Heard a lot about you. You’ve raised a good employee here. Cole tried to answer. Nothing came out.
Hank turned back to Brandon. You feeling all right today, son? Yes, sir. Arm? Healing.
Hank nodded once. Then he raised his voice, not loud, but enough so the whole street could hear him. Enough so Linda Brennan’s microphone could catch every word.
I owe this young man an introduction. My name is Henry Callaway. Most people call me Hank. Some people call me Iron Hank.
I founded Callaway Custom Cycles in 1995. We have shops in five states. I’ve also served as president of this chapter of the Hells Angels for 25 years.
That’s the reason the gas station clerk on 5th Street locked the door instead of calling the police 3 days ago. He didn’t need the police. He knew who to call.
A murmur went through the crowd on the sidewalks. Hank wasn’t finished. In this chapter, we have one rule above all the others.
We don’t forget. We don’t forget who stood up. We don’t forget who stayed quiet. We don’t forget who turned the other way, and we do not forget who ran in.
He turned to face Brandon directly. Three days ago, a kid with a bruised arm and a wrench in his back pocket ran in.
He didn’t ask who I was. He didn’t ask what was in it for him. He didn’t even ask my name until after.
He looked back at the camera. That’s the kind of person I have spent my entire life looking for and almost never found.
Then he stopped talking. The silence stretched. A small Toyota Corolla pulled up at the corner.
The door opened. Maylene Sullivan stepped out, leaning on the car for balance. Mrs. Davies had been the one to call her.
Maylene didn’t know any of these men. She didn’t know what was happening. She only knew her grandson was standing in the middle of it.
She walked through the parted crowd slowly, with her chin up. She stopped beside Brandon, took his hand, squeezed it once.
