Chapter 3 - The Gathering of the Saints
Jaxon Reed did not care about the highway patrol.
When the two state troopers at the base of Route 14 had refused to open the steel gates, Jaxon had simply driven his massive, custom Harley-Davidson chopper straight through the wooden barrier, the splintering pine scattering into the snow behind him. Behind him, seventy-three patched members of the Iron Saints—and another six hundred brothers from the neighboring chapters in Colorado, Montana, and South Dakota—followed without hesitation.
They were a terrifying sight. A massive, black ribbon of leather, steel, and chrome, cutting through the white wilderness like a swarm of hornets. The snow clung to their heavy leather jackets, their long beards, and their chrome handlebars, but they did not slow down.
They rode with their headlights on high beam, their heavy tires fitted with studded ice chains, their engines roaring in a deafening, unified chorus that shook the snow from the branches of the pines.
Jaxon rode at the front, his face a frozen mask of determination. He knew the odds. A Category 4 blizzard on the pass meant temperatures below minus twenty. A car crash, a dead heater, two five-year-old boys in light jackets...
He squeezed the throttle, the rear tire of his bike fish-tailing slightly in the deep slush before catching grip.
Hold on, boys, Jaxon prayed, a rare, desperate plea from a man who hadn't prayed since he was a child. Just hold on.
They had been riding for forty-five minutes when Jaxon's headlights caught something in the distance.
A small, dark shape, moving slowly through the whiteout.
Jaxon slowed his bike, his boots dragging in the snow as he brought the heavy machine to a stop. Behind him, the massive convoy of seven hundred motorcycles came to a halt, the rumble of their engines dropping into a low, idling growl that sounded like a waiting army.
Jaxon squinted through the driving snow.
It was a boy.
He was wearing nothing but a thin, soaked flannel shirt, his jeans torn and covered in ice. He was dragging a heavy rubber floor mat behind him, a small child wrapped in a faded brown corduroy coat curled in the center of it. Another child was strapped securely to his back with a black seat belt.
The boy’s left boot was gone, his foot wrapped in a wet, frozen sock that was stained with blood. He was shaking so violently he could barely keep his balance, his head hanging low, his breath coming in shallow, rattling gasps.
Jaxon’s heart stopped.
"Seth!" Jaxon roared, throwing his bike down onto its side in the snow and running forward. "Luke!"
The boy with the flannel shirt stopped. He raised his head slowly, his eyes glassy and unfocused, his face a pale, frozen mask. When he saw Jaxon running toward him, his knees finally gave out.
He collapsed into the deep snow.
Jaxon caught him before he hit the ground, his massive, leather-clad arms wrapping around the boy and the child strapped to his back.
"Daddy!" Seth cried, his small arms immediately releasing Tyler’s neck and reaching for Jaxon’s beard. "Daddy, you came!"
Jaxon pulled Seth from the seat belt strap, clutching his son to his chest, his eyes burning with tears he hadn't shed in decades. He reached down with his other hand, scooping Luke off the rubber sled. Luke was shivering, his face pale, but his blue eyes were open, a small, weak smile forming on his lips.
"I've got you," Jaxon choked out, his voice cracking with emotion. "I've got you, boys. You're safe."
Marcus, the Vice President, ran up beside them, his heavy boots sinking into the drift. "My God, Jax. They're alive. They're actually alive."
"Get them to the support trucks," Jaxon ordered, his voice returning to its hard, presidential authority. "Now! Warm blankets, heaters, fluids. Get them down the mountain!"
Marcus took the boys, wrapping them in his own heavy leather jacket and running back toward the heated Ford F-350 utility trucks that were idling at the rear of the motorcycle convoy.
Jaxon turned back to the boy in the snow.
The boy was lying on his side, his body curled into a tight, defensive ball, his bare, frozen foot sticking out of his torn jeans. He was unconscious, his breathing so shallow Jaxon had to lean close to hear it.
Jaxon scooped the boy up into his arms. He was shockingly light, his ribs prominent beneath the thin flannel shirt, his skin cold as marble.
"Bring him to my truck," Jaxon shouted to his men. "He carried them. He saved my boys."
As Jaxon lifted him, the boy’s flannel shirt shifted, pulling up over his shoulder and exposing his back.
Jaxon stopped dead in his tracks.
The boy’s back was not white. It was a horrific, overlapping tapestry of deep purple, yellow, and black bruises. Some of the marks were old, fading into a dull green, but others were fresh, raised, and bleeding, the distinct shape of a heavy metal belt buckle imprinted into his frozen skin.
Jaxon’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth groaned.
He looked at the boy’s face—the split lip, the dark bruise swelling under his left eye, hidden beneath a layer of frost.
"Marcus!" Jaxon roared, his voice shaking the snow from the trees.
May you like
The Vice President stopped, turning back.
"Who did this to him?" Jaxon growled, his eyes turning into two chips of cold, lethal blue ice.
