The police scanner crackled to life again, and this time the transmission made both men freeze. “Unit 47, we have reports of loud noises at 1247 Delancey Street, possible incident. Respond code 2.”
Hammer and Ghost exchanged glances. Code 2 meant no urgency, no sirens. In this neighborhood, that usually meant the cops already knew what they’d find, and weren’t particularly motivated to investigate thoroughly. They rode toward Delancey Street, following the police cruiser at a discreet distance.
The house at 1247 was a typical neighborhood blight, windows covered with plywood, front yard littered with debris. The kind of place where screams wouldn’t draw attention from neighbors who’d learned to mind their own business. Two patrol officers emerged from the house shaking their heads.
Ghost strained to hear their conversation as they returned to their cruiser. “Nothing we can do if nobody wants to press charges. Probably just dealers settling scores. Waste of taxpayer money coming out here.”
The cruiser pulled away, leaving the scene unprotected. Hammer and Ghost waited ten minutes before approaching the house. The front door hung open, revealing an interior that reeked of desperation and trouble.
Inside, they found signs of a struggle: overturned furniture, stains on the wall, and most telling of all, a woman’s purse dumped on the floor. Hammer rifled through it carefully, finding a driver’s license that made his blood run cold. Maria Elena Martinez, age 29. The photo showed a young woman with kind eyes and a gentle smile, the same delicate features they’d seen in Emma’s face.
“Ghost,” Hammer called, his voice tight with controlled anger. “Look at this.”
Scattered near the purse were several photographs, the kind that street-level operators kept as insurance against their suppliers. But these weren’t typical. These showed what appeared to be a terrible crime in progress, three men in expensive suits forcing someone to kneel beside a car trunk, while a fourth man in cartel colors prepared to act. One of the men in suits wore an official badge.
“Good grief,” Ghost whispered. “She witnessed them silencing a cop.”
Hammer studied the photos more carefully. The man with the weapon had distinctive gold teeth that caught the camera flash, and his arms were covered in tattoos that looked like serpent designs. Emma’s description had been remarkably accurate for someone so young and terrified.
“Serpiente Cartel,” Ghost identified, recognizing the snake tattoos. “They’d been moving into this territory for months, pushing out the local players and handling anyone who won’t play ball.”
They gathered the evidence carefully, knowing that bringing it to the police would be useless if corruption ran as deep as these photos suggested. The scanner on Hammer’s bike crackled again, but this time the transmission was in Spanish. Too fast and garbled for either man to follow completely, but they caught enough words to understand the urgency. “Martinez,” “Niña,” and “Eliminar.” Find the woman. Find the child. Remove both.
“We need to get back,” Ghost said, already heading for his bike. “They’re not just looking for the mother anymore. They know about Emma.”
Emma woke up on the clubhouse couch to the sound of unfamiliar voices and the smell of bacon frying. For a moment, panic seized her as she struggled to remember where she was. Then she saw Jake sitting at a nearby table, and the events of the previous night came flooding back.
“Morning, sweetheart,” Jake said gently. “You hungry?”
Before Emma could answer, the clubhouse door opened and a woman walked in carrying shopping bags from Target. She was maybe thirty-five, with long blonde hair and the kind of easy confidence that came from years of navigating dangerous men and dangerous places.
“Angel,” Jake called out, relief evident in his voice. “Thanks for coming.”
Angel Rodriguez, no relation to Hammer despite the shared last name, had been Jake’s on-and-off girlfriend for three years. She worked as a bartender at a biker-friendly establishment across town, and had seen enough of club life to understand its rhythms and rules. But she’d never seen Jake with a child before, and the sight of him speaking softly to the little girl was something entirely new.
“So this is Emma,” Angel said, setting down her bags and approaching slowly. “Jake told me you’ve had a rough night, baby girl.”
Emma clutched her torn pink blanket closer and studied Angel with the careful attention children reserve for adults who might represent either safety or threat. Angel passed whatever test Emma was administering, because after a moment the little girl nodded.
“I brought you some things,” Angel continued, opening one of the shopping bags. “Clean clothes, some toys, and…” she pulled out a picture book with a colorful cover. “A story about a brave little knight who protected people who couldn’t protect themselves.”
Emma’s eyes widened as she examined the book. The knight on the cover wore shining armor and carried a sword, but his face was kind rather than fierce. “Will you read it to me?”
“Of course, honey.”
As Angel and Emma settled on the couch with the book, other club members began arriving for the day. They stopped short when they saw the domestic scene playing out in their sanctuary of leather and steel.
Snake Williams walked in carrying a bag that clinked with the sound of glass bottles. “Brought some juice for the kid,” he announced gruffly, as if explaining why he’d suddenly developed a soft spot for children. “Grape juice. Kids like grape juice, right?”
“Thanks, Snake,” Jake said, hiding a smile.
Bulldog Mackenzie appeared next, carrying what appeared to be a large hunting knife in an elaborate leather sheath. “Figured she might need protection,” he explained, then caught Angel’s horrified look. “I mean, for when she’s older. Teenager stuff.”
Angel intercepted the weapon smoothly. “Maybe we’ll save that for her sixteenth birthday.”
The parade of inappropriate gifts continued as more club members arrived. Jimmy “Wrench” Patterson brought a motorcycle chain that he’d somehow convinced himself could be used as a jump rope. “Roadkill” Roberts contributed a leather jacket in child size, complete with patches and studs that would have made Emma look like a miniature biker.
Through it all, Emma watched the proceedings with growing fascination rather than fear. These rough men with their tattoos and scars were trying to take care of her in the only way they knew how. Their gifts might be unsuitable, but their intentions were genuine.
“The knight lived in a castle,” Angel read from the picture book. “But he spent most of his time traveling the kingdom, helping people who were in trouble.”
“Like Jake?” Emma asked, looking over at the club president who was trying to figure out what to do with a motorcycle chain jump rope.
“Yeah, baby,” Angel said softly. “Like Jake.”…
