"Tanner! Call Dr. Cole and tell him to meet us at the old Miller cabin with a full trauma rig! Ghost, get the truck and a field stretcher! Now!"
The yard erupted into immediate action. Tools were dropped, boots hit the gravel, and engines fired into a deafening roar.
Dorien lifted the boy into his arms, setting him gently onto the wide leather tank of his Harley. He took the heavy denim cut and draped it over the boy's small shoulders like a protective mantle.
"What's your name, little warrior?" Dorien asked, fastening his own spare riding goggles over the boy’s dusty eyes to shield him from the road wind.
"Leo," the boy sniffled.
"Hold on tight to the handlebars, Leo," Dorien said, swinging his heavy leg over the seat and kicking the Softail into gear. The 1340cc engine roared to life with a ferocious, chest-shattering growl. "Your dad kept me alive when the world was on fire. I'm not letting him go out cold in the dark."
With five thunderous cruisers flanking them like an armored convoy, Dorien tore out of the gravel yard, kicking up a high plume of dust as they sped north into the blazing heat of the mountains—riding not for freedom or adventure, but to bring an old brother back from the edge of the grave.