As he drew closer, Cole’s pupils narrowed.
The boy was not playing with a piece of cheap plastic or some toy motorcycle bought from a supermarket.
He was pushing a die-cast metal motorcycle.
It was unusually heavy and astonishingly detailed.
The miniature machine included everything—the tiny V-twin engine, the carburetor, even the high swept-back ape-hanger handlebars.
Every detail had been reproduced with almost obsessive precision, as if someone had shrunk a real killing machine down into the palm of a child’s hand.
Cole’s enormous shadow fell over the boy, blocking the sun.
The child stopped moving.
His small, dirty hands remained firmly wrapped around the toy’s seat.
There was caution in his posture.
But no fear.
“Hey, kid,” Cole said, deliberately softening his voice as much as he could. “Hold on a second. Where did you get that?”
Slowly, the boy looked up.
His eyes were large and carried an unusual hazel color.
There was a weariness in them, a sadness far too deep for a child his age.
He looked directly into the eyes of the intimidating biker towering over him.
“It belonged to my dad,” the boy answered.
His voice was low but steady.
Then he carefully pulled the toy a little closer to his chest.
Chapter 3: The Forgotten Name
Cole slowly lowered himself onto one knee on the burning asphalt, ignoring the sharp pain that stabbed through his aging joint.
“Can I take a look?”
The boy hesitated for a second, studying the man in front of him.
Finally, he raised his hand slightly, allowing Cole a better view of the object without ever letting it leave his grasp.
Cole narrowed his eyes and studied every line of the miniature motorcycle.
Its paint was a faded, sickly shade of green. The edges had been deliberately scratched and weathered to make it look like a machine that had survived tens of thousands of miles on the open road.
But it was not the paint.
Nor was it the extraordinary detail of the engine.
Neither of those things made Cole’s blood suddenly turn cold.
Along the curve of the tiny metal fuel tank, painted in elegant curling gold letters, was a name.
Rravhem.
Cole’s heart slammed against his ribs as if someone had struck his chest with a sledgehammer.
The desert heat vanished from his awareness.
In its place came an icy chill racing along his spine and raising the hair on his arms.
His gaze locked onto the name.
He could not blink.
“No way,” Cole whispered.
His voice broke.
The shock on his weathered face was unmistakable.
The cold, emotionless mask of a hardened outlaw collapsed completely.
He looked up at the boy’s face, desperately searching for some explanation for the impossible thing before him.
“I know that name.”
“Cole? What the hell is going on?”
Wyatt stepped closer with a frown, immediately noticing the disturbing change in his leader’s expression.
Jimmy moved closer as well, almost unconsciously resting one hand near the handle of his knife.
Cole pointed a trembling finger toward the toy motorcycle’s fuel tank.
His voice came out rough.
“Read it, Wyatt.”
The huge bearded man leaned down.
The moment he saw the golden letters, the color drained from his face beneath his thick beard.
He stumbled half a step backward as though he had been shocked.
“Rravhem... Good Lord.”
He stared at Cole.
“This is impossible. Rravhem died eight years ago. He burned to ashes in El Paso. We buried what was left of him ourselves. We buried him with his leather cut.”
A deathly silence settled over the parking lot.
Eight years earlier, Rravhem had been a living legend within the club.
He had served as vice president.
He was known for his cold mind, his cunning, and above all for his custom green chopper bearing his own name—the exact motorcycle now sitting in miniature form in the boy’s hands.
Back then, the club had been dragged into a deadly war with the Iron Syndicate, a notoriously vicious Mexican cartel involved in drug trafficking and money laundering.
Rravhem had infiltrated one of their warehouses in El Paso alone, intending to steal something from them.