"I... I'm looking for my stepkids," Carl stammered, trying to sound authoritative, but his voice cracked. "They ran away. I know they came here."
From the back of the room, near the booths, Ron stepped forward. He walked slowly, his heavy boots echoing with absolute finality. The crowd of bikers parted silently to let him through. Ron stopped six feet away from Carl, crossing his massive arms over his chest.
"You're Carl," Ron stated. It wasn't a question.
"Yeah," Carl said, trying to stand taller. "I'm their legal guardian. Their mother is... she's not well. She sent them out in a storm. I'm here to take them home. Hand them over."
Ron didn't blink. He reached into his leather vest and pulled out the crumpled, water-stained piece of notebook paper. He held it up between two thick fingers.
"I have a letter here from Sarah Hayes," Ron said, his voice low and dangerously even. "It says something very different. It says you were breaking down her bedroom door while she pushed her children out a window to save them from you."
Carl’s face twitched. He took a half-step backward toward the open door, the rain lashing at his back. "She's crazy. She's a liar. You can't keep those kids here. That's kidnapping. I'll call the cops."
A low, dark chuckle rippled through the bikers.
"Call them," Ron said, gesturing to the phone on the wall behind the bar. "In fact, I'll save you the trouble."
Ron nodded to a man standing near the bar. The man picked up a radio microphone.
"Hey, Chief," the biker said into the mic. "It's Brick down at the Vale. We got a domestic situation here. A guy named Carl just admitted to chasing two minors through a storm. Might want to send a cruiser to Elm Street to check on a Sarah Hayes, too. Sounds like an assault."
A crackle of static responded, followed by a calm, authoritative voice. "Copy that, Brick. Sending a unit to Elm now. Want me to swing by the club?"
"Negative, Chief," Brick replied casually. "We're just having a friendly conversation. He was just leaving."
Carl turned stark white. The realization that the local police chief was on a first-name basis with the bartender finally broke through his drunken haze. He was entirely, hopelessly out of his depth.
"You can't do this," Carl whispered, his bravado entirely gone. "They're my family."
"They are Thomas Hayes's blood," Ron said, his voice dropping an octave, resonating with a terrifying weight. "That makes them Iron Vale. You laid a hand on a daughter of this club. You chased our blood into a storm."
Ron took one single, heavy step forward. Carl scrambled backward, stumbling over the door frame and splashing into the freezing puddle on the porch.
"If I ever see your truck within five miles of this town again," Ron said softly, staring down at the pathetic man shivering in the rain, "If I ever hear that you spoke Sarah's name, or looked in the direction of these children... there won't be a police cruiser coming for you. It'll just be us."
Ron didn't yell. He didn't have to. The absolute certainty in his voice was more terrifying than any scream.
Carl didn't say a word. He turned, slipped on the wet wood, scrambled to his feet, and ran toward his rusted truck. The engine roared to life, and the truck tore out of the parking lot, the taillights disappearing into the heavy rain.
Gunnar stepped forward and closed the heavy wooden door, sliding the deadbolt back into place.