CHAPTER 1: THE INVISIBLE GIRL

The steps of the Oak Creek County Courthouse were designed to make you feel small. They were wide slabs of gray granite, flanked by pillars that stretched up toward a weeping, overcast Michigan sky.

To the lawyers in their two-thousand-dollar suits, those steps were a stage. To fifteen-year-old Maya, they were the gallows.

She stood near the bottom railing, clutching a phone that had stopped working ten minutes ago. Her knuckles were white, the skin pulled tight over bone. She was shivering, but not from the cold.

“Please,” she whispered to the dead screen.

“Sarah, please pick up.”

She didn’t know yet that Sarah, her foster mother—the only person who had ever looked at Maya and seen a child instead of a problem—was currently handcuffed in the back of a squad car three miles away. It was a “routine traffic stop” that had turned into a convenient arrest for “resisting an officer.”

A setup. Clean, professional, and efficient. That was Sergeant Paul Davidson’s style.

Inside the limestone building, on the third floor, Davidson was waiting. Maya could picture him perfectly. He would be sitting at the plaintiff’s table, wearing his dress blues. The medals on his chest would gleam under the fluorescent lights—medals for bravery, for service, for community protection. He would be smiling that tight, polite smile that charmed judges and terrified Maya.

To the world, he was a hero. To Maya, he was the man who had held her head underwater in the bathtub until the world went black, just because she forgot to defrost the chicken.

He’s going to win, the voice in her head screamed. He always wins. He has the badge. You have nothing.

Maya wiped her nose with the sleeve of her oversized hoodie. She tried to stop the tears, but they were hot and fast, leaking out of a dam that had finally broken. People walked past her—attorneys, clerks, citizens on jury duty. They saw a teenager crying with a bruise blooming like a dark orchid on her cheek. They saw, and then they looked at their watches. They looked at the traffic. They looked anywhere but at her.

In the ecosystem of the justice system, a scared girl was invisible.

Thirty feet away, sat on a concrete bench, “Big Mike” was having a hell of a morning.

Mike was six-foot-four and built like a vending machine wrapped in leather. He was a Road Captain for the Iron Guardians MC, a man who had spent forty years riding hard and living loudly. Today, though, he was just a citizen trying to pay a speeding ticket on a website that was designed by sadists.

” damn confirmation code,” Mike grumbled, his thick fingers fumbling on the smartphone screen.

He looked up, frustrated, and that’s when he saw her.

The girl. The hoodie. The shaking shoulders.

Mike had seen a lot of things in his life. He’d seen bar fights that spilled into the streets. He’d seen brothers buried too young. But the thing that always stuck in his gut—the thing that made the coffee taste bitter—was the look of a kid who had given up.

He watched a man in a beige suit brush past the girl, knocking her shoulder. The girl flinched—a violent, full-body recoil—like she expected a blow.

Mike closed his browser. He shoved the phone into his vest pocket. The ticket could wait.

He stood up, his knees popping with the sound of dry twigs snapping. He walked over, his boots heavy on the pavement.

“Hey,” he rumbled.

Maya jumped, spinning around. Her eyes went wide. She saw the beard, the tattoos climbing up his neck like ivy, the ‘1%’ diamond patch on his chest. Terror, sharp and immediate, flooded her face.

“I… I don’t have any money,” she stammered, backing into the stone railing.

“I don’t want your money, kid,” Mike said, keeping his distance. He knew he looked scary. He counted on it most days. Today, he tried to soften his voice, but it still sounded like gravel tumbling in a dryer.

“I heard you on the phone. You said someone’s trying to take you back.”

Maya looked at the courthouse doors. Then she looked at the bruise on her own arm, the one Davidson had given her two days ago as a “reminder” of what would happen if she spoke up in court.

“My dad,” she whispered.

“He’s… he’s a Sergeant. He told the judge I’m a liar. My lawyer didn’t show up. My foster mom is gone. I have to go in there alone.”

Mike looked at the bruise on her cheek. He squinted at the shape of it. Fingers. A heavy hand. A dark fire lit up in Mike’s chest. It was an old fire, one that fueled the engine of every righteous outlaw.

“A Sergeant, huh?” Mike asked.

“And he did that to you?”

Maya nodded, looking at her shoes.

“He said nobody would believe a runaway over a hero.”

Mike looked up at the courthouse. It looked like a fortress. A castle built to protect the kings and keep out the peasants.

“Well,” Mike said, reaching for his phone again.

“That sounds like a challenge.”

---

CHAPTER 2: THUNDER ON MAIN STREET

Mike didn’t call 911. You don’t call the police to save you from the police.

He opened an app on his phone, a secure messaging channel used by the coalition of local clubs. It was usually reserved for memorial ride coordination or warnings about federal checkpoints.

Mike typed with his thumbs, slow but deliberate.

Code Red. Oak Creek Courthouse steps. Little girl vs. The System. Abuser is a Badge. She’s alone. Need noise. Now.

He hit send.

“Who are you texting?” Maya asked, wiping her eyes.

“I have to go in. If I’m late, he gets a default judgment.”

“We got a few minutes,” Mike said calmly. He leaned against the railing, crossing his massive arms.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Maya.”

“I’m Mike. Big Mike. But you can call me Mike.”

“Are you… are you going to rob him?” Maya asked, her voice trembling.

Mike laughed, a short bark of sound.

“No, Maya. We don’t rob people. But we don’t let wolves eat sheep, either. Especially not when the wolf is wearing a sheepdog’s uniform.”

Maya checked the time. 8:54 AM.

“I have to go.”

“Just wait,” Mike said, tilting his head. “Listen.”

“Listen to what?”

“The cavalry.”

At first, Maya didn’t hear anything over the city traffic. Then, she felt it.

It started as a vibration in the soles of her sneakers. A low, rhythmic thrumming, like a giant heart beating underground. The pigeons on the courthouse steps suddenly took flight, scattering into the gray sky.

Then came the sound.

It wasn’t the high-pitched whine of sport bikes. It was the deep, guttural roar of American V-Twin engines. It was the sound of thunder rolling down a canyon.

Heads turned on the street. A woman walking a poodle stopped and picked the dog up. A security guard inside the glass doors of the courthouse stepped out, his hand hovering over his radio.

The roar grew louder, bouncing off the glass skyscrapers, amplifying until it filled the air, drowning out the buses and the sirens.

Rounding the corner of Main and 4th wasn’t just a motorcycle. It was a legion.

The Iron Guardians were in the lead, riding in a tight, disciplined V-formation. Their bikes were polished black and chrome, gleaming like weapons. Behind them came the Veterans of Steel, men with gray beards and patches from wars that America tried to forget. And behind them, the Christian Riders, and the Black Pistons.

Rivals. Clubs that usually wouldn’t share a beer without a fight. Today, they were riding wheel-to-wheel.

Maya’s mouth fell open.

“For… me?” she whispered.

“You called for help,” Mike said, watching the procession with a grim smile. “Help answered.”

The lead biker, a man named Snake, signaled. Forty-seven motorcycles swerved toward the courthouse. They didn’t look for parking spots. They hopped the curb.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

They rode right onto the wide plaza, the engines deafening, forming a semi-circle around the bottom of the steps. The smell of exhaust and high-octane fuel washed over the sterile scent of the city.

Kickstands went down in unison. Clack.

The engines cut. The sudden silence was heavier than the noise.

Snake climbed off his custom Softail. He was the President of the Guardians. He had a fused spine from a crash in ’98 and walked with a cane topped with a silver cobra. He wore sunglasses despite the clouds.

He limped up to Mike and Maya. He looked at Maya’s bruise. He didn’t say a word about it, but his jaw tightened until a muscle jumped in his cheek.

“This the VIP?” Snake rasped.

“Yeah,” Mike said.

“Maya. Meet your uncles.”

Maya looked at them. Forty-seven men and women. Leather vests. Scars. Tattoos of skulls, daggers, and crosses. They looked like a nightmare to the people in the suits.

But to Maya, they looked like a wall. A wall that nothing—not even her father—could break through.

“We got a court date?” Snake asked, checking his vintage watch.

“Room 304,” Maya squeaked.

“Well,” Snake tapped his cane on the granite step.

“Don’t keep the judge waiting.”

---

CHAPTER 3: THE DOORS SWING OPEN

Walking into the courthouse with forty-seven bikers was like walking into a cathedral with a herd of buffalo. The energy shifted instantly.

The metal detectors were the first hurdle.

The two security guards—young, bored, and underpaid—looked up as the double doors swung open. Their eyes bulged.

“Whoa, whoa!” the first guard stammered, stepping forward. “You can’t… you can’t all come in here.”

Snake stepped up to the conveyor belt. He began unbuckling his belt, removing his steel-toed boots, and placing his cane in the tray. “Is this a public building, son?”

“Yes, but…”

“Is this a public hearing?”

“I… I don’t know, but there’s too many of you.”

“Constitutional right to observe judicial proceedings,” Snake said calmly, walking through the scanner. It didn’t beep. “Unless you got a fire code violation you want to cite, step aside.”

The bikers followed. It took ten minutes. They removed wallet chains, heavy rings, and belt buckles. They were polite. They said “please” and “thank you.” But their sheer physical presence—the squeak of leather, the thud of boots—was an act of defiance.

Maya walked in the center of the phalanx, surrounded by Big Mike and a woman named “Tig,” who had a spiderweb tattoo on her neck and eyes that missed nothing.

“Keep your head up,” Tig whispered to Maya. “You ain’t the victim today. You’re the plaintiff. Act like you own the place.”

They took the elevators in shifts, but most took the stairs, their boots echoing in the stairwell like a drumbeat.

On the third floor, the hallway was quiet. The air smelled of floor wax and anxiety.

At the end of the hall, Sergeant Paul Davidson stood outside the double doors of Courtroom 304. He was laughing with his lawyer, a man in a shark-skin suit who cost five hundred dollars an hour. Davidson looked impeccable. Not a hair out of place. The picture of a grieving, concerned father dealing with a rebellious teen.

He checked his watch. He was expecting Maya to be late. He was expecting her to be crying, hysterical, looking unstable.

Then the elevator doors dinged. And the stairwell door banged open.

Davidson turned. His smile didn’t fade immediately; it froze, then cracked, then vanished.

Maya stepped out first. She wasn’t slouching anymore.

Behind her came Big Mike. Then Snake. Then Tig. Then the Veterans.

They filled the hallway. A river of black leather flowing toward the courtroom.

Davidson’s lawyer dropped his briefcase. Davidson took a half-step back, his hand instinctively reaching for the duty belt he wasn’t wearing.

“What is this?” Davidson hissed as Maya approached. “What did you do, Maya? You bring a gang to threaten me?”

Maya stopped five feet from him. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, but she felt the heat of Big Mike standing right behind her right shoulder.

“They’re just observing, Sergeant,” Mike said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried. “Citizens supporting the justice system.”

Davidson glared at Mike, his eyes cold and hard. “I’ll have you all arrested for intimidation.”

“Intimidating who?” Snake asked, leaning on his cane. “We’re just walking.”

The bailiff inside the courtroom poked his head out. “Case 409, Davidson versus State. All parties present?”

Davidson buttoned his jacket. He shot Maya a look of pure venom—a look that promised pain later. “This isn’t over,” he whispered to her. “You just made it so much worse for yourself.”

He marched into the courtroom.

Maya felt her knees wobble.

“Breathe,” Mike said, putting a massive hand on her shoulder. “We’re right behind you.”

---

CHAPTER 4: THE STAND

The courtroom was paneled in dark mahogany. It was designed to be intimidating, to enforce the hierarchy of the Law.

Judge Brennan sat on the bench. He was a man known for two things: quick lunches and siding with the police. He had known Davidson for ten years. They played golf at the same club.

“Docket 409,” Brennan announced, not looking up from his papers. “Petition for immediate custody transfer. Sergeant Davidson present?”

“Present, Your Honor,” Davidson said, his voice smooth as silk. He stood tall, the grieving father ready to forgive.

“And the minor child?”

“Present,” Maya whispered.

“Speak up,” Brennan snapped.

“Present,” she said louder.

“Counsel for the minor?” Brennan looked around. The defense table was empty.

“My lawyer isn’t here,” Maya said. “He… he stopped answering my calls.”

Brennan sighed, taking off his reading glasses. “Well, that is unfortunate. However, given the urgency of the Sergeant’s petition regarding the unstable environment of the foster home…”

CREAK.

The double doors at the back of the room groaned.

Brennan looked up. His eyes widened behind his spectacles.

Big Mike walked in. Then Snake. Then the rest. They didn’t stop at the railing. They filled the gallery benches. Leather creaked against the polished wood. Boots shuffled. They packed the rows until there wasn’t a single inch of space left. The overflow stood along the back wall, arms crossed.

The air in the room changed from sterile AC to the scent of the road.

“What is the meaning of this?” Judge Brennan banged his gavel. “This is a family court hearing. It is closed to the general public.”

The bailiff, a heavyset man named Carl who was usually asleep by 10 AM, moved to block the aisle. “You folks need to leave. Family only.”

Big Mike stopped in the middle of the aisle. He looked at the bailiff. He looked at the Judge. And then he looked at Maya, sitting alone at the huge defense table, looking like a doll in a giant’s chair.

“We are family,” Mike said. His voice boomed off the high ceiling.

“Excuse me?” Judge Brennan scowled.

Snake stepped forward from the crowd. “We’re her uncles. And aunts. Extended family.”

“I don’t see the resemblance,” Davidson sneered, turning around in his chair. “Your Honor, this is clearly an intimidation tactic. These are criminal elements. My daughter has been associating with gangs. This proves she is in danger.”

“I agree,” Brennan said, his face reddening. “Bailiff, clear the courtroom. I will not have this circus in my chamber.”

The bailiff put a hand on his taser.

Nobody moved. Not one biker twitched. They just stared at the Judge. Forty-seven pairs of eyes, heavy with judgment.

“With all due respect, Your Honor,” Mike said, his voice dropping an octave. “It’s a public building. Unless you’re sealing the record, we have a right to be here. And if you clear us out, you better have a damn good reason for the press outside.”

“The press?” Brennan paused.

“Local news is parking the van right now,” Mike lied. He didn’t know if they were, but he knew judges hated bad publicity more than they hated criminals. “They saw forty bikes out front. They got curious.”

Brennan hesitated. He looked at Davidson. Davidson gave a tiny nod—let them stay, it doesn’t matter, I win anyway.

“Fine,” Brennan snapped. “But one word—one sound—from the gallery, and I will hold you all in contempt and have you locked up. Is that clear?”

Silence.

“Proceed,” Brennan waved his hand dismissively. “Sergeant Davidson, your petition states that the current foster placement is unfit?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Davidson’s lawyer stood up. “The foster mother, Sarah Miller, was arrested this morning for reckless endangerment and resisting arrest. The child has no guardian. Sergeant Davidson is the biological father, a pillar of the community, and has a room ready for her. We ask for immediate return of custody.”

Maya sat frozen. This was it. The script was written.

“Without counsel for the child,” the Judge said, picking up his pen, “and given the arrest of the foster parent, I see no reason to delay. I am inclined to grant the order.”

“She has bruises!”

The voice came from the gallery. It was Big Mike. He couldn’t help it.

BANG.

“I said silence!” Brennan roared, pointing the gavel at Mike. “One more outburst and you are in a cell!”

“She has bruises on her arm and face,” Mike said, standing up. He ignored the bailiff rushing toward him. “And he put them there.” He pointed a finger like a spear at Davidson.

“Remove him!” Brennan shouted.

Two deputies rushed through the side door.

Maya watched in horror. They were going to drag Mike out. They were going to throw him in jail, and then she would be alone with her father. Davidson turned to look at her, a smirk playing on his lips. I told you, the look said. I own this town.

But just as the deputies reached Mike, the courtroom doors flew open again.

A woman in a sharp navy suit, holding a leather briefcase, strode in. She didn’t look like a biker. She looked like a shark in heels.

“Objection!” her voice cut through the chaos like a knife.

Judge Brennan froze. “Who are you?”

The woman walked past the bikers, past the bailiff, and slammed a thick file folder onto Maya’s table.

“Casey Williams,” she announced, her eyes locking onto Davidson’s lawyer. “I am the new counsel for the minor child. And I have a Motion to Dismiss, a Motion to Recuse, and a Motion to admit new evidence that was conveniently ‘lost’ by the previous attorney.”

She turned to Maya and winked.

“Sorry I’m late,” she whispered. “Traffic was murder. But a nice gentleman named Snake sent a police escort to get me through the gridlock.”

Maya looked back at the gallery. Snake tipped his sunglasses.

The war had just begun.

CHAPTER 5: THE VOICE FROM THE GRAVE

Casey Williams didn’t sit down. She paced in front of the judge’s bench, her heels clicking like gunshots on the hardwood floor.

“Your Honor,” Casey began, her voice steady and sharp. “The petitioner, Sergeant Davidson, claims his daughter is a pathological liar. He claims her injuries are self-inflicted. He claims he is a model citizen.”

She stopped at the defense table and picked up the thick file she had slammed down earlier.

“This,” she held it up, “is three years of emergency room records from St. Mary’s Hospital. Four broken fingers. A fractured orbital socket. Second-degree burns on her back. All treated by different doctors. All explained away by ‘clumsiness’ or ‘sports accidents’.”

Davidson’s lawyer jumped up. “Objection! These records are hearsay! They were not submitted in discovery!”

“They weren’t submitted because the previous attorney—who, coincidentally, plays poker with Sergeant Davidson on Tuesdays—hid them in a mislabeled box in his basement,” Casey fired back. “I found them this morning.”

Judge Brennan looked at the file. He looked at Davidson. Davidson wasn’t smiling anymore. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, cutting through his perfect tan.

“And,” Casey continued, pulling a USB drive from her pocket, “we have the audio.”

“Audio?” Davidson blurted out. “What audio?”

“Maya has been recording you, Sergeant,” Casey said coldly. “For six months. Every threat. Every scream. Every time you told her that no one would believe her because you wore a badge.”

“Illegal recording!” the opposing lawyer shouted. “Two-party consent!”

“Actually,” Casey smiled, a predator baring teeth, “under the law, a minor child can record conversations if they believe their safety is at imminent risk. It falls under the ‘crime-fraud’ exception. Would you like me to play the track where he threatens to bury her next to her mother?”

The courtroom went deathly silent. Even the air conditioning seemed to stop humming.

Maya sat at the table, trembling. She felt Big Mike’s hand squeeze her shoulder from behind the railing. Strength, the grip said.

“Play it,” Judge Brennan said quietly. His face had gone pale.

Casey plugged the drive into the court AV system.

Crackling static. Then, a voice. It was unmistakably Davidson’s. Low. calm. Terrifying.

“…you think crying helps? You think anyone cares? I am the law in this town, Maya. I can make you disappear, and I’ll write the report myself. Just like I did with…”

Click. Casey paused it.

Davidson was standing now. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. The mask of the hero had slipped, revealing the monster underneath.

---

CHAPTER 6: THE ANGELS DESCEND

“Liar!” Davidson roared. The sound echoed off the mahogany walls. “It’s doctored! It’s AI! She’s a lying little brat being coached by these criminal scum!”

He pointed a shaking finger at the gallery of bikers.

“I am a Sergeant!” Davidson screamed, stepping out from behind his table. “I have served this city! You take the word of this… this thing over me?”

Maya stood up. Her legs felt like jelly, but something inside her—a spark ignited by the army standing behind her—flared up.

“I’m not a thing,” she said. Her voice was small, but it didn’t crack.

Davidson snapped. The humiliation, the loss of control, the bikers staring at him—it was too much.

“You shut your mouth!” he bellowed, lunging toward her.

He moved fast. He was a trained officer, big and aggressive. He crossed the gap between the tables in two strides, his hand raised to strike her, just like he did at home.

“NO!” Casey screamed.

But the bikers were faster.

Before Davidson could touch her, a cane swept out from the front row. Snake had hooked the handle around Davidson’s ankle and yanked.

Davidson crashed to the floor, face first.

In a split second, the gallery erupted. Big Mike vaulted over the railing with the agility of a man half his age. Three other Guardians followed.

They didn’t strike him. They didn’t kick him. They simply… landed.

They formed a circle around Maya, a human shield of leather and denim. Mike grabbed Davidson by the back of his expensive suit jacket and hauled him up, pinning him against the prosecutor’s table.

“Get your hands off me!” Davidson shrieked, struggling. “Assault! Assault on an officer! Arrest them all!”

The bailiffs had their tasers drawn, but they were frozen. They looked at the Judge.

“I saw him trip,” Big Mike said calmly, staring Davidson in the eyes.

“I saw it too,” Snake said from the gallery.

“Tripped right over his own ego,” Tig added.

Forty-seven voices rumbled in agreement.

Judge Brennan stood up. He looked at Davidson, red-faced and restrained by a biker. He looked at Maya, who was safe behind the wall of leather.

“Bailiff,” Brennan said, his voice shaking. “Stand down.”

“What?” Davidson gasped. “Arrest them!”

“No,” Brennan said. He looked down at the file Casey had put on his desk. The medical photos were spilling out. Photos of a battered child. “I think we’ve heard enough.”

---

CHAPTER 7: THE BADGE BREAKS

The doors to the courtroom opened one last time.

It wasn’t more bikers. It was the Chief of Police. And behind him, two officers from Internal Affairs.

The silence that fell over the room was absolute.

The Chief walked in, looking tired. He didn’t look at Davidson. He walked straight to Casey Williams.

“We got the copy of the drive you sent over this morning, Counselor,” the Chief said. “And we found the deleted body cam footage from the officers who responded to the domestic calls at the Davidson house last year. The ones Davidson threatened into silence.”

Davidson stopped struggling. He went limp in Mike’s grip.

“Paul Davidson,” the IA officer said, stepping forward with a pair of handcuffs—not the comfortable kind, but the sharp, heavy steel reserved for criminals. “You are under arrest for child abuse, witness tampering, obstruction of justice, and conspiracy.”

Big Mike let go of him. He brushed his hands off on his jeans, as if he had touched something rotting.

Davidson stared at the Chief. “You can’t do this. I’m one of you.”

“Not anymore,” the Chief said. He ripped the sergeant stripes off Davidson’s Velcro sleeve. Riiip. The sound was louder than a gunshot.

As they cuffed him and marched him out, Davidson turned his head. He locked eyes with Maya. There was no remorse. Only pure, distilled hatred.

“You’re dead,” he mouthed silently. “You hear me? You’re dead.”

Maya flinched.

But then, Big Mike stepped into her line of sight, blocking Davidson from view. Snake stepped up next to him. Then Tig. They formed a wall.

“She ain’t dead,” Mike said, loud enough for the whole room to hear. “She’s protected.”

Judge Brennan cleared his throat. He looked humbled. “Custody is immediately transferred to the state, pending the foster mother’s release—which I am ordering immediately. All charges against Ms. Miller are dismissed with prejudice.”

He looked at Maya. “Young lady… I am sorry the system failed you. Thank God you found a better one.”

---

CHAPTER 8: THE LONG RIDE HOME

The walk out of the courthouse was different.

Maya didn’t walk alone. She walked in the center of a diamond formation. Big Mike on her left. Snake on her right. Forty-five others flanking them.

When they got to the bottom of the steps, the sun had finally broken through the clouds. It reflected off the chrome of the bikes, blindingly bright.

Maya stopped. She turned to Mike. She grabbed the edge of his leather vest.

“Why?” she asked again, tears streaming down her face. “I don’t even know you. Why did you come?”

Mike knelt down. He took off his sunglasses. His eyes were kind, crinkled at the corners.

“Because that’s the code, sweetheart,” he rumbled. “Real outlaws don’t hurt kids. We protect them. You were fighting a monster alone. Now? You got the whole pack.”

Snake walked over and handed her a patch. It wasn’t a club patch. It was a simple black rectangle with white letters: PROTECTED BY ANGELS.

“Put that on your backpack,” Snake said. “Anybody bothers you, you tell ’em who your uncles are.”

Two Years Later.

The parking lot of the Oak Creek Social Services building was full.

A sleek black motorcycle pulled into a spot. The rider killed the engine and took off her helmet.

Maya shook out her hair. She was seventeen now. The fear was gone from her eyes, replaced by a quiet, steel-spined confidence. She wore a leather jacket. On the back, stitched in white thread, were the words: Iron Guardians – Little Sister.

She wasn’t there to be processed. She was there to work. She was interning with the victim advocacy unit, helping kids who had no one else.

She walked toward the entrance, her boots clicking on the pavement.

A sleek car pulled up. Casey Williams got out. She smiled when she saw Maya.

“Ready for the deposition?” Casey asked.

“Born ready,” Maya grinned.

“Big Mike coming?”

“Mike, Snake, and the crew are meeting us there,” Maya said, patting her helmet.

“The kid we’re helping today is scared to testify against his stepdad. I told him he didn’t have to be scared.”

“Why’s that?” Casey asked, knowing the answer.

Maya looked down the street, where the familiar rumble of thunder was just beginning to echo off the buildings.

“Because,” Maya said, “I told him the family is coming.”