There was a phone number beside the name.
Brian took out his phone.
His thumb hovered.
He had no idea who Jackson Sullivan was.
Maybe he wouldn't answer.
Maybe the number was disconnected.
Maybe this would make everything worse.
But Brian had run out of choices.
He dialed.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Then—
“Yeah?”
The voice was deep and rough.
Brian heard loud music in the background.
Motorcycles.
Laughter.
Glass clinking.
“Is this Jackson Sullivan?”
“Depends who's asking.”
“My name is Brian Matthews. I'm the head football coach at Oak Creek High.”
Silence.
Then the voice changed.
“Why are you calling me?”
“I'm calling about Cody.”
The background noise abruptly faded.
“Is he hurt?”
Brian swallowed.
“Yes.”
“How bad?”
“He's been severely beaten.”
Silence.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Then one word.
“Who?”
Brian understood immediately.
This wasn't curiosity.
It was a warning.
“Two students. Trent Harris and Weston Cole.”
Another silence.
“Where's Cody?”
“In my office.”
“Is he safe?”
“Yes.”
“Keep him there.”
“Jackson—”
“Keep him there.”
Brian heard an engine roar somewhere behind him.
“How far away are you?”
“Thirty miles.”
“How long?”
“Twenty minutes.”
Brian stood.
“You can't come here looking for a fight.”
Jackson's voice became almost frighteningly calm.
“Coach.”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for calling me.”
A pause.
“But from this moment on, my brother is no longer alone.”
The line went dead.
Brian slowly lowered his phone.
He had no idea who Jackson Sullivan was.
But he had a feeling Oak Creek High was about to find out.
The Rider
The final bell rang.
Students poured out of the building.
Cars filled the parking lot.
Parents waited near the curb.
Trent Harris leaned against his brand-new pickup truck, laughing with Weston and several other students.
He looked untouchable.
He always had.
Then the sound began.
At first, it was distant.
A low vibration.
Then a rumble.
Then a roar.
Conversations stopped.
Heads turned.
A motorcycle appeared at the end of the driveway.
It was matte black.
Long.
Heavy.
Menacing.
The Harley rolled through the parking lot.
Students moved aside.
The motorcycle stopped near the center of the courtyard.
The engine died.
Silence fell.
The rider stepped off.
He was enormous.
Six-foot-four.
Broad shoulders.
Muscular arms covered in tattoos.
Black boots.
Grease-stained jeans.
A black T-shirt beneath a heavy leather vest.
Then he turned.
The back of the vest carried a symbol everyone recognized.
The winged death's head.
Hells Angels.
Nomad.
Parents immediately pulled their children closer.
Teachers froze.
Principal Gregory Wallace rushed outside.
But the rider didn't look at him.
His eyes searched the crowd.
Then he found Cody.
Everything changed.
The terrifying biker's expression softened.
Just for a second.
“Hey, kid.”
Cody's lips trembled.
“Jax.”
Jackson Sullivan removed his helmet.
His face was scarred.
His beard was thick.
His eyes were hard.