Drivers behind me started honking their horns and chanting curses, but this child, who was maybe fifteen and still wearing his school backpack, just sat there on the hot tarmac, looking up at me with eyes full of need.
I had seen a lot in the sixty-three years I had been riding. But no one had ever jumped in front of my bike to stop me from going.
His lip was split, one eye was swollen shut, and his hands were shaking so terribly that he could hardly grasp the crumpled paper he was trying to show me.
“Please,”
he said with a gulp. “You’re really a biker, right? I can see patches. Please help me. They’re going to kill him.
The light changed to green. There were more horns. Someone yelled at me to “move your damn bike,” but I couldn’t stop looking at the boy’s face.
“Who do you want to kill?” I asked, turning off the engine.
He held the paper up with a shaky hand. It was a picture taken with a phone of another boy, younger, maybe thirteen, who was tied up in what appeared to be a cellar. The same school uniform as the youngster in front of me.
“My
brother. They took my brother because I wouldn’t join their group. He said, “If I don’t bring them $10,000 by tonight, they’ll…” but he couldn’t finish.
“I saw your vest.” Once, my dad informed me that bikers aid youngsters. He asked me to find the bikers if I ever needed help and couldn’t go to the police.
I pulled him up and pushed my bike to the sidewalk, even though angry automobiles were racing by. The beating seemed considerably more horrific up close.
Older
bruises, too, with yellow edges. He had done this before.
“What’s your name?” “Why?” I asked.
“Marcus. Marcus Chen.”
My stomach dropped. Every biker in the city knew that name.
David Chen used to be a cop, one of the decent ones who sought to make neighborhoods safer instead of just collecting a paycheck. They labeled it a “random shooting,” but we knew better. It happened two years ago. He had gotten too close to exposing a narcotics operation that had powerful people behind it, some of whom were cops.
“David Chen was your dad?”
Marcus nodded, and new tears fell. “You knew him?”
“He helped my grandson once.” I got him out of trouble without arresting him, gave him a second chance.” I took out my phone. “How long ago did they take your brother?”
“This morning. From school.” I grabbed him at lunchtime. “His voice broke. “It’s my fault.” For months, they’ve been pushing me to join and run for them. They said I owed them since my dad cost them money when he was alive.
I was already texting the other Iron Wolves. Answers arrived right away.
“Where?”
“How many?”
“On my way.”
“Marcus, who does your brother have?”
“The Serpents of the Eastside.” Venom is their leader. Tyler Morrison is their real name.
I was friends with Morrison. Twenty-five believed he was tough because he was in charge of a few blocks and several teens. Last year, they tried to recruit one of our member’s grandsons. We had a “talk,” but he didn’t seem to get it.
“Do they run out of the old warehouse on Pier 47?”
Marcus’s eyes got bigger. “How did you know?”
“Son, the Iron Wolves know about almost everything that happens in this city.” I looked at the picture again. “Did you take this today?”
“It was taken an hour ago.” They sent it to show they have him.
My phone vibrated. Rex: “Eight brothers on their way.” Ten minutes.
Snake: “I’m bringing tools.”
In our reality, tools were more than just wrenches.
“Marcus, pay close attention. You’re getting on the back of my bike. I’ll take you to a safe place. My brothers and I will then take your younger brother home.
“I want to come—”
“No,” I said, cutting him off. “Your brother needs you to be alive. Your dad died to keep this city safe. Don’t let his death be for nothing by getting yourself killed.
After twenty minutes, we arrived at our clubhouse, which used to be an old pub that we turned into a clubhouse.
Seventeen Iron Wolves gathered around Marcus, who was sitting at a table with a cup of coffee he didn’t drink.
Most of us were in our sixties or seventies, but every man there had fought in Vietnam, Desert Storm, or Afghanistan. Sure, gray beards and weak knees. But we knew what to do in instances like this.
Rex, our president, looked at the picture. “Basement windows are visible.” No doubt that’s Pier 47. “Likely holding him below.”
“How many snakes?” Tank, our sergeant-at-arms, inquired.
I said, “Eight to ten during the day.” “More at night.”
“And they want Marcus to come alone with money,” Snake said. “That means they won’t be looking for us.”
Rex looked at Marcus. “Did they say when?”
“Eight PM.” Back door.
Rex looked at the time. 3:00 PM. “We’re not going to wait. He looked about. “The longer he’s there, the worse it gets.” “This is not an order. Things may get worse.
Everyone stood.
“For David Chen’s son? Of course.
“That police officer saved my nephew.”
“These jerks need to learn.”
Rex nodded. “Quick and smart. No violence that isn’t needed. We get the kid and leave.
But I could see it in their eyes. If they hurt that 13-year-old, all bets were off.
We left at 4 PM, with eighteen motorcycles in a line. The noise shook the streets. People stopped, gazed, and took pictures. We weren’t being sneaky. Occasionally the best thing to do is let the adversary know you’re coming.
The warehouse was precisely as I thought it would be: old with boarded-up windows. The Serpents had become careless. There were just two lookouts, and they were both on their phones.
We divided into three groups. Rex took five people to the front. Tank went back five times. Snake and I, along with four other people, went to the basement.
The lookout on the side was at most nineteen years old, wearing bright colors, and acting tough. Snake grabbed his wrist when he reached for his phone.
“One chance,” Snake stated in a low voice. “Where’s the Chen kid?”
The boy laughed at him. “I don’t know what—”
The snake squeezed. He yelled.
“Basement.” There is room at the end. “Venom’s there.”
“How many inside?”
“Six, maybe seven.”
Snake tied him up, gagged him, and left him beside a dumpster. “Have a good night.”
Hammer had the door open in fifteen seconds. We silently strolled along a dimly lit hallway at the end. Voices were heard.
An adult said, “Your brother is a coward.” “He wouldn’t even save his own family.”
The younger voice said, “He’ll come,” sounding brave but unsteady. “He always looks out for me.”
“Yeah? Like how your dad kept you safe?” See how that turned out?”
I could see him through the breach. Jeremy, who was thirteen, was tied to a chair and had bruises but was still alive. Venom was all around him, and tattoos were crawling up his neck. Three more went around.
I could hear Rex’s voice crackling in my ear. “Front safe. Two down.”
Tank: “Back secure.” “Two down.”
That left four.
Snake counted down. He counted down from three to one.
We broke in. We didn’t need guns. We relied solely on our ancient fists, fueled by rage.
Venom took out a knife. I grabbed his wrist, twisted it, and broke it. He yelled and let it go.
They were all on the ground thirty seconds later.
Jeremy’s eyes were big. “Who… who are you?”
I said, “Friends of your father,” and cut his ties. “Your brother is waiting.”
The youngster fell apart and cried. “I thought no one was coming.”
“Iron Wolves always come,” Snake muttered as he lifted him up. “Are you able to walk?”
Jeremy nodded and then looked at Venom, who was groaning on the floor. “He said he would kill me.” He said that no one cared about the two orphans.
I squatted down so Venom could see my face.
“These kids are now part of Iron Wolves’ family. If you touch them again, what happened today will seem like a massage compared to what’s coming next. Get it? “
He nodded quickly.
Rex got involved. “We have pictures of everything here, including narcotics, guns, and files. One phone call and the government owns you. The Chen guys are your safety net. We don’t say anything, and they keep safe. “They get hurt…” He shrugged. “Federal prison isn’t nice to gang leaders.”
We left them in pieces. Jeremy rode with me, arms wrapped around me, without saying anything, just holding on.
The brothers’ reunion at the clubhouse broke everyone’s heart. Marcus cried and said he was sorry as he checked on Jeremy. Jeremy muttered that he was fine and that he knew Marcus would save him.
“How?” Marcus inquired. “They had guns—”
Rex said, “They were scared.” “We had a reason. A big change.
We kept them with us until we knew what to do next. No parents, just an old aunt who couldn’t keep kids safe.
Linda, our bartender, then offered, “They can stay with me and Tom.” Her husband, who was one of us, approved. “We have room. They need a place to live.
Marcus blinked. “Would you do that? You don’t even know us.
Tom said, “We knew your dad.” “He was a good person. His boys should get the same.
Marcus and Jeremy now reside with Tom and Linda, who are their foster parents, six months later. Marcus is almost done with high school and wants to be a police officer. Jeremy plays basketball and grins more.
A week later, the Serpents quietly disappeared. Venom was gone. Maybe they thought incarceration was safer than waiting for us.
The boys come over for dinner every Sunday. Jeremy works on bikes and learns from men who are old enough to be his grandfathers. Marcus studies at the pub, where veterans in leather jackets ask him questions about his schoolwork.
We gave Marcus his father’s badge, framed in a shadow box, on his 18th birthday. It said, “Officer David Chen—A Hero’s Legacy Lives On.”
Marcus was crying. All of us did.
I said, “Your dad would be proud.” “You kept your brother safe, just like he kept this city safe.”
Marcus said, “I couldn’t have done it without you.” “Without the Iron Wolves.”
Rex said, “That’s why we’re here.” “To stand for those who can’t stand alone.”
Jeremy, who was wearing an Iron Wolves tee, murmured, “Dad said that being strong isn’t about being tough.” It’s about keeping individuals safe who need it.
He was correct. That’s why seventeen veteran motorcyclists stood up to a gang for two boys who were orphans.
It’s not a matter of our strength. But they needed someone when the world turned its back on them.
That teen who sat in front of my Harley that day reminded us of why we still ride.
The Chen boys are now Iron Wolves. Not members. Family. Safe. Loved.
And I think David Chen is watching from someplace, knowing that men would ride through hell to keep his boys safe.
That’s what it means to be a brother. That’s respect.
And that’s why a desperate youngster sitting in front of my bike was the finest thing that could have happened to him, his brother, and us elderly riders, who remembered we still had fights left for the battles that really mattered.