The Iron Covenant Riders don’t flinch for anyone, but when a terminal child offered us his life savings to act as his bodyguards at a funeral that hadn’t happened yet, we realized there was a darkness in our town much worse than any gang we’d ever faced.

Corliss swallowed hard, turned on his heel, and walked back to his truck. They peeled out of the cemetery, and we never saw him in our county again.
When the service ended, Evan’s mother handed me Ranger’s leash. “Evan wanted you to have him, Hawk,” she whispered. “He said you were his pack now.”
It’s been five years since that rainy afternoon. Ranger is graying around the muzzle, and I’m a little slower getting off the bike, but he rides in a custom sidecar right next to me on every run. We visit Evan’s grave every Sunday.
People still look at us funny when we roll through town—a grizzled biker and a scarred pitbull. They see the leather, the tattoos, and the rough edges. They don’t know that we work for a ten-year-old boy, and we intend to honor the contract until the very end.
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