By the time backup came, Elias was gone. They found his bike burned. They found blood. They found his ring. No body. But men like Kuda learned the hard way that sometimes no body did not mean hope. Sometimes it meant someone wanted questions to die slowly.
The club buried an empty coffin. They stitched the Eylian patch into memory. And Kuda spent twelve years trying not to wonder why Elias’s last message never made sense: All watched. That was what Elias had written on a scrap of cloth before the run.
Section 3: The Child’s Name
Kuda looked at the girl again. “What’s your name?”
“Mara.”
His throat tightened. Elias had once said if he ever had a daughter, he would name her Mara, after his grandmother.
“You Elias’s girl?”
She nodded. “My daddy said I shouldn’t tell people unless I had to.”
“Where is he?”
Her face crumpled. “At the motel.”
“What motel?”
“The one with the broken horse sign.”
Kuda stood so fast the girl flinched. He immediately softened. “Hey. No. You’re okay.” He turned toward his men. “Ghost. Keys.”
A thin biker with a shaved head tossed him a set of keys without asking. Another rider stepped forward. “Kuda…”
Kuda looked at him. The man’s face was pale. “You think it’s him?”
Kuda held up the vest. The patch hung from his fist like evidence. “I think a dead man just sent his daughter to us.”
Mara tugged his sleeve. “Will you buy it?”
Kuda looked down. “What?”