Chapter 7 - The Warden and the Waitress
Emily stared at the patch on her father’s jacket, her reality fracturing completely. He was one of them. The quiet diner owner, the man who made her pancakes on Sundays and helped her with algebra, was a fully patched member of the most feared motorcycle club in the country.
"Surprised, Emily?" Miller coughed, a wet, ugly sound, though his gun hand remained rock-steady on the woman and child. "Your daddy wasn't a saint. He was a criminal hiding another criminal."
"Shut your mouth, Arthur," Hawk snarled, stepping in front of Emily, shielding her with his massive frame. His eyes were locked on the scarred woman. "Sarah?"
The woman looked up, tears cutting through the grime on her face. "Hawk. It's been a long time."
"Where is Elias?" Hawk’s voice broke on the name.
Sarah pulled the young boy closer. He looked to be about ten years old, with eyes exactly like Hawk's. "He didn't make it, Jackson. The fire twelve years ago... his lungs were too damaged. Thomas got him out, brought him here, but he only lived another year. Just long enough to meet his son." She kissed the boy's dark hair. "Leo."
Hawk let out a ragged breath, the hope that had sustained him for the last hour dying in his chest, instantly replaced by a fierce, protective wrath as he looked at his nephew.
"But your father kept his promise," Sarah said, looking at Emily. "Thomas came every week. Brought food, medicine, toys for Leo. He kept us hidden. Until six months ago, when Miller's men followed him up here."
Emily stepped out from behind Hawk. "What did you do to him?" she demanded, her voice shaking with rage. "Where is my father?"
Miller grinned, blood on his teeth. "Thomas fought like a dog. Put two of my men in the hospital. But he wouldn't tell us where the boy was. He dragged us off into the ravine to lead us away from the cabin. He died in the mud, Emily. Protecting trash."
Emily felt a scream build in her throat, a wave of grief so powerful it threatened to pull her under. But she touched the pocket of her apron. She felt the heavy silver St. Christopher medal. She felt the notebook. Her father hadn't died for nothing. He had died an Angel, protecting his brother's blood.
"You killed a good man," Hawk said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm register. "And you think you're going to walk out of here?"
"I know I am," Miller said, cocking the hammer of his gun. "Because if anyone twitches, the kid dies. Now kick your weapons over."
Suddenly, a massive shadow filled the doorway behind Miller. Diesel and Prophet had slipped through the back window.
Before Miller could react, Prophet swung the heavy stock of his rifle like a baseball bat, catching Miller in the back of the knees. The police chief buckled with a scream.
As Miller fell, his finger jerked on the trigger. The gun went off with a deafening roar in the small cabin.
Emily lunged forward, not away from the bullet, but toward the boy. But she wasn't fast enough.
Hawk was. The giant man threw himself in front of Sarah and Leo. The bullet caught him high in the shoulder, spinning him around with brutal force. He crashed into the coffee table, splintering it to pieces.
"Hawk!" Emily screamed.
Diesel tackled Miller to the ground, bringing a heavy, grease-stained fist down onto the chief's face, once, twice, until the man stopped moving.
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Emily dropped to her knees beside Hawk. Blood was pouring from his leather cut. He was breathing heavily, his face pale, but his eyes were open, staring past Emily to the terrified little boy huddled in his mother's arms.
"Got him," Hawk whispered, a bloody smile spreading across his face. "Finally got to protect him."
