Chapter 10 - THE BLOOD ON THE ROAD
The final piece of the nightmare fell into place with devastating clarity.
Ray hadn't just betrayed the club thirty years ago by driving Sarah away; he had spent decades keeping them apart, feeding Sarah lies while sitting at Wade’s table every Thursday morning, drinking his coffee, riding in his formation, and calling him brother. He had ensured that Wade believed Sarah had abandoned him, while ensuring Sarah believed Wade was buried in the ground.
And when Sarah began to die of her illness two weeks ago, she had realized the truth—and sent her daughter into the heart of the tiger’s den with the only proof she had left.
Wade stood up slowly from the red vinyl booth.
He didn't look angry anymore. The wild, bloodshot fury in his eyes had been replaced by a cold, absolute resolve—the kind of quiet darkness that comes over a man who has nothing left to lose and everything to protect.
He reached down and gently lifted Emma from the booth. Her small sneakers touched the linoleum, but Wade didn't let go of her hand. He pulled her close to his side, his broad body shielding her completely.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Wade said, his gravelly voice calm and steady.
“Where are we going?” Emma asked, looking up into his worn, bearded face.
Wade reached down with his free hand and picked up the torn photograph, the cream envelope, and the tiny gray voice recorder, sliding them carefully into the internal leather pocket of his vest, right beside his heart.
He looked toward the diner’s front glass door.
Outside, down the long stretch of Route 22, the faint, distant rumble of motorcycle engines echoed off the pine trees—Mason and the pack locking down the highway bridges.
“We’re going to find Ray,” Wade said quietly, his grip on her tiny hand firm and unyielding. “And then we’re going home.”
He walked her toward the diner door.
As they stepped across the threshold into the crisp morning sunlight, the brass bell above the entrance chimed one last time, ringing out over the empty red vinyl booth, the half-filled coffee cup, and the abandoned black helmet hanging on the wall.
Outside, Wade’s massive black motorcycle sat waiting in the lot, its chrome gleaming in the pale Pennsylvania light. He lifted Emma onto the heavy leather seat in front of him, settled his massive frame behind her, and wrapped his thick, tattooed arms around her to hold the handlebars.
He kicked the heavy starter pedal.
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The V-twin engine roared to life with a thunderous, shaking pulse that rattled the diner windows one final time.
Wade pulled the clutch, clicked the heavy transmission into gear, and rolled out onto the highway, riding into the shadows of Route 22 to claim the debt thirty years in the making.
