Chapter 3 - The Threshold of the Saints
Inside the Saints' Rest, the atmosphere was thick with tension, the scent of motor oil, leather, and stale beer. Seven hundred patched members of the Iron Saints Motorcycle Club filled the massive, reinforced hall. Every single one of them was silent.
At the center of the room stood Vance "The President" Creed. He was a mountain of a man, his leather vest adorned with silver skulls and the heavy gold "PRESIDENT" rocker across his chest. His graying beard fell over a collarbone scarred by old wars, but right now, his face was completely pale.
"We lost the signal on Rick's SUV an hour ago," Big John, the club's vice president, said, slamming his fist against the pool table. "The state troopers pulled their plows off the pass. They say it’s a total whiteout. If the twins are out there..."
Vance didn't answer. He gripped the edge of the bar so hard the wood groaned. His twin sons, Seth and Luke, were his entire life. After his wife passed away, those boys became the soul of the club.
Suddenly, the heavy steel reinforced doors of the clubhouse rattled.
It wasn't a knock. It was a dull, heavy thud, like something heavy collapsing against the metal.
The guards near the door immediately drew their firearms, their eyes narrowing. "Vance, we got something outside," one shouted over the roar of the storm bleeding through the cracks.
"Open it," Vance commanded, his voice a low rumble.
The heavy bolts slid back, and the storm slammed the doors wide open, throwing a massive wave of white snow into the warm bar.
And there, collapsed across the threshold, was Tyler.
He was on his stomach, his hands frozen into claws, his face gray and bloodied where the safety glass had cut him. Tied to his back with a blood-stained seatbelt was Seth. And dragged tight against his raw, skinless wrist was the rubber mat carrying Luke.
"Seth! Luke!" Vance roared, dropping his weapon, rushing across the room faster than a man his size should have been capable of.
The seven hundred bikers in the room stood up all at once, a massive wave of leather and denim moving toward the door.
Vance dropped to his knees, his massive hands trembling as he cut the seatbelt from Tyler's chest, pulling Seth into his arms. Big John scooped up Luke from the rubber mat. Both boys were shivering violently, their skin white, but they were breathing. They were alive.
"Daddy..." Luke whimpered, opening his blue eyes. "Tyler... Tyler carried us. He didn't let us sleep."
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Vance looked down at the unconscious teenager lying at his feet. Tyler was in a torn shirt, his feet bleeding, his body frozen near the point of death.
"Get the medic! Now!" Vance bellowed, lifting Tyler's fragile, light body into his arms as if the boy weighed nothing at all. "Bring blankets, hot water, adrenaline! Move, you bastards!"
