Chapter 4 - What the Leather Revealed
The clubhouse medical bay was a sterile, brightly lit room behind the main bar. Doc, an old combat medic patched into the Saints, worked with furious precision. Seth and Luke had already been wrapped in heated blankets, drinking warm broth in their father's embrace.
But Tyler lay on the central examination table, surrounded by three heaters, his breathing shallow and rattling.
"We need to get this shirt off him, Vance," Doc said, his face grim as he snipped away the frozen flannel with medical shears. "His core temperature is dangerously low. I need to check for deep tissue frostbite on his chest and back."
Vance stood by the table, his eyes soft with a rare, overwhelming gratitude. This unknown boy had walked through a mountain killer to save his blood. He owed this kid his life, his club, his everything.
But as the final layers of frozen fabric were peeled away from Tyler's skin, the gratitude in the room instantly turned into a suffocating, lethal silence.
Doc stopped cutting. His hands froze mid-air.
Vance leaned forward, his blue eyes widening as the breath caught in his throat. Big John, standing by the door, let out a low, animalistic growl that rattled the glass medicine bottles on the shelves.
Tyler’s body was not just damaged by the cold.
Beneath the frostbite, his torso was a canvas of horrific, brutal violence. Across his ribs were deep, yellow-and-black purple bruises in the distinct shape of a heavy boot heel. Across his back, crisscrossing over his shoulder blades, were dozens of long, raised white scars and fresh, bleeding welts left by a thick leather belt. His lower lip was split wide open, an old injury that had been poorly stitched by hand.
This boy hadn't just been running from the storm. He had been running from a monster.
"These aren't from the crash, Vance," Doc whispered, his voice trembling with a terrifying rage as he gently touched a massive welt on Tyler's shoulder. "Some of these scars are years old. Someone’s been using this boy as a punching bag. He walked nine miles through a deadly blizzard while carrying two kids... with broken ribs."
Vance reached down, his massive, tattooed hand gently hovering over Tyler’s scarred arm. The fury that filled the Biker President’s chest was hotter than any engine, darker than any midnight road.
"John," Vance said, his voice dropping into a register that made the vice president straighten up immediately. "Take the boy's backpack. Find out who he is. Find out where he came from. And find out who did this to him."
John grabbed the wet school backpack from the floor, unzipping it. Inside were three frozen granola bars, a half-empty water bottle, and a crumpled piece of paper—a runaway warning issued by the Casper Foster Care Services for a minor named Tyler Wade. The legal guardian listed at the bottom was Dale Mercer, residing on an isolated ranch off Route 14.
May you like
Vance looked at the paper, then down at Tyler’s pale, scarred face.
"Seven hundred Iron Saints are sitting in that hall," Vance whispered, his eyes flashing with a cold, executioner's light. "Tell them to start their bikes."
