He pulls out a folder. Inside are photos he had someone take discreetly. Zara walked to school alone. Kesha leaves for work before sunrise. The eviction notice taped to their apartment door. Two days ago, police raided their apartment. Anonymous tip about drug activity. Found nothing because there was nothing. But the landlord got spooked. Served them eviction papers. 30 days.
Diesel leans forward. "How do you know this?" "Because I've been watching. Because whoever planted those bombs knows she saw them. They're erasing her quietly, systematically." The Preacher steps up, holding a different folder.
"It gets worse. I made some calls. Kesha Williams was fired from her cleaning job yesterday. Building management got a call from someone claiming she violated safety protocols by bringing her daughter to work, which she did, but they never cared before. Someone pressured them."
The room murmurs. Anger ripples through the crew. Tommy, the club's vice president, speaks up. He's 48, with a scar running from his temple to his jaw. "So, what are we talking about here? Are we playing guardian angels now?"
"We're paying a debt," Reaper says flatly. "That girl stood between us and death. She didn't have to. She could have stayed hidden, let us die, gone home safe, but she didn't. And now the system is crushing her for it."
The Preacher clears his throat. "There's something else you need to know. 3 months ago, I witnessed a shooting. Castellano's task force executed a 16-year-old kid named Jamal Brooks, unarmed. Shot him in the back, then planted a gun on him. I have body cam footage. I got it from a rookie cop who couldn't live with what he saw."
"Castellano doesn't know it exists, but he suspects I have something. That's why he tried to kill me. Kill all of us." The room goes dead silent. Diesel's face darkens. "And the girl saw them planting the bombs."
"Yeah. Which makes her a witness to the attempted murder of 30 people. Castellano can't let that stand. He'll bury her and then he'll come for me." Tommy stands. "So, what's the play?"
Reaper looks around the room. "We protect her. We keep her family stable. We make sure Castellano knows that if he touches her, he's touching us. And when the time's right, we expose him publicly with evidence he can't deny."
Diesel crosses his arms. "We're not a charity, Reaper. We're a motorcycle club. We got our own problems. Feds breathing down our necks. Territory disputes. Now you want us to adopt some kid." "I want us to have honor," Reaper snaps.
"Remember what that word means? That little girl has more honor than half the men I've met in my life. She saved us because it was the right thing to do, not because she wanted something, just because. And if we let the system erase her for that, then we're exactly what they say we are. Criminals, thugs, nothing."
He lets the words hang. "So, I'm calling a vote. Do we protect Zara Williams and her mother? Yes or no?" The Preacher raises his hand. "Yes." Tommy studies Reaper for a long moment, then nods. "Yes."
One by one, hands go up, some quickly, some slowly. When the count is done, 26 vote yes. Four vote no, including Diesel. "Motion carries," Reaper says.
"Here's how this works. First, we stabilize them financially. I want five grand in an envelope delivered anonymously. Covers rent, food, bills, no note, no name, just cash." Tommy nods. "I'll handle it."
"Second, we watch their building rotating shifts. If Castellano's people come around, we know about it. We don't engage unless we have to, but we're present, visible." "Third," Preacher says, "I'm making copies of the body cam footage, hiding them in multiple locations. If anything happens to me, those copies go public automatically."
Reaper points to a member named Lton, a former paralegal. "You're going to find us the best civil rights attorney in Chicago, someone who's not afraid to go after dirty cops. We'll need them when this goes public."
"And fourth," Reaper looks at each man in turn. "Nobody talks about this outside this room. No girlfriends, no buddies, nobody. Castellano has ears everywhere. One slip and that kid's dead." The room nods in unison.
Two hours later, Kesha Williams returns home from a humiliating day of job hunting. She climbed four flights of stairs because the elevator is broken again. Her feet ache. Her eyes burn from exhaustion and the tears she won't let fall in front of Zara.
She unlocks the apartment door. Zara is at the kitchen table doing homework by the light of a single lamp. The power bill is overdue. "Hey baby, how was school?" "Fine, mama." Zara doesn't look up.
She's learned not to ask how the job search went. Kesha sets down her purse and notices something on the floor near the door. An envelope, plain, white, unsealed. She picks it up, opens it. $5,000 in cash. 20s, 50s, hundreds.