"Ready?" Thank you. Three dots appeared. Wyatt was typing. "Thank you, Chief.
Dad would have loved this. See you soon." The phone went quiet. Dalton poured his coffee and sat at the small kitchen table. The apartment felt different this morning.
Less like a tomb and more like a way station. A place to rest between one life and the next. He thought about Tuesday morning, about Colton's transformation from tormentor to student, about seven bikers who'd walked through a door and rewritten Dalton's story in the space of an hour. The world was strange, full of angels in leather and demons in suits. You couldn't judge by appearances.
You had to look deeper. Look for the actions that revealed character. Wyatt Brennan had revealed his character completely, and Dalton found himself grateful beyond words that Garrett's son had found him. Even if it was 26 years too late to thank Garrett himself. At 7:45, Dalton put on the leather jacket Wraith had loaned him.
It was too big in the shoulders, but warm and smelled like motor oil and freedom. He checked his pockets. Wallet, keys, phone. Everything a modern person needed to exist in the world. The Navy Cross hung outside his shirt, impossible to miss.
Dalton locked his apartment door and walked downstairs to wait on the curb. The fog had burned off completely. Sky stretched blue and endless overhead. The kind of sky that made you believe in possibilities. At exactly 8:00, Dalton heard it.
The rumble of a motorcycle engine. Deep and throaty, more felt than heard. The sound vibrated through his chest like a second heartbeat. A massive bike rounded the corner. Cherry red paint job, chrome gleaming, and attached to the right side a sidecar that looked like something from a World War II movie, updated with modern suspension and padded leather seats.
Kodiak rode the bike with casual expertise. He was even bigger than Dalton remembered. The motorcycle looked normal sized under him, which meant it was probably enormous. Kodiak pulled up to the curb and cut the engine. The sudden silence felt loud.
"Morning, Chief," Kodiak said. His voice was surprisingly gentle for a man that size. You ready for this?" Dalton looked at the sidecar, at the tiny windscreen that would do almost nothing to block wind, at the open cockpit that promised speed and exposure and everything his cautious old life had trained him to avoid. "Ready," he said.
Kodiak grinned. His smile transformed his scarred face into something almost boyish. "Let me help you in." Getting into the sidecar required careful maneuvering. Dalton's knees didn't bend like they used to.
His hips seized halfway through it. But Kodiak was patient, and eventually Dalton settled into the seat. It was comfortable. Surprisingly so. The leather was butter soft.
The seat was contoured to support his back. Kodiak had even installed a small heater that blew warm air across Dalton's legs. "My dad had bad circulation," Kodiak explained strapping Dalton in with a safety harness. "Built this rig for him before cancer took him. He only got to ride it twice.
Been waiting for the right person to use it again." He straightened and looked Dalton in the eye. "You're the right person, Chief." Dalton's throat tightened. He managed to nod.
Kodiak handed him a helmet. Not a full-face modern thing, a vintage half helmet that would protect his skull, but leave his face open to the wind. "Rules of the road," Kodiak said. "You feel sick, tap my leg twice. You need to stop, tap three times.
You're having the time of your life, just hang on and enjoy." He swung his leg over the motorcycle with practiced ease. "Oh, and Chief, you might want to hold on to something when we start. She's got some power." The engine roared to life.
Dalton grabbed the handles built into the sidecar frame. Kodiak pulled away from the curb, smoothly accelerating with steady pressure that pressed Dalton back into his seat. They rolled through Crescent Bay's quiet morning streets, past houses where people were just waking up, past the park where Dalton stopped every Tuesday to salute the memorial. They turned onto Harbor Street and Dalton saw it. The Harbor Cafe parking lot was filled with motorcycles.
Not seven, 50 at least, maybe more. They lined up in neat rows, chrome catching sunlight, leather-clad riders standing beside their bikes like soldiers at attention. Kodiak pulled into the lot and the riders turned as one. Then they started clapping. The sound rolled over Dalton like a wave.
Hands striking together in rhythmic applause that echoed off buildings. People emerged from the cafe. Iris, her employees, customers who'd come early to watch. Wyatt stepped forward from the crowd. He wore his Hells Angels vest over a white shirt.
The vest was covered in patches. Memorial patches, Dalton realized. Names and dates of fallen veterans. "Chief Pierce," Wyatt's voice carried across the parking lot. "Welcome to the 27th annual Veterans Memorial Ride."
27th annual. The number hit Dalton like a fist. One ride for each of the men he couldn't save. Coincidence, maybe, or maybe Wyatt had planned this deliberately, made sure Dalton knew that the 27 were remembered by more than just nightmares. Wyatt walked to the sidecar and helped Dalton climb out.
Dalton's legs were shaky, but held. "Speech!" someone called from the crowd. "Speech!" others echoed. Dalton looked at Wyatt in panic. He hadn't prepared anything.
Didn't know what to say to 50 bikers in what looked like a hundred spectators who'd gathered to watch. "Just speak from your heart," Wyatt said quietly. "That's all they want." Dalton turned to face the crowd. So many faces, young and old, men and women, all looking at him with expectation and respect.
He cleared his throat. "I'm not good at speeches," he began. His voice sounded small and rough. "I'm just an old sailor who did his job." "You're a hero!" someone shouted.
Dalton shook his head. "No. The heroes are the ones who didn't come home. The 27 men from USS Constellation who died in Typhoon Irma. Rodriguez, Mason, Williams, Chen." He recited the names from memory.
All 27. The litany he'd repeated every night for 51 years. The parking lot was silent except for Dalton's voice naming the dead. When he finished, he looked at the crowd. "I wear this medal for them," he said touching the Navy Cross.
"I ride today for them and for every veteran who served and suffered and didn't get the welcome home they deserved." He paused. "Thank you for remembering. Thank you for caring. Thank you for showing this old man that honor isn't dead.
It just sometimes wears leather and rides motorcycles." The crowd erupted. Not just applause this time, cheers, whistles. Dalton saw tears on weathered faces. Wyatt embraced him hard.
"Dad would have loved you," Wyatt whispered. "Hell, I love you, Chief." "I love you, too, son," Dalton said, and meant it. Movement at the edge of the parking lot caught his attention. Three men in business casual approached nervously.
Colton, Brendan, Quincy. Colton carried a large check printed on poster board, the kind they gave away at charity events. He walked straight to Wyatt and Dalton. "Chief Pierce," Colton said formally, "on behalf of Ashford Development Corporation and in memory of Gunnery Sergeant Sterling James Ashford, USMC, I present this donation to the Crescent Bay Veterans Foundation." He turned the check around. $250,000.
Gas rippled through the crowd. "You said 200,000 on Tuesday?" Wyatt said, stunned. "I talked to my board," Colton said. "Told them what I'd done, what I'd learned.
They agreed to match my personal donation and add 50,000 more." He looked at Dalton. "It's not enough to make up for what I did, but it's a start." Dalton shook his hand. "Your grandfather would be proud."