PART 2: Logan Creed Learns the Daughter He Never Knew Exists
Thunder exploded across the Oklahoma sky as Logan Creed stared at the photograph in his shaking hands.
The diner had gone completely silent.
Even the trucker gripping the waitress’s wrist slowly let go without realizing it. Nobody in the room could pull their eyes away from the scarred biker standing beneath the flickering neon lights.
Logan barely noticed them.
His eyes stayed locked on the words written across the back of the photograph in faded blue ink.
If she ever finds you… tell her I tried.
Mara.
The handwriting punched through him like a blade.
For ten years he had believed Mara Sullivan was dead.
Burned alive after the warehouse ambush that destroyed half the Iron Saints and turned Logan Creed into a ghost hunted across three states. He remembered the fire. The screaming metal. The gunshots echoing through the docks.
But no body was ever found.
And now a little girl with Mara’s blue eyes sat quietly across from him holding a crayon drawing of a father she had never met.
Logan lowered himself slowly into the booth.
The leather seat creaked beneath his weight.
“What’s your name, kid?” he asked, though his voice sounded rougher now. Less certain.
“Ava.”
The little girl pushed the drawing closer to him.
“My mommy said you ride a black motorcycle with a silver wolf on it.”
Logan’s chest tightened.
Nobody outside the Iron Saints knew about the silver wolf painted beneath his gas tank.
Nobody except Mara.
Outside, engines rumbled louder beneath the storm.
The waitress behind the counter whispered nervously to another customer.
“They’re back…”
Logan glanced through the rain-streaked windows.
Five motorcycles waited beneath the gas station lights now.
Iron Saints.
Every one of them dressed in black leather cut through with silver patches.
But Logan’s eyes narrowed immediately.
Those weren’t his men.
The wolves stitched onto their backs were red.
A warning.
A challenge.
Someone had taken over the Saints.
Ava’s small voice pulled him back.
“Mom said bad men were looking for us.”
Logan looked at her again.
“Where is your mother now?”
The little girl’s brave expression wavered.
“She told me to hide in the diner and wait for you.” Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. “But she never came back.”
Lightning flashed outside.
The front motorcycles shut off one by one.
Boots hit wet pavement.
Logan’s jaw tightened instantly.
He recognized the tall rider climbing off the lead bike.
Derek Voss.
Second-in-command of the Iron Saints before the betrayal.
Before the fire.
Before Logan was declared dead.
The diner doors burst open under the howl of the storm.
Cold wind slammed through the room as the bikers entered one at a time, water dripping from leather jackets onto the floor tiles.
Every customer shrank lower into their booths.
Derek’s eyes swept across the diner until they landed on Logan.
For a second, genuine shock crossed his face.
Then he smiled slowly.
“Well,” Derek muttered. “Looks like the dead still ride.”
Logan stood from the booth without taking his eyes off him.
Behind him, Ava quietly grabbed the edge of his leather jacket with tiny trembling fingers.
And for the first time in years, Logan Creed realized he finally had something left to lose.
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