Chapter 5 - The Shield of Iron
The storm had passed by midnight, leaving the small town of Greybull, Wyoming, buried under a thick, silent blanket of fresh snow.
On the edge of the creek, the lights in Dale Mercer's dilapidated trailer were still burning.
Dale sat in his vinyl recliner, a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey in his hand, the television blaring a noisy, late-night talk show. He was sixty, a large, bloated man with a dirty white t-shirt and a red, angry face.
He didn't care that Tyler had run away. In fact, he was glad. The kid was a quiet, creepy little bastard anyway, always looking at him with those stubborn, silent eyes that made Dale want to hit him.
"Good riddance," Dale muttered, taking a long swig from the bottle.
Then, a low, deep vibration shook the trailer.
At first, Dale thought it was a semi-truck passing on the nearby highway. But the vibration grew stronger, more intense, until the whiskey in his bottle began to ripple, and the glass windows of the trailer started to rattle in their frames.
It was a sound like thunder, but it didn't stop. It was a continuous, mechanical roar that sounded as though an invading army was descending on his front yard.
Dale stood up, his brow furrowing with a sudden, uneasy confusion. He walked to the front window and pulled back the thin, yellowed curtain.
His jaw dropped.
The narrow dirt road leading to his trailer was completely packed with motorcycles.
Seven hundred custom choppers, their high-beam headlights cutting through the dark night, stood idling in the snow. The men riding them were massive, wearing heavy black leather jackets with the winged-skull patch of the Iron Saints on their backs. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their faces cold and silent, their bikes forming a massive, glowing wall of steel that completely surrounded his property.
At the front of the convoy, Jaxon Reed shut off his engine.
The silence that followed was louder than the roar.
Jaxon dismounted his bike, his heavy boots crunching softly in the snow as he walked toward the trailer door. Behind him, Marcus and forty other patched members of the Wyoming chapter followed, their faces masks of pure, unadulterated vengeance.
Dale scrambled back from the window, his heart hammering against his ribs, his whiskey bottle slipping from his hand and shattering on the linoleum floor.
"Who... who the hell are you?" Dale gasped as his front door was suddenly kicked off its hinges.
The heavy wooden door flew inward, splintering against the wall as Jaxon Reed stepped into the trailer.
Jaxon had to bend his head to clear the low ceiling of the entryway. He looked at the empty whiskey bottles, the dirty clothes scattered on the floor, and then his eyes locked onto Dale Mercer.
"You're Dale Mercer," Jaxon said, his voice a low, terrifying growl.
"I... I don't know you!" Dale stammered, backing up until his spine hit the kitchen counter. "Get the hell out of my house! I have a gun! I'll call the cops!"
Jaxon took a step forward.
"You can call whoever you want, Dale," Jaxon said, his large, scarred hand reaching out and grabbing the collar of Dale’s dirty t-shirt. With a single, effortless motion, Jaxon lifted the sixty-year-old man off his feet, slamming him against the wall. "But they won't get here in time."
"What... what do you want?" Dale choked out, his face turning red as the fabric of his shirt cut into his neck.
"You had a boy here," Jaxon said, his blue eyes turning to ice. "Tyler Wade."
Dale’s eyes went wide with a sudden, sharp terror. "The kid... he ran away! I didn't do nothing to him! He’s a thief—"
Jaxon’s fist cracked against Dale’s jaw.
The sound was like a dry branch snapping. Dale’s head slammed back against the drywall, a spray of blood leaving his split mouth as he collapsed onto the floor, clutching his face and groaning in agony.
Jaxon stood over him, his chest heaving, his knuckles covered in Dale's blood.
"He carried my twin sons nine miles through a Category Four blizzard," Jaxon whispered, his voice dropping into a register that made Dale freeze. "He was freezing to death, but he didn't leave them. He saved my boys."
He reached down, grabbing Dale by his hair and pulling his face up until they were eye-to-eye.
"And when I took his shirt off," Jaxon growled, "I found his back covered in bruises. Your bruises, Dale."
"Please..." Dale sobbed, his nose bleeding freely onto his dirty t-shirt. "Please, I'm sorry... I'll never touch him again... I'll let him go..."
"You don't have a choice," Jaxon said, throwing him back onto the floor.
Marcus stepped forward, throwing a heavy leather folder onto the kitchen table. Inside were legal guardianship transfer papers, drafted by the club's high-priced attorney in Cheyenne during the two-hour ride to Greybull.
"Sign it," Jaxon ordered. "You are releasing all parental and foster rights to Tyler Wade. Effective immediately. His legal guardian is now the Iron Saints Motorcycle Club."
Dale looked at the papers, then at Jaxon, then at the forty massive bikers standing in his living room, their hands resting on their heavy leather belts.
With a shaking hand, Dale picked up a pen from the counter and scribbled his name on the line.
Jaxon snatched the paper back, checking the signature before handing it to Marcus.
"If I ever see your face in Sheridan," Jaxon told Dale, his voice flat and absolute, "if I ever hear that you've applied for another foster child... if I even hear your name mentioned in this state... I will personally come back. And I won't bring a pen next time."
He turned his back on the groaning man and walked out of the trailer, his boots crunching in the snow as the seven hundred Iron Saints started their engines, the roar of the bikes filling the night like a song of victory.
Two weeks later, the Bighorn Mountains were peaceful under a bright, winter sun.
At the Iron Saints’ clubhouse in Sheridan, the snow had been cleared from the large yard, and a massive fire was crackling in the outdoor brick pit. The smell of roasting pig and woodsmoke filled the air, and the sound of laughter and clinking beer bottles echoed off the steel walls.
Tyler sat on a wooden bench near the fire, a hot cup of cider in his hands.
His right hand was still wrapped in a clean, white bandage, and his left foot was snug inside a brand-new, high-quality leather boot Jaxon had bought him from a specialty store in Billings. His face was clear, his split lip fully healed, and for the first time in his life, his eyes were bright, the deep, defensive shadows gone from beneath them.
Seth and Luke were running around his legs, their small leather vests—identical to their father's, but with the words SAINT IN TRAINING sewn on the back—flapping as they chased each other through the snow.
"Tyler!" Seth shouted, running up and grabbing Tyler's bandaged hand gently. "Can we show you my toy motorcycle again?"
"Sure, buddy," Tyler said, a soft, genuine smile forming on his face.
Jaxon Reed walked over, a large, black leather riding jacket in his hands. He stood in front of Tyler, his massive frame blocking the wind, his sharp blue eyes filled with a quiet, paternal pride.
He handed the jacket to the boy.
Tyler looked down at it. On the back, sewn in brilliant white and silver thread, was the winged-skull patch of the Iron Saints. And above it, in clean, bold letters, was his name:
TYLER
"You're a Saint now, son," Jaxon said, his hand resting on Tyler's shoulder, his grip warm and solid. "Nobody is ever going to hurt you again. We're your family now."
May you like
Tyler looked at the jacket, then at Jaxon, then at Seth and Luke, who were watching him with wide, happy eyes.
A single tear escaped his eye, running down his cheek, but he didn't wipe it away. He pulled the heavy leather jacket over his shoulders, the thick fabric feeling like a shield of solid iron, protecting him from the cold, the dark, and any storm that would ever come.
