The heavy iron pipe cut through the air, aimed straight at Duke’s head. Duke didn't even flinch; he stepped inside the wild swing, caught the skinny man's wrist with a leather-gloved hand, and delivered a devastating kick to his chest.
The impact sounded like a dropped bag of cement. All the breath left the skinny man's lungs in a violent rush. He folded inward, his eyes bulging in shock, and collapsed onto the hot asphalt.
The iron pipe clattered harmlessly away, rolling into the gutter.
Duke didn't hesitate. He moved with a practiced, heavy grace, dropping his knee onto the center of the man's back, pinning him flat against the road. He grabbed both of the man's wrists, wrenching them backward just enough to freeze him in place.
"You broke my ribs," the man wheezed, his face pressed against the white paint of the crosswalk.
"Don't move," Duke rumbled. His voice was dangerously calm, a low vibration that carried over the sound of the distant, idling traffic.
Duke looked back over his shoulder. The little girl—Mia, the man had called her—was still standing exactly where she had been. She was frozen behind the massive, tipped-over frame of Duke’s motorcycle. Her tiny hands were gripping the edges of his heavy leather saddlebag, her knuckles completely white. Blood trickled down her scraped knees, staining her dirty white socks. She was shaking so violently that her teeth chattered, despite the humid afternoon heat.
"It's okay, kid," Duke said quietly, holding her gaze. "He's not getting up."
A blue sedan idling three cars back finally laid on its horn. The driver, a middle-aged woman with wide eyes, was holding her phone up against her steering wheel.
"I already called 911!" she yelled through her rolled-down window. "They're two minutes out!"
Beneath Duke's knee, the skinny man started to laugh. It was a wet, ugly sound that ended in a cough.
"You're going to jail, old man," the driver hissed, spitting a mouthful of saliva onto the pavement. "You just assaulted a licensed state transporter. You have no idea what you just stepped into."
Duke pressed his knee down a fraction of an inch harder. The man gasped and went perfectly still.
"I know I stepped on a rat," Duke said. "Shut your mouth."
Within ninety seconds, the wail of sirens cut through the suburban air. Two black-and-white cruisers tore around the corner, mounting the curb and blocking off the intersection. Four officers bailed out, hands resting on their holsters, scanning the chaotic scene: the popped trunk of the filthy silver sedan, the dropped motorcycle, the massive biker pinning a bleeding man to the ground, and the trembling little girl hiding behind the chrome exhaust.
"Hands where I can see them!" the lead officer barked.
Duke slowly raised his empty, leather-gloved hands, getting to his feet and stepping back. "He's all yours."
Two officers immediately moved in, hauling the skinny man up and snapping handcuffs onto his wrists. The man didn't resist. He stood tall, a smug, hollow-cheeked smile returning to his face.
"Officer," the man said, pitching his voice to sound perfectly reasonable. "My name is Rick Stanton. I work for Apex Care Solutions. Check my wallet. Check the passenger seat of my car. This maniac just ripped me out of my vehicle and assaulted me while I was performing a legal transport."
Duke narrowed his eyes, stepping toward his motorcycle where Mia was hiding. "He had her locked in the trunk."
"She's a flight risk!" Rick snapped back, looking at the cops. "She has severe behavioral issues. She unlocked the child-safety doors on the highway and tried to jump into traffic ten miles back. I had to secure her for her own safety until we reached the facility. It's a sanctioned emergency protocol."
"Secure her in a trunk?" Duke growled, his hands curling into fists. "You were going to beat her with a pipe."
"I was trying to intimidate her back into the vehicle," Rick countered smoothly. "Check the paperwork. It’s right there."
A female officer, young and with her hair pulled back into a tight bun, crouched down near Duke’s motorcycle. She offered Mia a gentle, practiced smile.
"Hi, sweetie," she said softly. "I'm Officer Ramirez. Are you Mia?"
Mia didn't answer. She let go of the saddlebag and darted behind Duke, wrapping her small arms around his thick, denim-clad leg. She buried her face into the side of his knee, trembling harder than before.
"It's okay, Mia," Ramirez coaxed, taking a slow step forward. "We're the police. We're here to help you. Let's get you over to the ambulance so they can look at those knees, okay?"
Mia squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head violently, refusing to look at the officer. She dug her fingers into Duke’s jeans.
"She's terrified," Duke said, putting a massive, protective hand lightly on the girl's shoulder.
"I know, sir," Ramirez said, her tone professional but firm. "But she needs medical attention, and we need to process the scene. You need to step back and let us take her."
"Hey, Sarge!" another officer called out from the silver sedan. He was holding up a pair of thick, industrial zip ties. "Found these on the floorboard."
Duke looked at Rick. Rick didn't look worried.
The officer leaned into the front seat of the sedan and emerged a moment later holding a thick, brown manila folder. He opened it, scanning the top page, his brow furrowing. He walked over to the older sergeant in charge and handed him the file.
The sergeant read through the document, his expression tightening. He looked at Rick, then down at Mia, and finally up at Duke. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Stand down, Ramirez," the sergeant said. He walked over to Duke, holding the open folder so Duke could see it.
Attached to the top left corner of the heavy legal paper was a printed photograph of Mia. Underneath it was a state seal, a notary stamp, and a block of dense legal text.
"State of Illinois Guardianship and Transit Authorization," the sergeant read aloud, his voice devoid of emotion. "Subject: Mia Davis. Ward of the State. Authorized for immediate physical transfer to the Willow Creek Psychiatric Youth Facility."
Duke stared at the paper. "That's forged."
"It's got a raised state seal, sir," the sergeant said, looking exhausted. "And his ID matches the transport company listed on page two. The company is contracted by the state. He's legally authorized to have custody of her."
"He had her in a trunk with zip ties," Duke repeated, his voice rising, a dangerous edge bleeding into his tone. "Look at her. Does she look like a psych patient to you? She's seven years old!"
"She's a documented runner with a history of self-harm, according to this file," the sergeant said, tapping the paper. "Look, man, I don't like how he was transporting her either. I'm taking him in for reckless endangerment and unlawful restraint. We're impounding his car. But I can't just hand her over to you. Legally, she belongs to the state. We have to call Child Protective Services to come pick her up from the precinct."
Mia’s head snapped up.
She had heard the words. State. Take her back.
The absolute terror that washed over her small face made Duke’s chest ache. She didn't just look scared; she looked like a cornered animal realizing the trap had closed. She let out a sharp, breathless gasp and began to hyperventilate.
"No," Mia whispered, the first word she had spoken since grabbing Duke's jacket. "No, no, no."
She stumbled backward, away from Duke, away from the police. In her blind panic, she tripped over the heavy, reinforced toe of Duke’s leather boot.
As she fell back onto the pavement, her hands flew out to catch herself. Something slipped from the deep, torn pocket of her oversized, dirty cardigan.
It hit the asphalt with a heavy, metallic clink.
It wasn't a cheap plastic toy. It didn't sound like ordinary children's jewelry. It hit the ground with the dense, solid thud of pure, heavy metal.
Duke immediately dropped to one knee, putting himself between Mia and the officers, shielding her from their view. He scooped the object off the ground before anyone else could see what it was.
It was a silver locket.