One of the arriving riders met them there.
Older mechanic.
Silver ponytail.
The moment he saw the girl, his expression changed.
He looked at the biker.
Then at her.
“No.”
The biker said quietly, “Not now.”
The mechanic understood.
He opened the garage.
Inside stood motorcycles covered by canvas, tool cabinets, two old trucks, and one battered refrigerator full of bottled water.
The girl sat on a wooden workbench.
The marshal checked her for injuries.
None.
The biker’s forearm was bleeding from broken glass.
The girl noticed.
“You're hurt.”
“Scratch.”
“You said tattoos hurt only a little.”
He smiled.
“This hurts less.”
The older mechanic bandaged him.
Then stared at the girl again.
She noticed.
“Why does everyone look at me weird?”
The biker and marshal exchanged a glance.
The biker answered first.
“Because tonight is weird.”
“That’s not why.”
Sharp.
Just like her mother, perhaps.
The marshal’s phone finally regained service.
Messages flooded.
He moved away and made calls.
The biker sat beside the girl.
She looked at his wolf tattoo.
“My mom said wolves don't leave injured ones behind.”
He swallowed.
“Did she?”
“Yes.”
“She said people think wolves are scary because they hunt.”
“But they’re mostly scary because they stay together.”
The biker looked down.
The young woman he never knew had somehow inherited a philosophy from a family she had never met.
“Your mother sounds smart.”
“She lies.”
The biker frowned.
“All moms lie sometimes.”
“She said we were going on vacation.”
He understood.
“She was protecting you.”
“I know.”
The girl’s eyes filled.
“I still hate it.”
“That's allowed.”
She looked at him.
“You keep saying things my mom says.”
He smiled faintly.
“Maybe we're both annoying.”
“She is.”
For several minutes, they sat without talking.
Then the marshal returned.
His face was grim.
“The supervisor is gone.”
The biker stood.
“Gone how?”
“Left before local deputies arrived.”
“He has federal credentials and access to secured networks.”
The biker asked, “Can you revoke them?”
“Already happening.”
“What about the mother?”
The marshal hesitated.
The girl saw.
“Tell me.”
He crouched.
“We found her car.”
“Where?”
“Industrial district.”
“Was she there?”
“No.”
The girl’s breathing changed.
The biker moved closer.
The marshal continued carefully.
“There was blood.”
The girl closed her eyes.
The biker’s heart sank.
“Whose?”
“We don't know yet.”
The girl whispered:
“She’s alive.”
Neither man responded.