I pulled out my phone and called a man named Bear.
Bear’s the president of my chapter. Six foot five, hands like catcher’s mitts, a beard you could lose a wrench in. Scary as a coming storm to anybody who doesn’t know him. Soft as warm bread to anybody who does. He fosters rescue dogs nobody else will take. He runs a boxing gym for neighborhood kids and never charges a dime. He is, flat out, the best man I have ever known.
He answered on the third ring, voice thick with sleep.
“Bear,” I said. “Wake up. I need you.”
A NOTE FROM BIKERS BYTE
Still fighting through ads?
Switch to a calmer, completely ad-free Bikers Byte experience.
REMOVE ADS
→
I told him the whole thing in about twenty words. A girl, a baby, a trunk, a man chasing them. Bear didn’t ask me a single thing twice.
“Bring ’em to the clubhouse,” he said, and I could already hear him pulling his boots on. “I’m calling Maria right now.”
Maria’s his wife. Twenty-two years a social worker, most of them in child protective services. If there was one human being on the planet who’d know exactly how to handle two kids running from a man like Rourke, who’d know how to do it so the system protected them instead of chewing them up, it was Maria.
