"I'm the owner of this house," Carl fired back, lifting his chin. "And that girl is my legal ward. I'm her stepfather. Now hand her over before I press kidnapping charges."
Bear didn't blink. "You’re throwing away a lot of history today, Carl. Jax Miller’s history."
Carl scoffed, crossing his arms in a desperate attempt to look authoritative. "Oh, so that’s what this is. You're some of her deadbeat dad's old gang buddies. Listen to me very closely, grandpa. The mother is dead. She left everything to me in her will. The house, the cars, the bank accounts. It’s all mine. The kid goes to the state tomorrow, and this house goes on the market by noon. Everything on this lawn is garbage. Now leave."
Bear’s eyes shifted to the dumpster in the driveway. At the top of the pile, half-buried under torn garbage bags, was a familiar sight: a custom-painted matte black motorcycle helmet with the Iron Hounds insignia etched into the side. Jax’s helmet.
Bear felt a muscle twitch in his jaw.
"Prophet," Bear said calmly. "Go retrieve our brother's property."
Prophet didn't hesitate. He stepped past Carl, completely ignoring the man's sputtering protests, and began digging through the dumpster. Dex walked over to the folding tables on the lawn, casually flipping through the boxes of belongings Carl was trying to sell for pennies.
"Hey! You can't do that!" Carl yelled, pulling out his cell phone. "I'm calling the police!"
"Call them," Bear said, his voice flat. "Tell them exactly what you’re doing here today."
Carl’s finger hovered over the screen, but he didn’t dial. He was breathing heavily, realizing that the bikers weren't acting like violent thugs. They were acting like men with a purpose, which terrified him far more.
Mia stepped out from behind Bear's legs. She pointed a shaking finger toward a heavy, black iron tool chest sitting on the grass near a stack of old tires. A price tag reading $20 was taped to the side.
"Bear," Mia whispered, pulling gently on the leather of his cut. "Carl was trying to break that open this morning. He couldn't get it."
Bear looked at the iron box. He recognized it immediately. Jax had built that chest himself fifteen years ago in the clubhouse garage. It was forged from heavy steel, and instead of a keyhole, it had a custom four-digit mechanical combination dial welded into the front plate.
Carl laughed nervously, wiping sweat from his upper lip. "It’s a rusted piece of junk. It’s been jammed since I moved in. I’m just trying to get rid of it."