We walked out of the courthouse together. A line of a hundred Harleys was waiting for us, the brothers revving their engines in a thunderous salute.
I picked Maya up and sat her on the tank of my newly rebuilt Electra Glide.
“Where to, Princess?” I asked.
“Home, Dad,” she said. “Let’s go home.”
I kicked the bike into gear and we rode off, the sound of the engine drowning out the past and echoing into a future where neither of us would ever be alone again.
The sun rose over the Vinton County hills not with a triumphant glow, but with a pale, sickly light that struggled to penetrate the thick blanket of cordite smoke hanging over the Iron Fortress. The “Fortress” looked more like a graveyard. The iron gates were twisted heaps of blackened metal; the stone walls were pockmarked with bullet holes, and the yard—once a pristine display of chrome and leather—was littered with the brass casings of a thousand rounds and the smoldering remains of tactical gear.
I sat on the edge of the porch, my legs dangling over the side. My leather vest was shredded, soaked in a mixture of my own blood and the freezing rain that had finally turned into a light mist. My body felt like it had been put through a rock crusher. Every breath was a sharp reminder of the cracked ribs I’d sustained when the Handler threw me against the server room wall. But as I watched the first real sunlight hit the valley, I didn’t feel pain. I felt a strange, hollowed-out peace.
Behind me, the Great Hall was a hive of controlled chaos. The FBI—the real FEDS, not the corporate mercenaries—were moving in and out, cataloging evidence and carrying out the bodies of the Unity Group “cleaners.” They didn’t bother us. They knew that without the Hells Angels, that ledger would have been buried in a shallow grave along with a little girl.
“Jax.”
I turned my head slowly. Big Mike was standing in the doorway. He looked a decade older than he had twenty-four hours ago. He was holding two tin cups of coffee that smelled more like burnt rubber than beans. He sat down next to me, his heavy frame making the wooden boards groan.
“How’s the arm?” he asked, nodding toward the messy bandage on my bicep.
“It’ll leave a scar,” I grunted, taking the cup. “Matches the others.”
We sat in silence for a while, watching a forensic team lift a tarp over the Handler’s body. Mike took a long pull of his coffee and sighed. “The Bureau says Sterling tried to flee to a non-extradition country in a private jet. They caught him on the tarmac in Teterboro. The bastard was carrying three million in cash and a forged passport.”
“And the girls?” I asked.
“The FEDS hit four other ‘facilities’ across the Midwest based on the data Dave uploaded. They’ve recovered twelve kids so far, Jax. Twelve.”
I closed my eyes for a second. Twelve lives. Twelve souls that would have been erased. I thought about the gas station. I thought about the way Maya’s fingers had felt on my sleeve—the sheer, desperate cold of a child who had run out of places to hide.
“Where is she?” I asked.
“She’s in the infirmary with Sarah,” Mike said. Sarah was the reporter, who had arrived with the first wave of federal agents. “She wouldn’t let the paramedics touch her until she saw you. But she’s exhausted, Jax. She’s sleeping.”
I stood up, my joints popping like dry wood. “I need to see her.”
“Jax, wait,” Mike said, standing up with me. He looked me square in the eye. “You know what comes next. The FEDS are grateful for the intel, but we’re still the Hells Angels. They’re going to try to take her. Protective custody, foster care, the whole bureaucratic machine. They won’t think an Enforcer with a rap sheet is ‘suitable’ for a kid who’s been through what she has.”
I felt a low, dangerous heat rise in my chest. “Let ’em try. I’ve already fought an army for her. A few guys in suits won’t stop me.”
“It’s not about fighting, Brother,” Mike said softly. “It’s about what’s best for her. Just… think about it before you go in there with your hair on fire.”
I pushed past him and walked into the hall. The infirmary was a small room off the main kitchen, usually used for patching up road rash or bar-fight wounds. Now, it was filled with the smell of antiseptic and the soft hum of a portable heater.
Maya was lying on a cot, wrapped in a thick wool blanket. She looked even smaller than she had the night before. Her face had been cleaned, but there were still faint purple bruises under her eyes. Sarah, the reporter, was sitting in a chair nearby, a laptop open on her knees. She looked up as I entered, her expression a mix of awe and concern.
“The story is everywhere, Jax,” Sarah whispered. “It’s the lead on every major network. The ‘Biker and the Princess.’ They’re calling you the outlaw hero.”
“I’m no hero,” I said, walking to the side of the cot.
I looked down at Maya. Her hand was peeking out from under the blanket, still clutching the silver winged-skull pin Big Mike had given her. Even in her sleep, she was holding on to the only family she had left.
As if she sensed my presence, her eyes fluttered open. For a split second, the terror was there—the frantic, searching look of a trapped animal. Then, she saw me. The tension left her body in a single, long exhale.
“Jax,” she breathed.
“I’m here, Maya. I’m right here.”
I sat on the edge of the cot and took her hand. It wasn’t freezing anymore. It was warm.
“Is the man in the wool coat gone?” she asked.
“He’s gone. They’re all gone. They can’t hurt you ever again.”
She sat up slowly, the blanket sliding down her shoulders. She looked around the room, then back at me. “The people outside… the ones in the blue jackets. They said they have to take me to a ‘safe house.’ They said you have to stay here.”
I felt a shadow fall across the doorway. A man in a dark suit—Agent Miller, the lead for the FBI task force—was standing there. He didn’t look like a villain, but he had the sterile, uncompromising look of a man who followed the rules.
“Mr. Teller,” Miller said, his voice even. “We need to move the girl. For her own protection and for the legal processing of her case. We have a specialized facility in Columbus.”
I didn’t stand up. I just squeezed Maya’s hand. “She stays with me.”
“You know that’s not possible,” Miller said, stepping into the room. “You have a criminal record, Mr. Teller. You are an active member of an organization that the Department of Justice classifies as a criminal enterprise. No judge in this country is going to let you walk out of here with an eight-year-old child.”
“She’s not a ‘child’ to you,” I spat. “She’s a witness. She’s a piece of evidence. You want to put her in a room with white walls and ask her questions until she breaks. I’m the only one who’s kept her alive.”
“And we appreciate that,” Miller said, though his tone didn’t change. “But the law is the law. We’ve already contacted Child Protective Services. They’re on their way.”
Maya gripped my hand so hard her fingernails dug into my palm. “No! I want to stay with Jax! He’s my dad!”
The room went silent. The word Dad hung in the air like a physical weight. I looked at Miller. He looked at Maya. He wasn’t a monster; I could see a flicker of doubt in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by the cold logic of the system.
“Maya, honey,” Sarah said, leaning forward. “Mr. Teller has to take care of some things here. The safe house is a nice place. They’ll have toys and—”
“I don’t want toys!” Maya screamed, her voice cracking. “I want Jax! Please! Don’t let them take me!”
I stood up then. I stood up to my full height, towering over Miller. I could feel the rage bubbling under the surface, the urge to just grab her and run. But I remembered what Mike said. What’s best for her.
