PART 2: The Boy Who Asked the Bikers for Help
Silas Boone looked down at the seven crumpled dollars spread across the table.
Then back at the little boy standing in front of him.
The biker didn’t touch the money.
“What’s your name, kid?” Silas asked quietly.
“Wesley.”
Silas nodded once.
“And who’s hurting your mom, Wesley?”
The boy swallowed hard.
Before he could answer, the woman near the back booth hurried forward, panic rising in her voice.
“Wesley, no—” she whispered. “Come here right now.”
The child didn’t move.
He kept his eyes on Silas.
“He said he’s coming back tonight,” Wesley said softly. “Mom says we’ll be okay… but she hides in the bathroom when he calls.”
The diner grew painfully quiet.
Every biker at the booth straightened slightly.
The woman reached them now, tears filling her exhausted eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “Please don’t listen to him. We’ll leave.”
Silas finally picked up the seven dollars.
He studied the wrinkled bills for a long moment before carefully folding them once and slipping them into his vest pocket.
The movement confused her.
Then Silas stood.
Slowly.
The chair scraped against the diner floor loud enough to silence even the kitchen.
“You paid for help,” he said calmly to Wesley.
Something dangerous settled behind his tired eyes.
“So now you have it.”
The woman’s face lost color.
“You don’t understand,” she whispered shakily. “He’s dangerous.”
One of the bikers beside Silas let out a humorless laugh.
Lady,” he muttered, glancing toward the motorcycles outside, “so are we.”
A few truckers nearby quietly looked toward the windows.
Because across the street—
A black pickup truck had just pulled into the parking lot.
And the man climbing out already looked angry.
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