PART 2: Scarred Biker Hears the Name He Buried Years Ago
Rain hammered softly against the diner windows as the little girl’s whisper hung frozen between them.
Logan Kane didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
His scarred fingers remained wrapped around the coffee mug, but the ceramic began cracking beneath the pressure of his grip.
Around them, the low murmur of the diner slowly faded into silence.
Because everyone noticed the change in him.
The waitress near the counter stopped wiping glasses.
A trucker halfway through his meal quietly lowered his fork.
Even the buzzing neon beer signs suddenly seemed louder than before.
The little girl stared at Logan nervously.
“I wasn’t supposed to say it,” she whispered.
Logan finally moved.
Slowly.
Carefully.
“What exactly did you hear?” he asked.
The girl swallowed hard.
“One of them said…” Her voice trembled. “Tell Mercer the Black Vultures finally finished it.”
The mug shattered in Logan’s hand.
Coffee spilled across the table as sharp pieces of ceramic hit the floor.
Nobody in the diner moved.
Logan barely noticed the blood running across his knuckles.
Because one thought had already taken hold inside his head.
The Black Vultures.
He hadn’t heard that name in twelve years.
Not since the massacre outside Reno that left seven bikers dead and Logan buried beneath a burning garage while everyone else believed he died with the rest of his club.
But they hadn’t finished it.
Not even close.
The little girl flinched as Logan suddenly stood from the booth.
“Hey,” the waitress called nervously. “You’re bleeding.”
Logan ignored her.
He pulled an old flip phone from inside his leather jacket and stared at it for two long seconds before dialing a number from memory.
The line rang once.
Twice.
Then a rough voice answered.
“You better be dead or dying.”
Logan’s eyes stayed fixed on the rain outside.
“They’re back.”
Silence answered him instantly.
Then the voice changed completely.
“Who?”
Logan’s jaw tightened.
“The Vultures.”
Across the diner, several customers exchanged uneasy looks without understanding why the air suddenly felt dangerous.
The man on the phone cursed under his breath.
“That’s impossible.”
“They took a woman and left a kid behind.”
Logan glanced at the girl again.
She sat perfectly still now, watching him with frightened blue eyes far too old for her age.
“What’s the address?” the voice asked.
“Route 16 outside Tulsa.”
Another silence.
Then:
“Don’t move. I’m calling the others.”
The line went dead.
Logan slipped the phone back into his jacket.
The waitress approached carefully with a towel. “Sir, your hand—”
“Leave it.”
His voice wasn’t loud.
But it stopped her cold.
The little girl looked down at her untouched food.
“My mom said if I found you…” she whispered, “you’d know how to stop them.”
Logan stared at the storm beyond the diner windows.
Headlights appeared briefly through the rain.
Then vanished.
His instincts sharpened instantly.
Someone was out there.
Watching.
Logan reached beneath his jacket slowly.
The metallic sound of a handgun sliding free echoed softly beneath the hum of the diner lights.
Several customers froze.
The little girl’s eyes widened.
Logan crouched beside the booth until they were eye level.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Emma.”
“Emma,” he said quietly, “when I tell you to move, you run to the kitchen and don’t stop. Understand?”
Fear finally appeared in her face.
“Are they here?”
Logan looked toward the dark parking lot again.
A black SUV now sat across the road with its headlights off.
Engine running.
Waiting.
And inside the diner, every second of silence felt closer to violence.
Our Facebook Group
Join Our Group
