Inside the garage, two other bikers paused their work, stepping out onto the tarmac with grim, recognizing expressions as the name Marcus Hayes echoed through the air.
Twenty-two years ago, on an unpaved road outside Mosul, a humvee had hit an anti-tank mine. Dorien had been trapped beneath burning wreckage, pinned by twisted steel and surrounded by hostile fire. It was Sergeant Marcus Hayes who had run into the flames with bare hands, taking shrapnel to his back and burns across his ribs to pry Dorien out of the burning steel. When they finally returned stateside, broken and carrying scars they couldn't explain to civilian doctors, they had ridden together for five wild, untamed years until Marcus drifted east to start a quiet family.
Life, pride, and the drifting silence of the road had kept them apart. Dorien had heard rumors that Marcus had fallen on hard times after losing his wife to illness, but he had never imagined his brother-in-arms was dying in a squatter's shack barely five miles up the mountain pass.
Dorien dropped to one knee on the sharp gravel, bringing his eyes level with the boy. The hard, impenetrable armor of the veteran biker cracked entirely. He reached out with a massive, gentle hand and rested it on the boy’s trembling shoulder.
"You ran all the way from the ridge road, didn't you?" Dorien asked softly.
The boy nodded, wiping his nose with the back of his dirty arm. "I had to. He said you were the only brother he had left."
Dorien didn't say another word. He stood up like a coiled spring, turning toward the garage with an authority that shook the rafters.