, a shaved head decorated with Nordic runes. The man wore a leather vest, what West Brain supplied, was called a cut with patches and pins. And on the back, visible as the man shifted, was a rocker that said Iron Reapers MC in Gothic script, motorcycle club.

This man was in a motorcycle club and he was sitting beside Wes’s hospital bed like it was the most natural thing in the world. Who? Wes’s voice came out as a croak. His throat felt like sandpaper. The man reached for a plastic cup with a straw, held it to West’s lips. Drink small sips. West obeyed, too confused and hurting to argue.

The water was the best thing he’d ever tasted. Better than anything ever. Better. West nodded. Where’s He had to clear his throat. Is she? Did she? She’s fine. Not a scratch on her. The man’s expression softened slightly. Thanks to you. Relief flooded through Wes, so intense it almost blotted out the pain. She was okay. He’d done it. She was alive.

Who are you? Wes managed. The man settled back in his chair, which creaked under his weight. Name’s Garrison Wade. Everyone calls me Tank. I’m a brother in the Iron Reapers. Been sitting here making sure nobody bothers you while you sleep off the worst of it. How long was I? 14 hours. You coded once in the ambulance, but the docks got you back.

Tank’s expression was serious. Two bullets. One collapsed your lung. The other just missed your spine by about half an inch. He paused. You got lucky, kid. Wes didn’t feel lucky. He felt like he’d been hit by a truck, then backed over for good measure. My nana, my grandmother. She’ll be worried. She can’t afford. Already taken care of.

Tank interrupted. She’s been here twice. Nice lady doesn’t speak much, but she hugs hard. He smiled slightly. Club made sure she got home safe both times. Also arranged for a home health aid to check on her while you’re laid up. Wes stared. What? But I can’t I don’t have insurance. I can’t pay you back. I can’t.

You’re not paying back [ __ ] Tank’s tone broke no argument. You took bullets meant for someone precious to this club. As far as we’re concerned, you’re owed not owing. Wes head was spinning and not just from the painkillers. I don’t understand. Tank leaned forward, elbows on his knees. That girl you saved, her name’s Lety. Lety Brennan.

She’s Dalton Brennan’s daughter. Dalton’s our VP vice president. He paused, letting that sink in. She’s club royalty kid, which means the bullets you took were meant to hurt this brotherhood. I didn’t know, Wes whispered. I just saw the gun and I We know you didn’t know. That’s what makes it matter. Tank stood up and Wes realized the man was even bigger than he’d thought.

easily 65, probably 250 all muscle. You didn’t do it for reward or recognition. You did it because it was right. That’s rare. That’s valuable. Before Wes could respond, the hospital room door opened and Dalton Brennan walked in. West had thought tank was intimidating. But Dalton was something else entirely. He radiated danger the way the sun radiated heat, constant, inescapable, potentially lethal.

His face looked like it had been broken and rebuilt several times with a nose that had clearly lost multiple fights and a scar that ran from his left eyebrow to his jawline. But it was his eyes that held West frozen, dark, intelligent, and currently examining West with an intensity that made him feel like an insect under a microscope.

This him Dalton’s voice was gravel in a cement mixer. Yeah, Havoc. This is Weston Callaway. Dalton approached the bed slowly, deliberately, like he was giving West time to process his presence. He pulled up a chair, a normalsized chair that looked comically small under him, and sat with his elbows on his knees, mirroring Tank’s earlier posture.

For a long moment, he just looked at West, studied him, assessed him. Wes fought the urge to squirm. Finally, Dalton spoke. “You know who I am.” Letty’s father, Wes, said his voice steadier than he felt. And VP of the Iron Reapers. That’s right. Dalton’s expression didn’t change. You know what you did yesterday? I tried to help.

You threw yourself on top of my daughter when bullets were coming through that window. You took two rounds in the back. You could have died. Dalton’s jaw tightened. You should have died. Doctor said if that second bullet had been half an inch to the right, it would have severed your spine. You’d be paralyzed. Wes swallowed hard.

Is Letty really okay? And that’s when Dalton’s expression cracked. Not much, just a slight softening around the eyes, a barely perceptible relaxation in his shoulders, but it was there. She’s perfect. Not a scratch. You made sure of that. Dalton reached out slowly, telegraphing his movement and gripped Wes’s forearm.

His hand was rough, calloused, scarred. The hand of a man who’d lived hard and fought harder. “You gave me the greatest gift anyone’s ever given me. You gave me my daughter’s life.” Wes didn’t know what to say. What could you say to that? You didn’t really think about it, he admitted. I just moved. I know.

That’s what makes it honorable. Dalton released Wes’s arm and sat back. Most people freeze when bullets start flying. Natural human response. But you you ran toward the danger to save a girl you didn’t even know. I know her, Wes said softly. I mean, I don’t know her, but I’ve seen her at school. She seems he trailed off unsure how to finish. Nice.

Sad, beautiful, all inadequate. Lonely Dalton finished for him. Yeah, she is. Being my daughter comes with a price. Hard to make friends when your dad’s in an MC and your life’s potentially in danger. He stood up and Wes noticed for the first time that there were other people in the hallway outside his room.

Men in cuts standing guard. I need to ask you something important, Dalton said. And I need you to be honest with me. Can you do that? Wes nodded even though the movement sent pains shooting down his neck. The guys who did this, the scorpions, they’re our enemies. They’ve been testing us, pushing boundaries. In this shooting, that was an escalation, an act of war.

Dalton’s expression hardened. We’re going to respond. That’s not a question. But before we do, I need to know. Do you remember anything about the shooter, the car? Anything that might help us? Wes closed his eyes, trying to pull details from the chaos of memory. gray Chevy Malibu, older model, dent in the rear quarter panel driver’s side, tinted windows.

I I didn’t see the shooter’s face, just his arm and the gun. When he opened his eyes, Dalton was smiling. It wasn’t a nice smile. That’s more than enough. We already found the car dumped three blocks away, wiped clean. But now we know what we’re looking for. He nodded to Tank. Send that to Phantom. Tell him to check traffic cams in a five block radius.

That dent’s distinctive. Tank pulled out his phone and stepped into the hallway. Dalton turned back to West. You need anything? Food books. Someone to threaten the nurses into giving you better pain meds. Despite everything, West almost smiled. I’m okay. [ __ ] You’re a 16-year-old kid recovering from gunshot wounds. You’re not okay.

Dalton headed for the door, then paused. Your grandmother, Evelyn, right? She’s a good woman worried sick about you. We’re making sure she’s taken care of while you’re in here. And when you get out, he turned back and his expression was serious. When you get out, we’re going to talk about the future.

About what it means when the Iron Reapers owe you. With that cryptic statement, he left his boots heavy on the lenolium floor. Wes lay there, his mind reeling. Family. What did that even mean? He didn’t have long to wonder. 5 minutes later, the door opened again and she walked in. Lety. She looked different from the untouchable girl at school.

Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. Her face was scrubbed clean of any makeup, and she wore an oversized hoodie that probably belonged to someone in the club. She looked younger, more vulnerable, more real, and more beautiful than ever. “Hi,” she said softly, hovering by the door like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to come closer. “Hi,” West echoed.

His heart was doing weird things in his chest, and he didn’t think that was related to the collapsed lung. I wanted to come sooner, but Dad said I should wait until you were awake. And I She trailed off, worrying at her bottom lip. Can I sit? Yeah, of course. She pulled the chair Dalton had vacated closer to the bed and sat down, her hands clasped in her lap.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Finally, Letty said, “Thank you.” Wes shook his head gently, mindful of the pain. “You don’t have to thank me.” “Yes, I do. You saved my life. You almost died saving my life.” Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. Why did you do it? You don’t even know me. The truth came out before Wes could stop it.

I wanted to know you. I mean, not in a creepy way. Just you seemed interesting and sad, and I thought maybe we could be friends. A tear slipped down Lett’s cheek. Well, we’re definitely more than friends now. You can’t take bullets for someone and stay at the friend level. What level are we at then? Lety laughed a wet, slightly hysterical sound.

I don’t know. Bonded for life. You’re stuck with me forever. She wiped out her eyes. Dad’s already decided you’re part of this, which fair warning means you’re probably going to have bikers following you around for the foreseeable future. They’re very protective, I noticed, Wes said dryly, thinking of Tank’s vigil and the guards in the hallway.

I’m sorry, Letty said suddenly. I’m sorry you got hurt because of me. I’m sorry. My life is so complicated that people shoot at me. I’m sorry. Stop. Wes reached out with his good arm, the one without the IV, and took her hand. Her skin was soft, warm, alive. You didn’t ask for those guys to shoot at you. You didn’t put that gun in their hands.

This isn’t your fault. Lety squeezed his hand hard like she was trying to anchor herself to something real. You’re too nice. You know that. Way too nice for this world. Someone’s got to be. They sat like that for a while, hand in hand, not speaking. Outside the window, Wes could see the sun setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and red. Another day survived.

Another day closer to whatever came next. What happens now? He asked quietly. Lety looked at him with those gray eyes that had haunted his thoughts at Joe’s diner. Now you heal. And then she smiled and it was equal parts promise and warning. Then we figure out what it means to be connected to the Iron Reapers.

Something told West his invisible days were over. Whether that was good or bad, time would tell. But as Lett’s handh held his as the monitors beeped their steady rhythm as the October sun painted the hospital room in gold, Wes thought maybe, just maybe, being visible wasn’t so bad after all. Not if it meant being seen by her. 3 days later, day three, on a Thursday afternoon, something shifted.

Tank had brought West Contraband candy bars. Phantom had taught him the basics of chess on a battered travel set. Lety had visited every afternoon doing homework in the chair beside his bed. It felt almost normal, almost safe, almost like family. Then Letty didn’t show up for afternoon visiting hours. When she finally arrived that evening, she wore jeans and a leather jacket, and her hair was down, falling past her shoulders like dark water.

She stood at the window, staring out at the parking lot with an intensity that made West’s stomach tighten. Letty, you okay? She turned and Wes saw something in her face he hadn’t seen before. Determination. Cold, hard determination. We need to talk. Okay. Wes tried to sit up straighter, wincing. What’s wrong? Lety pulled the chair close so close their knees almost touched.

I found something. Something the club didn’t find. Her voice dropped. There’s a traitor. Wes blood went cold. What? I couldn’t just sit around waiting, so I started digging. Lety pulled out her phone, showed him a series of screenshots. School records, prospect files, location data. Someone leaked where I was.

Someone told the Scorpions I’d be at Joe’s Diner at that exact time. Who let his eyes harden? Jackson Mitchell goes by Razer. He’s a prospect been with the club 6 months. She swiped through more images. He had access to my protection detail schedule. He had my fake identity. And look at this. She showed him a bank record. $5,000 deposited into his account two days before the shooting, wired from an LLC that traces back to Scorpion territory.

Jesus West breathed. Does your dad know? Not yet. Letty put her phone away. I wanted to tell you first because this is about you, too. If I bring this to dad, he’ll handle it. And handling it in the MC world means she didn’t finish, but she didn’t have to. It means someone’s going to get hurt. Maybe. Probably.

Letty met his eyes. So, I need to know. Are you okay with that? With what my world really means? Wes thought about it. About the bullets in his back? About Letty’s screams? About the fact that someone had been willing to murder a 16-year-old girl for money or territory or whatever twisted reason? He thought about justice and revenge and the difference between the two.

He’s the reason I got shot, Wes said slowly. He’s the reason you almost died. Yeah, I’m okay with whatever needs to happen. Letty nodded something like relief crossing her face. Then let’s go tell my father. 30 minutes later, Letty and West in a wheelchair because the nurses wouldn’t let him walk yet sat in a private conference room with Dalton Tank Phantom and Knox.

Lety laid out her evidence on the table, methodical and thorough. West watched the men’s faces darken with every revelation. When she finished, silence hung heavy in the room. Finally, Knox spoke. “You did this yourself? Found all this?” “Yes, sir.” Without club resources, without asking for help, I used what I had. Letty’s voice was steady.

My laptop, public records, some creative research. Dalton stared at his daughter like he was seeing her for the first time. You shouldn’t have been able to find this. Our own intelligence missed it, but I did find it. Letty held his gaze. And now you need to decide what to do about it. Knox looked at Dalton. Havoc, she’s your daughter.

Your call on how to proceed. Dalton stood began pacing. This is treason. Betrayal at the deepest level. If it’s true, if Razer really sold us out, he didn’t finish. It’s true, Letty said. I have the evidence. Bank records, phone logs, GPS data, all of it. Then we bring him in. Knox’s voice was granite. We vote and if the vote goes the way I think it will.

He looked at West. Kid, you understand what you’re witnessing here. West nodded. Justice. Close enough. Knox turned to Phantom. Bring Razer in. Tell him church meeting. Don’t spook him. As the meeting broke up, Dalton pulled Letty aside. Wes watched them through the open door. Saw Dalton’s hands on her shoulders.

Saw her looking up at her father with defiance and fear mixed together. saw Dalton’s expression crack just for a moment into something that looked like pride. When they came back, Dalton approached Wes’s wheelchair. “You’ve seen a lot in four days, kid. More than most civilians see in a lifetime.

” He crouched down eye level. “What you saw just now, that stays quiet. You understand? I understand.” Dalton studied him. “I think you do,” he stood. “When you get out of here tomorrow, we’re going to have a longer conversation about what happens next.” Wes looked past Dalton to where Letty stood, her arms crossed, watching him with those gray eyes that saw everything.

What if I already know? I want to be part of it. Dalton followed his gaze, saw what Wes was looking at, and something like understanding crossed his face. Then I guess we’ll talk about that, too. That evening, as the sun set on day three, Letty came back alone. She sat on the edge of West’s bed, careful not to jostle his injuries.

Thank you for backing me up in there. You found a traitor. Of course I backed you up. Most people would have been scared of my dad. Of the club, of what this all means. I am scared, West admitted. But not of your dad, not of the club. What are you scared of losing this? Wes gestured between them.

Whatever this is, it’s the only real thing I’ve had in a long time. Lety was quiet for a moment. Then she leaned down and kissed his forehead so gently it barely registered. Don’t be. I won’t let anything happen to you and I won’t let you disappear again. As she pulled back, Wes caught her hand. Lety, what does this make us? Really? She smiled and it was the first real smile he’d seen from her.

Uncertain and hopeful and terrified all at once. I don’t know, but I want to find out. She squeezed his hand. When you get out tomorrow, when you’re healed, we’ll figure it out together. Together, West agreed. And for the first time since waking up in this hospital, he believed that everything might actually be okay. That night, after Lety left, after the nurses did their final rounds, after the hospital settled into its nocturnal rhythm, Wes lay awake thinking about family and loyalty and the price of both. Thinking about a girl whose life

he’d saved and who was now saving him in ways he didn’t fully understand yet. And thinking that maybe, just maybe, being invisible had been the wrong goal all along. Maybe being seen, being known, being part of something bigger than yourself, maybe that was worth any price. Even bullets, even blood. Even stepping into a world where justice came with an edge. And family meant forever.

Wes closed his eyes and let sleep take him no longer afraid of what he’d see when he woke, because when he woke, Letty would be there, and that made everything else bearable. Wes discharge from Mercy General on day 11, a cool October morning, should have been a quiet affair. Sign some papers, collect some prescriptions, go home and heal.

That’s how it worked for normal people. But Wes Callaway had stopped being normal the moment he threw himself on those bullets. Tank pulled up to the hospital entrance at 7 in the morning. Not in his truck, but on his bike, a massive Harley Road King that rumbled like controlled thunder. Behind him came Phantom on a street glide.

And behind Phantom came three more Iron Reapers, their cuts gleaming in the morning sun. An escort, a statement, a message to anyone watching this boy is ours now. West emerged in a wheelchair pushed by a nurse who looked both terrified and thrilled by the wall of chrome and leather waiting at the curb. He wore new clothes had brought him days earlier, jeans that actually fit a gray Henley that didn’t have bullet holes and over it all a simple black jacket that wasn’t leather, but close enough.

Tank dismounted approached the wheelchair. How you feeling, kid? like I got shot twice, but better. Tank’s laugh was a sound like rolling boulders. That’s the spirit. He looked at the nurse. We got him from here, ma’am. Thank you for taking care of him. The nurse blushed. Actually blushed and hurried back inside.

Tank helped Wes stand supporting him with one massive arm. Phantom brought over a helmet. You ever ride before Phantom asked? Does a bicycle count? Not even a little. Phantom grinned. Don’t worry. Tank drives like a grandmother. You’ll be fine. Wes climbed on behind Tank. Every movement sending dull aches through his healing back. Tank started the engine and Wes felt the vibration through his entire body.

Felt it in his bones. Felt it wake something primal and hungry in his chest. Then they were moving, pulling away from the hospital with the other bikes falling into formation around them. And that’s when Wes saw her. Letty stood at the hospital entrance, leaning against a pillar, wearing her leather jacket and dark jeans and a small knowing smile.

She raised one hand in a wave as they passed. And Wes’s heart did something complicated that had nothing to do with his injuries. They didn’t go to Wes’s apartment. Instead, the convoy headed to Riverside High, arriving just as the morning bell rang. Students poured out of buses and cars, the usual chaos of a Wednesday morning.

And then they all stopped, froze, stared. Six motorcycles idling at the curb. Six men in Iron Reapers cuts. And Wes Callaway, the invisible scholarship kid climbing off Tank’s bike like he’d been riding his whole life. The whispers started immediately rippling through the crowd like wind through wheat. Is that Callaway? He got shot.

He saved that new girl. Holy [ __ ] Are those Iron Reapers? Is he in a gang now? Wes felt every eye on him. felt the weight of sudden visibility like a physical thing pressing down. This was the opposite of everything he’d spent two years perfecting. This was spectacle. This was exposure. Tank’s hand on his shoulder steadied him.

You good from here? Wes looked at the school entrance, saw Derek Mitchell and his football cronies clustered near the doors. Saw their faces go pale as they recognized the cuts. The bikes the message. Yeah, I’m good. Anything happens, you call. Phantom tapped the phone they’d given West days earlier. We’re 10 minutes away.

As the bikes roared away, Wes stood alone in the parking lot, acutely aware of every stare, every whisper. He pulled his backpack higher on his good shoulder and started walking toward the entrance. The crowd parted like water around a stone, giving him space, giving him respect or fear, or some combination of both.

He was almost to the doors when he heard her voice. West. He turned. Letty stood at the edge of the parking lot backpack slung over one shoulder, looking like she belonged in a magazine spread rather than a public high school. She’d been waiting for him. Plan this. Ready? She asked, walking over to stand beside him.

For what? For everything to be different. She took his hand, her fingers threading through his like it was the most natural thing in the world. Come on, let’s show them we’re not hiding. They walked into Riverside High together, hand in hand, and the whispers became a roar. By lunch, West had been approached 17 times.

People he’d gone to school with for 2 years suddenly remembered his name. Girls who’d never looked at him twice smiled and asked if he was okay. Guys who’d laughed when Dererick shoved him into lockers now wanted to know what it was like to get shot, to be protected by an MC, to be with Letty Brennan because everyone knew now who she really was.

West hated every second of it. Letty found him in the library during third period, hiding in the stacks where he used to eat lunch. She slid down to sit beside him on the floor close enough that their shoulders touched. “It’s too much, isn’t it?” she said quietly. Wes nodded. “I just want to disappear again.” “Cant, you’re visible now.

” She bumped her shoulder against his. “But visible doesn’t have to mean alone. You’ve got me. You’ve got the club. We’ll help you navigate this. What if I don’t want to navigate? What if I just want everything to go back to normal? Letty was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “Normal is what you make it. And normal for us, it’s this.

” She gestured at the library at the school beyond. “It’s people knowing. It’s being protected. It’s having people who would do anything for you.” Her voice dropped. “Is that really so bad?” Wes looked at her at this girl who’d had her whole life defined by her father’s world, who’d never known privacy or anonymity or the luxury of being ordinary.

No, it’s not bad. It’s just different. Different we can work with. Letty stood offered him her hand. Come on, let’s go to lunch. Let’s show them we’re not hiding. The cafeteria fell silent when they walked in together. Wes felt the weight of a hundred stairs felt his old instincts screaming, “Run, hide, disappear.

” But Letty’s hand was steady in his, and she led him to a table near the window. Not the center one that had always belonged to Derek Mitchell in the football elite, but close enough to make a statement. They sat down, and Letty pulled out her lunch like nothing unusual was happening. Wes tried to do the same, but his hands were shaking slightly.

Then he felt Lett’s hand on his knee under the table, squeezing once, reassuring. “They’re watching because they don’t understand,” she murmured. “Give it a week. will be boring old news. But before the week was up, Derek Mitchell appeared at their table on day 12. He stood there fidgeting, not meeting anyone’s eyes, looking smaller than West had ever seen him.

“Can I talk to you?” Dererick’s voice was barely above a whisper. Privately, Wes glanced at Letty, who nodded. They moved to an empty hallway away from curious ears. Dererick shoved his hands in his pockets, stared at the floor. “Look!” Derek started, then stopped. Tried again. My dad told me what happened. what you did saving her. He jerked his chin toward where Letty sat visible through the cafeteria windows. That’s really brave.

Okay, Wes said Wary and he also told me Dererick swallowed hard about who her father is and that he had a conversation with my dad about me about how I’ve been treating you. Wes waited watching Derek struggle with words he’d probably rehearsed a dozen times. I’m sorry. Derek finally looked up and there was genuine fear in his eyes.

I’m sorry for being a dick for two years, for the locker stuff and taking your lunch money and all of it. I’m sorry. It wasn’t a great apology. The fear was too obvious. The motivation too transparent. But it was something. Why? West asked. Because you’re scared of Letty’s death or because you actually mean it.

Dererick’s jaw worked. Both I’m scared as hell. My dad was terrified and he doesn’t scare easy. But also, he made me think about what I’ve been doing. Made me realize I’ve been a bully for no reason except that I could be. He ran a hand through his hair. That’s not cool. That’s not who I want to be. Wes studied him.

This boy who’d made his life hell, who was now standing here looking like he might throw up from anxiety. Okay. Derek blinked. Okay, I accept your apology. Wes kept his voice even. But here’s the deal. You leave me alone, I leave you alone. You see someone else getting bullied, you stop it instead of joining in. We don’t have to be friends.

We just have to not be enemies. Relief flooded Dererick’s face. Yeah, yes, absolutely. Deal. He stuck out his hand. Wes shook it, feeling the tremor in Dererick’s grip. As Dererick walked away, Wes felt Lety appear beside him. That was gracious of you, she said. He was scared. Fear can be a good teacher. Lety watched Derek rejoin his table, watched him speak quietly to his friends.

Sometimes the threat of what might happen is more effective than actual violence. Is that what your world is always like? Implications and fear. Let’s express thoughtful. My world is about consequences. Fear is just a tool we use to make sure people understand those consequences before they cross lines. She took his hand again.

Come on, let’s finish lunch. Over the next three weeks, as October turned to November, a new routine emerged. Every morning, Tanker Phantom would pick up Wes from his apartment, give him a ride to school on their bikes. Nana Evelyn would wave from the window, no longer worried, just grateful that her grandson was being looked after.

At school, West and Letty were inseparable. They ate lunch together, studied together, walked to classes together, and three afternoons a week after school, Letty taught West how to fight. They used the old warehouse at the edge of the Iron Reaper compound, a space that had been converted into a makeshift gym.

Heavy bags hung from the ceiling beams. Matts covered the concrete floor. Tank usually supervised, offering corrections and encouragement in equal measure. Your stance is too narrow, Letty said on day 25, a Wednesday afternoon in early November, circling West like a predator. You’re off balance. Push you and you’ll fall. West adjusted his feet, trying to remember everything she’d taught him.

Better. Better. Now, when I come at you, what do you do? Redirect. Don’t meet force with force. Show me. Lety move fast faster than West expected. Her hand shooting toward his chest. Wes’s body reacted, stepping offline, using her momentum to guide her past him. Lety stumbled, caught herself spun back with a grin. Good.

Again, they drilled for an hour until Wes healing back achd, and his t-shirt was soaked with sweat. Lety barely looked winded. She moved like someone who’d been training her whole life, every motion efficient and controlled. As they cooled down, sitting on the mats with water bottles, West asked the question that had been building.

Why are you doing this? Teaching me? Lety took a long drink before answering. Because you saved me when you didn’t know how to fight. I want to make sure that if you ever need to save yourself, you can. I’m never going to be like you or Tank or any of the guys in the club. You don’t need to be like us. You need to be you, but capable.

She looked at him, her gray eyes serious. The world we’re in now, West, it’s not always going to be safe. People know you’re connected to the Iron Reapers. That makes you both protected and a target. I need to know you can handle yourself. What if I can’t? What if I’m not built for this? Letty’s hand found his squeezed.

You threw yourself on bullets. You’re built for more than you think. By late November, day 55, Wes could hold his own in a basic sparring match. He’d never win against Lety or any of the club members, but he could defend himself, could create space, could survive. The training had changed something in him, too. He moved with more confidence, held himself straighter, met people’s eyes instead of avoiding them.

The invisible boy was gone. In his place was someone new, someone who mattered, but their fragile new piece was about to shatter. It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, day 55, when Wes got a text from Lety during fourth period. Come to the clubhouse after school. Emergency. Dad needs you there. Wes stomach tightened.

He texted Tank, who picked him up at 2:30, face grim. Lety was already at the clubhouse when they arrived along with every patch member who could make it on short notice. The energy was different. Charged. Dangerous. Knox stood at the center of the main room, his face carved from stone. Brothers, we’ve got a situation.

He gestured to a wall where surveillance photos were pinned. Images of men buildings vehicles. The Scorpions have been rebuilding. New clubhouse in Waco. New membership. And our intel suggests they’re planning a counter strike. Multiple targets. Simultaneous hits. The room erupted in angry mutters. Knox held up a hand for silence.

We’ve identified six key locations, their operations, their leadership. Dalton’s been working with contacts. We have a window. Tomorrow night, Thanksgiving. We hit them all at once. We end this. What about Rattlesnake? Someone called out. Their leader, Dalton, spoke up his voice, carrying weight.

Rattlesnake will be at their clubhouse in Waco. We handle him last, and we handle him permanently. The room’s energy shifted, became charged with anticipation and violence barely contained. Wes felt Letty’s hand find his felt her tension. Then Letty stepped forward and the room went quiet. “I want to be part of this,” she said, her voice clear and unwavering.

“Absolutely not.” Dalton’s response was immediate. “I’m not asking permission.” Letty’s eyes flashed. “They shot at me. This is my fight.” The room held its breath. No one spoke to the VP like that. Dalton’s jaw worked his hands clenching. “Letty, baby girl,” he said, voice strained. “This is dangerous.

You could get killed. I’ve been in danger my whole life.” Lety didn’t waver. You’ve trained me since I was eight. I can handle myself. You’re 16. So is West. And he took bullets without any training. Lety gestured at him. If he faced danger for me, I can face it for this family. That’s different. Why? Because he’s a boy,” her voice rose.

“I found the traitor you missed. I’ve proven I’m capable. Either include me or I call Grandmother Patricia and tell her you’re still putting me in danger.” The silence that followed was absolute. Wes saw pain flash across Dalton’s face, saw him realize his daughter had just played the only card that could hurt him.

Knock stepped forward, diffusing the tension. Havoc, let’s got a point. Maybe it’s time we stop protecting her from the life and start including her in it under controlled circumstances. Dalton stared at his daughter. When he spoke, his voice was rough. You ride in my truck. You stay with me. You observe. You don’t engage. Agreed.

And Wes goes too. Dalton’s eyes found West. He witnesses what this family does. Wes nodded, not trusting his voice. The next night, Thanksgiving Day, Wes sat in the passenger seat of Dalton’s F350, watching the city lights blur past. Thy was in the back checking a small pistol Dalton had given her just in case. The convoy of Iron Reapers moved through the night like a mechanized pack of wolves.

20 bikes, four trucks, all heading to different destinations. West’s phone buzzed with updates. Team Alpha in position. Team Bravo ready. Team Charlie eyes on target. Dalton’s voice was steady as he drove. Wes, what you’re about to see stays between us. You understand? Yes, sir. We’re not murderers. We’re protectors.

But protection sometimes requires force. His eyes flicked to the rear view mirror, found Letty, and I need you to watch over her if something goes wrong. Wes looked back at Letty, who met his eyes with stealing hers. Yeah, I can do that. Good. After tonight, your family all the way. No going back.

The first target was a rundown house on the east side one of the Scorpion’s operations. Dalton parked two blocks away and they watched on a tablet as team Alpha moved in. No battering ram just tank and three brothers walking up knocking being led in. Two minutes later, five scorpions were zip tied on the lawn and team Alpha was loading duffel bags into their truck. Clean, efficient, no shots fired.

One down, Dalton murmured. Five to go. They drove to each location, watching as the Iron Reaper systematically dismantled the Scorpion’s operation. Each hit was the same overwhelming force. Complete control, minimal violence. The Scorpions were outmatched at every turn. Wes watched Letty’s face. She didn’t flinch, didn’t look away.

She watched with analytical eyes, learning. This was her world, and she was claiming it. By 11:35, locations were secured. Only one remained. in the Scorpion’s Clubhouse in Waco. The warehouse sat isolated by the Brazis River. Dalton parked on a rise overlooking it and they watched as the Iron Reapers surrounded the building.

Bikes and perimeter men in position exits covered. Stay in the truck, Dalton ordered. Both of you, no matter what, Dad lety started. No matter what, you wanted to witness. This is witnessing. He climbed out, joined Knox and the others. They approached the entrance, not sneaking, just walking in like they owned the place, because tonight they did.

West and Lety watched as the Iron Reapers disappeared inside. 5 minutes, then gunfire, a single shot, then silence. 10 minutes later, the brothers emerged. Rattlesnake Vance was with them, hands zip tied, blood streaming from his right hand. They forced him to his knees. Knox stood over him, and even from this distance, Wes could see the cold fury.

Dalton approached holding a phone by Marman. Make the call. Rattlesnake shook his head. Knox nodded to Phantom who raised his pistol and shot Rattlesnake’s left hand. The scream carried. Lety flinched. Wes grabbed her hand held tight. Make the call. Dalton repeated. They watched as Rattlesnake confessed everything into a phone connected to the DEA.

Every crime, every name, every location. When he finished, they left him there for law enforcement to find. The Iron Reapers disappeared into the night, leaving only a broken man who would spend decades in prison, branded forever as a snitch. The drive back was silent. Wes didn’t know what to say.

What he’d witnessed wasn’t justice in any legal sense. But it was justice by the rules of this world. At the clubhouse, his brother celebrated, Dalton pulled West and Ley into his office. What you saw tonight, he began, that’s what this family does. We protect our own. We deliver justice when the law can’t.

Is it right? Is it wrong? He shrugged. That’s not for me to judge. But it’s necessary. I understand, Letty said. Wes nodded. Do you? Dalton’s eyes were haunted. Because there’s a cotton. Every time we do something like this, we lose pieces of ourselves. He looked at Letty. Baby girl, I never wanted this for you. But it’s my reality.

Lett’s voice was steady. I’d rather face it than hide from it. Dalton was quiet. Then he pulled out a leather vest from his desk, smaller than a full cut, and handed it to Letty. You’re not a member, but you’re family. This makes it official. Letty took the vest tears in her eyes. On the back, friend of the club. Wes Dalton turned to him.

You witnessed. You stayed. That means something. He pulled out a second vest. You’re family, too. Wes took it, feeling its weight. Thank you. Don’t thank me yet. Being family means you’re in this for life. means you share our burdens and our enemies. Dalton’s expression was serious.

You sure that’s what you want? Wes looked at Letty. Yeah, I’m sure. Then welcome. Dalton pulled them both into a hug that smelled like leather and gunpowder and something like home. Two weeks passed. The nightmare started on day 62. West would wake gasping, seeing Rattlesnake’s hands, hearing screams. Nana Evelyn would find him in the kitchen at 3:00 a.m. shaking.

Lety had nightmares, too. I see your blood, she whispered one afternoon. Every night I feel it on my hands. It wasn’t your fault, wasn’t it? If I hadn’t existed, you’d be safe. I was never happy being invisible. Wes took her hand and I’m whole because of you. But the distance was growing. Letty pulled away when he tried to kiss her.

Found excuses to leave early. Stopped answering texts quickly. Wes felt her slipping. On day 68, early December, Letty came to his apartment. We need to talk. They sat on his couch and Lety couldn’t meet his eyes. I can’t do this anymore. Us. I can’t be with you. Why? Because you almost died for me. Because you’re having nightmares because of me.

She finally looked at him, tears streaming. I’m poison. Everyone I love gets hurt. That’s my choice. It’s not fair to you. You deserve normal. What if I don’t want normal? What if I want you? You don’t know what you want. You’re 16 and traumatized. That’s [ __ ] Wes stood, grabbed her shoulders.

Lety, I fell for you before the shooting. I fell for you when you were just the sad girl at Joe’s. Letty’s tears fell harder. That doesn’t matter. You need to walk away. No, Wes, please. No. He pulled her close. You don’t get to decide for me. You don’t get to push me away to protect me. I make my own choices and I choose you.

Even if it destroys you, even then they stood like that. Lety crying west holding her. When she pulled back, something had shifted. You’re impossible. So are you. That’s why we work. She kissed him salt in tears and desperation. When they broke apart, her smile was watery, but real. I don’t deserve you. Too bad. You’re stuck with me.

That weekend, day 71, Lety discovered something that would shake the club. She’d been restless wandering the clubhouse at 2 a.m. when she overheard two prospects behind the garage. Blade said next week after the Christmas run, that’s when we move. Knox won’t suspect. Knox suspects everyone, but he won’t suspect his own blood. Letty’s heart stopped.

Blade, Knox’s son, a prospect. She recorded the rest on her phone, hands shaking. They were talking about framing Dalton for theft. starting a civil war, creating chaos. And Blade Sullivan Knox’s own son was the architect. The shooting hadn’t just been about the Scorpions. It had been about creating opportunity for Blade to seize power.

Lety went straight to West, waking him at 3:00 a.m. We need to go to my dad. Now, at Dalton’s house, they played him the recording, watched his face go from sleepy to alert to murderously angry. Knox’s son. Dalton’s voice was barely a whisper. his own son. We need to tell Knox. Not yet. We need more evidence. Dalton paced. This could tear the club apart. I can get it.

Letty’s voice was steady. Let me talk to him. I’ll wear a wire. Absolutely not. Dad, he doesn’t see me as a threat. I can get him to confess. And if he realizes you’re playing him, Wes will be there. And Tank and Phantom. Lety met her father’s eyes. But it has to be me. Three days later, day 74, mid December, Letty met Blade in the empty warehouse.

She wore a wire Phantom had provided. Dalton, Knox, and Wes sat in a van 200 yard away, listening. Blade arrived confident. Lety, hey, is it true what they’re saying? Lety projected casual anger. That dad’s been making bad calls. Your dad’s getting reckless. Blade warmed to his subject. The club needs younger leadership. Someone like you.

Blade studied her. Can I trust you? My dad almost got me killed. You can trust. I want things to change. Blade started talking. Told her everything. Framing Dalton the leak to scorpions using Razor. His ego made him blind. When he finished, Letty nodded. That’s solid. Blade grinned. When I need you to testify against your dad. I’ll be there.

As soon as Blade left, Tank surrounded the warehouse. They brought him to the clubhouse. The emergency church meeting that night is the most painful thing West had witnessed. Knox played the recording, watched his brother’s faces turn from confusion to fury to heartbreak. When it ended, Knox stood. That’s my son, my blood.

And he committed treason. Blade was brought in zip tied, defiant. Knox approached slowly. Why? Because you’re weak. Blade’s voice was venomous. You and Havoc are stuck in the past. Knox backhanded him, then stepped back, composed. Brothers, the vote, guilty, guilty. 30 voices in unison. Punishment outbad. Dalton’s voice.

Stripped, beaten, exiled. Name spreads to every club. He’s done. Knox looked at his son one last time. You’re not my son anymore. They dragged Blade outside. West heard the beating. 15 minutes later, it was done. Blade was driven to the county line and dumped inside. Knox sat with his face in his hands. Dalton approached, hand on Knox’s shoulder.

Preach, I failed him. Knox’s voice was broken. I was a better president than a father. You did what had to be done. Lety approached. Knox, I’m sorry. Knox pulled her into a hug. Don’t apologize. You saved this club. He held her at arms length. You’re more family than he ever was.

As the club dispersed, Wes found Lety outside staring at nothing. You okay? No, I destroyed a family. You saved your family. Wes sat beside her. Blade made his choices. Doesn’t feel like victory. It’s not supposed to. He took her hand, but it was necessary and we carry it together. Lety leaned against him. Together. She was quiet. West, after everything you have seen, are you sure you still want this? I’ve never been more sure.

Even though my world is violence and betrayal, even though because it’s also loyalty and family and love. He kissed her head. You’re worth all of it. They sat as November became December. As Thanksgiving gave way to winter, the Iron Reapers slowly heal from internal wounds. Wes knew this was just beginning, that more challenges would come.

But sitting with Lety, her hand in his surrounded by family and loyalty, Wes felt something he’d never felt before. He felt like he belonged, like he mattered, like he was exactly where he was supposed to be. The snow came early to Texas that year, dusting the Iron Reaper compound in white on the first day of December, day 60. Wes stood in the warehouse turned gym, watching Lety move through her forms with liquid grace.

Two weeks had passed since Blade Sullivan’s exile. Two weeks since the club had torn itself apart and stitched itself back together stronger. Two weeks and everything had changed again. Lety wasn’t hiding anymore. She’d returned to Riverside High under her real name, Letty Brennan, not Scarlet Bennett. Let everyone know exactly who she was, whose daughter she was, what family protected her.

The whispers had been deafening at first, but Lety walked through them like she walked through everything else. Now, head high, spine straight, daring anyone to say something to her face. No one did. She taught self-defense classes at the clubhouse twice a week now training other MC families teaching women and prospects alike.

Tank supervised, but everyone knew Lety was the real instructor. She moved like water struck like lightning and explained techniques with clarity. West attended every class both as student and as her anchor. He was better now, could hold his own in a sparring match, could protect himself if needed. But he’d never be what Letty was. She’d been forged in this world.

He’d just been tempered by it. Looking good, Wes called. As Letty finished a complicated combination, she turned sweat gleaming in grin. You’re just saying that because you’re my boyfriend. I’m saying it because it’s true. He tossed her a water bottle. Also because I’m your boyfriend. She caught it one-handed, drank deeply.

What time is Tank picking you up? Seven. We’re helping him rebuild that shovel head. West had been spending more time at the clubhouse learning motorcycle maintenance, earning respect through work and loyalty. He wasn’t a prospect, wasn’t patched, but he was family. Lety checked her phone. I’ve got another hour here, then I need to get home.

Dad’s making dinner. She rolled her eyes. Well, ordering pizza and pretending he made it. Classic Dalton. West approached, pulled her close despite the sweat. You okay? Really? Lety leaned into him and for a moment she was just 16. Just a girl, not a warrior princess. Some days I don’t know who I am anymore. Am I Lety Brennan, honor student, or the girl who wears wires to trap traitors? You’re both.

That’s what makes you strong. She laughed, but there was an edge. Is that what I am? Strong to anyone who threatens your family. Yeah. Wes kissed her forehead. To me, you’re just Lety, the girl who helps me with calculus. I do not help you. You’re better at math than me. Okay, but you let me think I’m helping you, which is sweeter.

Lety pulled back, studied his face. How are you so steady? After everything, how are you still you? Because you need me to be. Wes voice was serious. Everyone else in your life is hard and ready for war. I’m the soft place you can land. That’s my job. That’s a hell of a job. Someone’s got to do it. By mid December, day 77, junior year, was half over.

The holidays approached and with them came the Iron Reaper annual winter gathering, a tradition going back decades. West had been invited. Of course, he went to everything now. But this year’s gathering would be different. This year, Knox had something planned. On a Saturday evening, the clubhouse compound was transformed.

Lights strung between buildings, tables set up with food, a bonfire roaring in the central yard. Families arrived, brothers in their cuts, old ladies in leather, children running wild. It felt like a normal holiday party except for the weapons most people carried. Wes stood with Letty near the food tables watching tank flip burgers.

Nana Evelyn was there too, talking with the club’s women like she’d known them for years. She’d been adopted almost as completely as Wes had. Knox called for attention, his voice cutting through the chatter. Brothers family gather around. Everyone moved toward the center, forming a loose circle. Knox stood at the middle Dalton beside him and in front of them stood Lety and West. We’re here to honor tradition.

Knox began to celebrate family and to recognize those who’ve earned their place. He gestured to them. West and Callaway Lety Brennan stepped forward. They walked into the center hands linked. West’s heart hammered. Lety had told him something was happening, but seeing it unfold was different. Two months ago, Knox said, “Two kids walked into our lives through violence and chaos. One threw himself on bullets.

The other survived those bullets, and exposed a traitor we all missed. Since then, they have trained with us, worked with us, proven themselves. He pulled out two leather vests different from the ones Dalton had given them. These were official, embroidered with care. West, you took bullets for Havoc’s daughter.

You witnessed our justice. You’ve earned our respect. He extended the first vest. This marks you as Iron Reaper’s family. Wes took it hand shaking on the front his name Weston Callaway on the back in larger letters are in Reaper’s family. Knox turned to Letty. And you you’ve done something remarkable.

You found our traitor. You saved this club from civil war. You’ve proven yourself more capable than most prospects. He handed her an identical vest. But more than that, Knox’s voice dropped. You’ve forced us to ask hard questions about who we are and who we can become. The crowd was silent. everyone watching.

Which brings me to an announcement. Knox looked at Dalton who nodded. One that’s going to change this club forever. Dalton stepped forward, conflict written across his face. Baby girl, when you were born, I made your mother a promise. I’d keep you safe, keep you out of this life. He paused, voice rough. I failed.

You’re in this life whether I wanted it or not. So, the question is, do I keep trying to protect you from it or give you tools to navigate it? Where is this going? Let’s voice steady despite tears forming. Dalton looked at Knox, who nodded. We’re offering you a choice. After college, if you still want this life, you can prospect for a full patch.

The crowd erupted. Cheers, angry shouts, stunned silence. Wes felt Letty’s hand tighten until it hurt. She’d be the first woman to ever prospect. Knock said cutting through chaos. The first female member in our history. It won’t be easy. You’ll face resistance. You’ll have to prove yourself twice as hard.

But if you earn it, you’ll wear the patch. Letty’s voice was barely a whisper. You’re serious. As a heart attack. Dalton met her eyes. The vote was close. 18 to 14. But it passed. He gripped her shoulders. This is your choice, not mine. Not the clubs, yours. Wes watched emotions play across Letty’s face. Shock, joy, fear, determination.

She pulled her hand from his and stepped forward, addressing the gathering. Thank you for this honor. Her voice grew stronger. I know what I’m asking for. I know the traditions I’m breaking, but I promise I’ll earn every inch of that patch. I’ll prove women can be assets. I’ll show you that evolution doesn’t mean abandoning who we are.

It means becoming who we need to be. Some hostile faces soften. Not all but enough. Dalton handed her the vest. Four years college education. Living life outside. Then if you still want it, you come back. You prospect for one year. You earn your patch like every brother here. He paused. No special treatment. No shortcuts because you are my daughter.

Lety took the vest, slipped it on. It fit perfectly. I understand. Knox turned to West. And you, Callaway, were making the same offer. After college, you can prospect. The silence was absolute. Wes looked at the vest in his hands, felt its weight. Looked at Letty, standing in her matching vest, eyes bright with tears and determination.

Looked at Tank and Phantom and Viper, all his family. Then he gave the answer he’d been forming for weeks. Thank you for the offer, for calling me family, but I’m not going to prospect. Disappointment flickered across faces. Confusion on others. Letty’s expression was unreadable. Wes continued, “I’m going to Texas&M for engineering.

I’m going to build a career, build a life. But I’ll always be family. I’ll always be here when you need me, just not as a patched member.” He looked at Letty. She’s going to be an iron reaper. She needs someone outside the life. Someone to remind her there’s a world beyond the compound. That’s my role.

Understanding dawned in Dalton’s eyes, relief washing over his face. That’s wisdom. Knock said, extending his hand. Takes strength to know who you are. Wes pulled on his vest as the crowd erupted. Tank pulled him into a crushing hug. Phantom clapped his back and Letty watched with tears streaming. When he reached her, she threw her arms around his neck.

You’re not leaving me. Never. Different path, same destination. He held her tight. You’re going to change the world. I’m just going to love you while you do it. That’s enough. That’s everything. The party continued into the night, but West and Letty slipped away around 9, taking her car to their overlook above the city.

They sat on the hood vest, gleaming in moonlight. Four years, Letty finally said. Four years of college, then I come back. I prospect and I’ll be two hours away in College Station being completely normal. We’re really doing this. Yeah. Wes took her hand. We really are. Winter turned to spring. Life settled into rhythm. Wes spent afternoons in Tank’s garage or the warehouse training with Lety.

His back had healed completely. Scars, just two circles of tissue. Except when it rained. Then they achd like memory. It was a Friday afternoon in late February, day 140, when their world exploded again. West and Lety were leaving Riverside High after a brutal calculus exam, walking toward where West Sportster sat gleaming.

Tank had helped him buy it weeks earlier, a used 883 they’d rebuilt together. Lety was laughing at something Wes said when she stopped dead body rigid. West gray sedan 3:00. West’s eyes snapped to it. A beat up Nissan Alultima tinted window circling the lot slowly. Too slowly. Wrong. The scars on West back began to ache. Could be nothing.

It’s not nothing. Letty’s voice went flat. Get ready to move. The sedan suddenly accelerated, tires squealing, heading straight for them. Letty’s hand went to her waist where she carried a 38. Wes was already moving, pulling her behind the nearest truck. The sedan roared past. Wes saw the passenger window rolling down. Saw a gun barrel emerging.

Every nerve screamed, “Run!” But he’d been trained better. Split up, they separated, using parked cars for cover. Gunfire erupted, sharp cracks, sending students screaming. West heard bullets punching metal, shattering glass. Wes pulled out his phone as he ran Hit tank speed dial. Riverside High Shots fired.

Let’s hear. He dropped the phone, kept moving. Lety was behind an SUV, leaning out to return fire. Her shots were controlled, precise, aimed at tires. One connected. The car swerved. Another shot. Another blown tire. The sedan slowed limping. The passenger door opened. A man stepped out. Even at 50 yards, Wes recognized him with sickening clarity. Blade Sullivan.

Two months exiled. He’d returned. Gaunt scarred, holding an AR-15, wearing the expression of someone with nothing left to lose. Lety Brennan Blad’s voice echoed. “You destroyed my life. You did that to yourself.” Lety shouted back, “Gunrained. Drop it!” Wes was moving before conscious thought, circling wide, using cars for cover.

He could see what Blade couldn’t. Two more men emerging from the sedan, both armed. Three against two. Lety was exposed. Training took over. Wes couldn’t shoot. wasn’t armed like Letty, but he could distract. Could be useful. He stood up, hands visible. Blade over here. Blade’s head whipped around, rifle swinging. Lety use that split second to relocate her gun, tracking the other men.

Wes saw her strategy divide attention, prevent coordinated assault. The scared kid from 4 months ago wouldn’t have understood. But West had learned you, Blade’s voice was ragged. The boyfriend, you think you’re special? I think I’m alive. That’s special enough. Blade laughed empty of humor. Let’s see how special with a bullet in your head.

The rifle came up. Westworld compressed to that black barrel. Time slowed. He could hear his heartbeat. Feel every breath. Then let there appearing from nowhere. Her 38 pressed to Blade’s temple. Drop it now. Blade froze. Lety cocked the hammer. I said drop it. The rifle clattered. Letty kicked it away.

pulled zip ties from her backpack. Of course, she carried zip ties and secured Blad’s wrists. The other two men saw this immediately dropped weapons hands raised. Sirens wailed. Tank and three reapers roared into the lot on bikes forming perimeter. Students emerged, phones filming. This would be everywhere in minutes. Lety kept her gun trained until Tank reached them.

Then she lowered it, turning to West with eyes full of fear and fury. What were you thinking standing up like that? So could you. Wes legs shook, adrenaline crashing. I was a distraction. You were almost killed. An idiot who kept you alive. Wes met her eyes. Roll reversal. Sometimes I get to be the hero. Lety stared, then grabbed his vest and kissed him.

Part relief, part fury, part love. So intense it hurt. Tank was there when they broke apart. Expression equal parts pride and exasperation. You two are going to give Havoc a heart attack. He looked at Blade, kneeling zip tied. But you did good. Both of you. Police arrived. 20 minutes of statements, questions.

But evidence was clear. Security cameras caught everything. Three armed men attacking students. Self-defense. By the time Dalton arrived, screeching into the lot, it was resolved. Dalton’s face was gray as he pulled Letty into a hug that looked like it might break her. Baby girl. When Tank called, “We’re okay, Den.” Let’s voice muffled.

We handled it. Dalton looked at West over Letty’s shoulder. You distracted him. She did the hard part, Wes said. A smile ghosted across Dalton’s face. Kid, you’re either the bravest or dumbest person I know. Can it be both Blade Sullivan and his accompllices were arrested for attempted murder assault with deadly weapons, a dozen charges.

The DA promised 20 years minimum. Knox visited the jail once just to look Blade in the eye one final time. When he came back, he looked older but lighter. He’s not my son anymore. He made his choice. We moved forward and they did. Spring turned to summer. West and Letty finished junior year with honors despite everything.

The shooting made news for a day, then faded. Life returned to normal, except normal had changed. Normal meant tank picking West up Saturdays for bike work. Normal meant Lety teaching self-defense three times weekly. Normal meant being recognized everywhere, pointed at, whispered about. Normal meant being visible.

By August day 280, senior year approaching, they’d fallen into a sustainable rhythm. They studied together, trained together, planned together. College applications loomed. West would apply to Texas A&M for engineering UT Austin as backup. Lety would apply only to UT Austin pre-law. She knew exactly what she wanted. Two hours apart, Wes said.

One afternoon, college brochures spread across his kitchen table. That’s doable. Every weekend, Letty agreed. We make it work. Four years then you prospect. Four years then I prospect. She looked up. You’re really okay with that. I’m okay with you being who you’re meant to be. Wes took her hand.

Even if it scares me, you’re not mine to cage. Letty’s eyes were bright. How did I get so lucky? You got shot at and I happened to be there. She laughed wet and happy. Best worst day of my life. College acceptance letters arrived in April of senior year day 375, almost exactly one year after Blade’s parking lot attack.

West opened his first hand shaking. Texas A&M accepted full scholarship for engineering. He called Letty immediately. I got in. Her scream nearly deafened him. I knew you would. What about you? Letter comes tomorrow. The next day, Wes skipped school and waited with Letty at her house. Dalton paced like a caged animal.

When the mail truck arrived, it all three ran outside. Lety tore open the envelope, hands shaking, read the first line, read it again, then screamed, jumped, threw herself into Dalton’s arms. I got in pre-law, partial scholarship, everything. Dalton held his daughter face buried in her hair, tears on his cheeks. I’m so proud, baby girl.

That evening, the clubhouse threw an impromptu celebration. Every brother showed up. Tank provided beer, root beer for West and Ley. Phantom made ribs. Viper actually smiled. Knox called for attention around nine. Brother’s official business. The crowd quieted, forming the familiar circle. Knox stood center with Dalton.

One year ago, Knox began. Two kids walked into our lives through violence. In the years since, they’ve become family. They’ve earned their vests, and now they’ve earned their futures. The crowd cheered. Knox held up his hand, which brings us to a decision this club made months ago. A decision that’s caused debate, but a decision we stand by.

Dalton stepped forward. Lety West, when you graduate college in four years, you’ll be 22, adults, educated, ready for adult choices. He paused. At that time, if you still want it, the offer stands. You can prospect. Let’s breath caught. It’s still real. The vote stands. Knox confirmed 18 to 14. You prospect, you earn your patch like everyone here.

He looked at West. Both of you if you want. Wes shook his head. My answer hasn’t changed. I’ll be family, not a patch member. Knox nodded unsurprised. Then let’s make this official. He pulled out leather cases, opened them, revealing challenge coins. President’s coins. Only 20 exist. You carry these.

Any reaper anywhere will help you. He handed one to Lety, one to West. On one side, the Iron Reaper logo. On the other, their names and the date of the first shooting. One year ago, Knox said, “You bled for this family. Today, we recognize you’re one of us forever.” The gathering erupted in cheers, fists pounding, tables approval, shaking the building.

Wes pocketed his coin, understanding what it meant. Letty did the same, tear streaming. Around midnight, as the party wound down, Dalton pulled them aside into his office. His face was serious. I need to say something. He looked at Letty. Baby girl, I’ve spent your life trying to protect you, but you’re choosing this anyway.

You’re choosing danger and violence in a world that will try to break you. I know, Letty said. I choose it anyway. I know that’s what terrifies me. Dalton turned to West. And you, you’re choosing to stand beside her without being part of it. that it might be harder. It’s my path. Dalton nodded. Then I’m asking one thing, one promise.

What? Don’t lose yourselves. This life consumes people. Takes your humanity piece by piece. He looked at Lety. Remember, you’re my daughter. First reaper. Second, he looked at West. Remember, you’re an engineer. First family second. We will. They said together. I mean it. Dalton’s expression was fierce.

You start losing yourself, you come to me. You need out. You tell me. No judgment, just safety. He pulled them into a hug because I’d rather lose you to normal lives than to graves. They stood bound by bullets and blood and choices made in heartbeats. Then Dalton released them, cleared his throat. Now get out of here.

Go be young while you can. West and Letty left hand in hand, walking to West Sportster in the warm May night. They didn’t speak. Everything had been said. Wes drove them to their overlook above the city, the place they’d come to dozens of times. They sat on his bike seat, the city sprawling below like stars.

“One year since Blad’s attack,” Letty said. “Almost 18 months since the first shooting. Best worst day of my life,” West echoed. She smiled. “You already use that line.” “Still true,” he took her hand. “One year ago, I was invisible. Now I’m family. Visible home. One year ago, I was trapped. Lety squeezed his hand. Now I’m free. Fighting, choosing. Think we can do it.

Four years of college, long distance, different paths. We survived bullets twice. We can survive anything. Before they left, West pulled Lety close and spoke words building for months. After college, after you earn your patch, I’m going to ask you to marry me. Lety pulled back eyes wide. You can’t tell me four years in advance. just did.

Wes grinned. Gives you time to prepare your answer. What if I say no? You won’t. Confident, she pretended to consider. What if I say yes right now? Then I’d have to wait four years to put a ring on your finger. And that seems backwards. Wes kissed her forehead. So we do it right. You earn your patch. I get my degree. We build careers.

Then we build our life. Lety was quiet. Then ask me anyway when the time comes. Even if you think you know the answer, ask me properly. I will. On one knee with a ring, the whole thing. They left the overlook as midnight approached, riding through quiet streets. Past Riverside High, where it almost ended twice, past the Iron Reaper’s compound, where they’d found family.

Past West’s apartment, where Nana Evelyn’s light still burned. Finally, they stopped at Joe’s diner. Same place where it all started. The bulletproof window gleamed. The vinyl booth with its rip waited inside. They sat in their booth one last time before everything changed. Ordered milkshakes they didn’t really want.

In four years, Letty said, “I’ll be Lety Brennan Iron Reaper, first female patch member in history.” In four years, Wes replied, “I’ll be Weston Callaway, engineer, builder of bridges and futures. Different paths, same destination.” Wes took her hand. Home, family, each other. The city sprawled beyond the windows, full of possibilities and choices and futures unwritten.

Somewhere out there, threats still existed. Challenges still waited. Life would still be dangerous and complicated. But tonight, 18 months after bullets changed everything, Weston Ley sat together and believed in the future they were building, believed in choices they’d made, believed in each other.

18 months ago, Weston Callaway had thrown himself on bullets for a girl whose name he didn’t know. Today he sat beside Letty Brennan, his girlfriend, his future, his home, and knew he’d make the same choice again tomorrow, next week, 10 years from now. Because some people are worth dying for, and some people are worth living for. Lety Brennan was both.

They rode back through the city as the clock ticked past midnight, officially 18 months and one day since everything changed. Their vests gleamed in street lights, marking them as Iron Reaper’s family. Their future stretched ahead four years of college and challenge and growth. But tonight, they were just two 17-year-olds who’d survived the unservivable, who’d found family in chaos, who’ chose invisibility over safety, who’d built something real from bullets and blood and borrowed time.

The story was far from over. Four years stretched ahead, full of challenges they couldn’t imagine. Then Lett’s prospect year. Then the fight to earn her patch. than marriage careers. Life straddling normal in the MC code. But that was tomorrow’s story. Tonight’s story ended here. Two kids on a motorcycle riding through their city, heading home to families they’d chosen and futures they’d earned.

18 months after the shooting. 18 months after everything changed. And four years until everything changed again. The road ahead was long, but they’d ride it together. Always together. That was enough. That was everything. That was home.