He walked over to the bar, wiping grease from his hands with a shop towel. What's eating you, Rick? Bones asked quietly. Reaper turned to face the room. Several other key members, including the sergeant at arms, a massive bald brawler named Billy Ford, and the road captain Tommy Henderson, gathered around. I was out at Henderson's Diner an hour ago, Reaper began, his voice rough. Came outside to find a girl no older than 10 wiping down my primary with a dirty rag.
A low groan went through the room. Billy Ford crossed his thick arms. Tell me you didn't put a girl in the hospital, Rick. I didn't touch her, Reaper snapped back. She was shaking like a leaf. Starving, ribs showing through her shirt. She wasn't begging, either. She was working. She cleaned my bike because she wanted a single dollar to buy a sandwich for her and her sick mother.
Reaper reached into his vest and pulled out his money clip, tossing it onto the bar with a loud clatter. I gave her her dollar, but I looked into that girl's eyes, Bones. I looked right at her, and I saw myself 30 years ago. I saw the same dirt-poor hungry kid who had to steal bread from the corner store just to keep her little sister from crying all night. The room fell dead silent. Reaper was not a man prone to emotional speeches. He was the chapter's heavy, the enforcer, the man who handled the ugly business. To see him visibly rattled sent a shockwave through the hardened men standing around him.
So, what are you saying, Reaper? Bones asked, his eyes narrowing slightly. We're an outlaw motorcycle club, not the Salvation Army. We can't save every stray kid on the street. I know what we are. Reaper growled, stepping closer to his president. But we also protect our own town. And right now, there's a girl a mile from here living in the dirt who had more guts than half the men I fought, stepping up to a patched Angel just to earn a dollar.
The trailer park she lives in, it's overrun by those low-level street dealers who have been trying to push product on our turf. They've been terrorizing the locals. Bones leaned against the bar, processing the information. The local street gang had been a minor thorn in their side for months, pushing boundaries and harassing the poor families in the trailer parks on the outskirts of the city. If we ride in there, Reaper continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous low register, we don't just feed the girl. We make a statement. We show those street punks that the Hells Angels own this town and we decide who gets protected.
Tommy Henderson, the road captain, slowly nodded. A show of force. Overwhelming force. We hit the grocery store, load up the chase trucks and we parade right through their front door. Bones looked around the room reading the faces of his men. The strict outlaw code they lived by was brutal, but it was heavily rooted in a twisted sense of honor and loyalty. They didn't take kindly to outsiders threatening their territory and a story about a starving girl hustling for a dollar had resonated deep within the hardened hearts of men who had mostly come from broken, poverty-stricken homes themselves.
Billy. Bones finally said, breaking the heavy silence. Call the neighboring chapters. Get the Nomads on the line. Call the Fresno chapter. Call Bakersfield. Billy Ford grinned a menacing gold-toothed smile. How many brothers you want, boss? All of them. Bones replied, his voice cold as ice. I want every patched member within a hundred miles here by dawn tomorrow. Tell them to bring their cuts, bring their bikes and bring their wallets. We're going grocery shopping.