George and Troy backed up, their previous bravado evaporating into pure, unadulterated panic. They were suddenly very small men in a very dangerous ocean.
"What's going on here?" Sully asked. His voice was calm, deep, and carried a dangerous authority.
"None of your business, Biker," George stammered, trying to sound tough, though his voice cracked. "We're doing sanctioned eviction work for Vanguard Holdings. You touch us, you're dealing with millions of dollars in corporate lawyers."
Sully ignored him entirely. He knelt down next to Henry, who was still clutching Clara's hand. Another biker, a thick-shouldered enforcer named Dutch Miller, knelt beside the woman, pulling a clean bandana from his pocket to apply pressure to the wound on her head.
"She's breathing, Sully," Dutch muttered, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the swelling bruise on her jaw. "But she took a hell of a hit."
Sully looked closely at Clara's face. The harsh lines of the biker president's face suddenly shifted. A shock of recognition flashed in his dark eyes.
"Mrs. Bennett," Sully whispered, his voice losing its rough edge for a fraction of a second.
Henry, tears still streaming down his face, looked up at the giant man. "You... You know my wife."
Sully stood up slowly. The twist of fate hung heavy in the sweltering air. Thirty years ago, before the leather, before the club, before the prison stints and the hard miles, Sully Orr had been a starving, abused runaway kid living on these very streets. Clara Bennett, a young hardware store owner, had caught him stealing tools. Instead of calling the police, she had given him a job sweeping floors, fed him hot meals, and bought him his first winter coat. She had treated a throwaway kid like a human being. Half the men in this specific charter had grown up in this neighborhood. Half of them had survived winters because of the Bennetts' quiet charity.