Chapter 4 - The Court of the Saints
The Iron Saints’ clubhouse in Sheridan was no longer quiet. It was a fortress of heat, anger, and absolute loyalty.
Two hours after the rescue on the pass, the main hall of the building was packed with over seven hundred bikers. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their heavy leather vests bearing the patches of different chapters from across the country, their faces grim and silent as they waited for news.
In the private back room, Tyler lay in a large, leather recliner, wrapped in three heavy wool blankets. A massive, commercial space heater blew hot air directly onto his feet, which were covered in thick, dry socks and a soothing blue ointment.
An IV line was taped to his left arm, running to a bag of warm saline suspended from a coat rack. Dr. Sarah Vance, a local physician who had been the club’s trusted doctor for years, stood over him, checking his pulse.
"He's stable," Sarah said, turning to Jaxon, who was standing by the door with his arms crossed over his chest. "His body temperature is back up to ninety-eight. He’s got some moderate frostbite on his right hand and his left foot, but we caught it in time. He won't lose any fingers or toes."
Jaxon let out a long, slow breath, his chest collapsing with relief. "And the marks on his back?"
Sarah’s face turned hard and professional. She pulled her tablet from her bag, showing Jaxon a series of high-resolution photographs she had taken of Tyler’s body before wrapping him in blankets.
"He’s been systematically abused for years, Jax," Sarah said, her voice tight with anger. "The bruises on his back are from a heavy leather belt. The fractures in his ribs are old, partially healed without medical attention. He’s severely malnourished—he’s fifteen, but he has the bone density of a twelve-year-old."
Jaxon looked at the photos, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his own leather vest.
"He ran away," Jaxon said.
"He had to," Sarah replied. "If he had stayed in that house, whoever was doing this to him would have killed him eventually."
The door to the back room opened, and Marcus stepped inside, his face grim. "Jax. The sheriff's department just called back. They found out who the kid is. His name is Tyler Wade. He’s a foster kid. Assigned to a guy named Dale Mercer over in Greybull."
"Dale Mercer," Jaxon repeated, the name tasting like poison in his mouth.
"He's got a record, Jax," Marcus said, pulling a sheet of paper from his pocket. "Two arrests for domestic assault, both dismissed because the witnesses didn't show up. He's a heavy drinker, works at the local quarry. The neighbors say they've heard screaming from the trailer for months, but nobody called it in."
Jaxon turned to look at Tyler. The boy was still asleep, his face looking small and pale against the dark leather of the recliner. His right hand, wrapped in thick white gauze, rested on his chest, rising and falling with his steady breathing.
He carried my sons nine miles through a Category Four blizzard, Jaxon thought. He was freezing to death, but he didn't leave them.
Jaxon turned back to Marcus.
"Where is Mercer now?"
"The sheriff said they sent a deputy to his trailer to notify him about the runaway," Marcus said, a dark, knowing smile forming on his gray beard. "But Mercer told the deputy he didn't care. Said the kid was a thief and he didn't want him back."
Jaxon stepped out of the back room and entered the main hall of the clubhouse.
The moment his boots hit the concrete floor, the low murmur of seven hundred voices died instantly. Every eye in the room turned to the President of the Iron Saints.
Jaxon walked to the center of the room, standing behind the carved pine table.
"Listen up," Jaxon’s voice boomed through the steel-walled room. "The boy who saved my sons... his name is Tyler Wade. He's fifteen years old. He carried Seth and Luke nine miles through a whiteout that would have killed any one of us if we were on foot."
A low rumble of respect rolled through the crowd, men nodding their heads, their heavy fists slamming against the tables.
"But when we brought him in," Jaxon continued, his voice dropping into a dark, vibrating register that made the room go cold. "We found his back covered in bruises. He’s been beaten, starved, and broken by a man named Dale Mercer over in Greybull. A man who was supposed to protect him."
The room went dead silent. The anger was a physical presence in the air, thick and heavy.
"The law won't touch him," Jaxon said, his blue eyes flashing with a lethal, righteous fury. "The sheriff said the kid is just a runaway. They don't care."
He leaned over the table, his hands gripping the wood.
"But the Iron Saints care."
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Seven hundred men stood up, their heavy boots shaking the concrete floor of the clubhouse.
"We ride to Greybull," Jaxon roared. "And we show Dale Mercer what happens when you touch a son of the Saints."
