PART 2: Thirty Riders Follow the Dog Into the Storm
The storm swallowed the highway whole.
Rain hammered leather and chrome as thirty motorcycles tore through the darkness behind the limping shepherd, headlights slicing across the empty Montana road like moving knives. The dog never slowed, weaving through puddles and abandoned roadside pullouts with desperate purpose while thunder cracked above the mountains.
Ryder Calloway stayed at the front of the pack.
Water streamed from his beard and vest as he pushed his Harley harder through the storm, eyes locked on the shepherd racing ahead beneath the flood of headlights.
Then the dog suddenly veered off the highway.
Toward the woods.
Gravel exploded beneath spinning tires as the riders followed him down a narrow logging road half-swallowed by mud and darkness. Branches whipped against handlebars while engines roared between towering pine trees.
Finally—
The shepherd stopped.
Hard.
He barked violently into the storm beside an old cabin nearly hidden beneath the forest.
Every rider killed their engine at once.
Silence crashed down instantly except for rain pounding the roof.
The cabin door hung slightly open.
A weak yellow light flickered somewhere inside.
The shepherd whimpered and scratched frantically at the steps.
Ryder climbed off his bike slowly, one hand already moving beneath his vest.
Something felt wrong.
Too quiet.
One of the bikers stepped beside him. “You think somebody’s hurt in there?”
Ryder didn’t answer.
Because he could hear it now.
Faint.
Small.
Crying.
Coming from inside the cabin.
The shepherd barked again, louder this time, tail whipping wildly against the rain.
Ryder shoved the cabin door open.
The smell hit first.
Blood.
Smoke.
Fear.
Then he saw her.
A little girl curled beneath an overturned table clutching a blanket against her chest while tears streaked through dirt on her face. Bruises darkened one side of her cheek, and terror filled her eyes the second the door burst open.
The shepherd bolted straight to her.
The girl grabbed his neck instantly and broke into sobs.
Ryder’s expression hardened as his gaze lifted slowly across the destroyed cabin.
Broken furniture.
Spent shell casings.
Blood smeared across the wooden floor.
And near the back wall—
A man lay motionless beside a shotgun.
One biker behind Ryder cursed quietly.
But the little girl’s trembling voice stopped everyone cold.
“He told me to hide when they came back…”
Ryder crouched slowly beneath the flickering light.
“Who came back?” he asked carefully.
The girl looked up at him with shaking lips.
Then whispered the words that made every biker in the doorway go still.
“The men with the black wolves on their jackets.”
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