Chapter 5 - The Missing Rider
Tate looked down at the creased, faded photograph resting in his palm.
It was a gloss-print photo from roughly twelve years ago, taken in the bright, unfiltered sunlight outside an old, corrugated metal repair shop that the club used to own in outskirts of Flagstaff.
In the picture stood four men standing shoulder-to-shoulder, young, smiling, covered in grease, holding wrenches and ice-cold beers.
On the far right of the photo was Tate himself—twelve years younger, fewer gray hairs in his stubble, wearing the same leather vest. On the far left was Big Mac.
And standing right in the center of the photo, with his arm wrapped around a younger Tate's shoulders, was a tall, lean man with dark, messy hair, a mischievous grin, and an unmistakable scar cutting through his left eyebrow.
Tate froze. The ambient noise of the wind, the heat, the distant hum of nature vanished instantly from his consciousness. His eyes locked onto the face of the man in the center of the photo.
Daniel Cole.
Nobody in the club called him Daniel Cole. Not for fifteen years.
To every man who had ever ridden a mile through the Arizona desert, to every officer in the county, to every brother who had ever bled on the asphalt beside him, that man was known by one name only.
Ghost.
Big Mac stepped up beside Tate, leaning his huge frame over Tate's shoulder to look at the photo. The second Mac's eyes hit the image, he let out a low, involuntary gasp.
"Mother of God..." Mac breathed out, his voice turning dead serious. "That's Ghost."
The six other bikers behind them immediately crowded closer, their casual posture vanishing in a second, replaced by an intense, electric shock that rippled through the entire group.
Ghost had been one of the founding members of their inner circle—a brilliant mechanic, a fiercely loyal brother, and a man who had suddenly, inexplicably vanished from the territory four years ago without leaving a trail, a warning, or a goodbye. The club had searched for him for months before the trail went completely cold, leaving behind a lingering, painful mystery that had haunted Tate ever since.
Eli raised a small, trembling finger and pointed directly at the smiling man with the scarred eyebrow in the center of the old picture.
"That's my dad," Eli said, his voice breaking into a quiet sob. "That's Daniel Cole. That's my dad."
Tate raised his eyes from the photograph, looking at the small, exhausted boy sitting on the bicycle in front of him. He looked closer now—seeing the exact same dark, intense eyes, the same jawline, the same stubborn, unyielding grit that Ghost had carried every day of his life.
Tate's voice turned thick, lacing with a sudden, deep-seated emotional weight.
"Where is he, Eli?" Tate asked, his hands gently gripping the boy's arms again. "Where is Ghost?"
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Eli swallowed hard, his chest heaving as he looked up at the circle of imposing men surrounding him.
"He... he disappeared," Eli whispered, fresh tears falling down his dust-stained face. "Three weeks ago. He went out to fix a truck... and he never came back to our house."
