Chapter 6 - The Letter for Tate Brennan
The sun seemed to burn even hotter overhead, casting harsh, stark shadows across the dusty highway shoulder. The eight hardened bikers stood in complete, stunned silence around the small boy, the news of their lost brother’s sudden disappearance settling over them like a dark, heavy blanket.
Tate’s mind was racing, a thousand memories of Ghost crashing against the terrifying reality of a seven-year-old boy stranded alone on a desert highway searching for help.
"Three weeks?" Tate asked, his voice tight with suppressed anger and concern. "Eli, who's been looking after you? Where have you been staying?"
"At my aunt's house in town," Eli sobbed out, wiping his face with his dirty sleeve again. "She told me dad was gone and wasn't coming back. She told me to forget about him. But... but dad left something for me in his workbench drawer before he went missing. He told me if he ever didn't come home for more than three days... I had to find a man named Tate Brennan."
Eli reached back into the main compartment of his heavy blue backpack once more.
He pulled out a thick, legal-sized white paper envelope. The paper was slightly crumpled at the edges, worn from being carried around in a child's bag, but it was pristine clean compared to the dust of the road.
On the front of the envelope, written in sharp, dark blue ballpoint pen ink—in the distinct, blocky, mechanical handwriting that Tate would recognize anywhere—was a single line:
Tate Brennan
Tate stared at his own real name written on the white paper.
In the biker world, full legal names were rarely used, almost sacredly guarded from outsiders. Only three people in his entire life had ever called him "Tate Brennan" with that specific, sharp precision. One of them was Daniel Cole.
Tate reached out his hand, his fingers slightly unsteady, and took the envelope from the boy.
"He said... he said only give this to you," Eli whispered, watching Tate's face intently. "He said you were the only one who could help us."
Tate didn't say a word. He slid his thumb under the sealed back flap of the envelope, tearing the heavy paper open with a sharp, crisp rip. Inside was a single folded sheet of heavy yellow legal pad paper, covered in Ghost’s tight, hasty handwriting.
Tate unfolded the paper. Big Mac leaned in beside him, his breath catching as his eyes scanned the handwritten lines alongside Tate’s.
The camera perspective moved just close enough to capture key lines of the text without revealing every private detail of the message:
May you like
...if you're reading this, Hawk, it means they finally caught up to my line... ...I tried to keep Eli out of the shadow, but the old debt never died... ...you have to protect my boy, Hawk. Don't let them take him... ...TRUST NOBODY WEARING THE RAVEN...
Tate’s face instantly darkened, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles along his cheeks turned into solid knots. His eyes burned into the last line written on the page: TRUST NOBODY WEARING THE RAVEN.
