“Should’ve thought about that before you stayed up playing poker in Albuquerque,” Rick replied with a smirk. “Lost what? Two hundred bucks?”
“Two hundred fifty,” Danny admitted sheepishly. “But I would’ve won it back if you guys hadn’t dragged me out of there.”
Marcus barely registered their banter. His attention had shifted to something else. A small figure standing near his motorcycle. A boy, no more than eight or nine years old, with disheveled brown hair that stuck up in odd directions, and a dirt-smudged face that spoke of a day spent playing outdoors. The kid wore a faded blue T-shirt with a cartoon character Marcus didn’t recognize, shorts that had seen better days, and sneakers held together more by willpower than stitching.
What struck Marcus most were the boy’s eyes. Blue, startlingly clear, and fixed on the motorcycles with an intensity that seemed out of place in such a young face. The kid wasn’t admiring the bikes with typical childlike wonder. He was studying them, looking at something Marcus couldn’t see.
“Hey, little man,” Tyler called out, his tone friendly. “Those are some nice rides, huh? You like motorcycles?”
The boy didn’t respond. He took a step closer to Marcus’s Harley, his small hands clenched into fists at his sides. Marcus felt the first stirring of something, not quite concern, but awareness. Something in the kid’s body language set off alarms that years on the road had fine-tuned to perfection.
“Kid’s probably just looking,” Danny said, already pulling his keys from his pocket. “Come on, let’s roll.”
Marcus moved toward his bike, his boots crunching on the gravel. The boy’s head snapped up, those blue eyes locking onto Marcus with surprising focus. For a moment, neither moved. Then the boy spoke, his voice higher than Marcus expected, but carrying a firmness that stopped all four bikers in their tracks.
“Don’t start your motorcycles.”
The words hung in the air like smoke. Marcus frowned, unsure he’d heard correctly. Rick laughed, a short bark of amusement. “What’d you say, kid?”
“Don’t start your motorcycles,” the boy repeated, louder this time. His thin frame trembled slightly, but he held his ground, positioning himself between Marcus and his Harley. “Please. You can’t.”
Marcus exchanged glances with his brothers. This was unexpected. Kids usually either ran away from the Iron Serpents or begged for rides. They didn’t issue warnings with the desperate earnestness of someone trying to prevent a disaster.
“And why is that?” Marcus asked, keeping his tone neutral. He crouched down slightly, bringing himself closer to the boy’s eye level. Up close, he could see the tracks of dried tears on the kid’s cheeks, the way his lower lip quivered despite his brave stance.