Diesel spits. "So what? We send flowers?"
"We owe her," Reaper says quietly.
The room goes silent.
"A kid put herself between us and death. Didn't ask for anything. Just did it because it was right."
The Preacher adds, "She's also the only witness. They'll come for her."
Reaper stands. "Then we make sure they don't get to her."
The clubhouse smells like motor oil, cigarette smoke, and spilled beer. It's not a place for children or polite society. The walls are covered in patches, photos of fallen brothers, and a faded American flag with thirteen stars. This is where the Hells Angels make decisions that can't be made in daylight.
Reaper stands at the head of the table. Thirty men sit or lean against walls watching him. Some have been with the club for decades; others are newer, still proving themselves. But they all share one thing: loyalty to the patch on their backs.
"The kid who saved us is named Zara Williams," Reaper begins. "Ten years old. Lives with her mother in a shithole apartment in South Racine. Mother works three jobs just to keep the lights on. No father, no family support. They're barely surviving."
He pulls out a folder. Inside are photos he had someone take discreetly: Zara walking to school alone; Kesha leaving for work before sunrise; the eviction notice taped to their apartment door.
"Two days ago, police raided their apartment. Anonymous tip about drug activity. Found nothing, because there was nothing. But the landlord got spooked. Served them eviction papers: thirty days."
Diesel leans forward. "How do you know this?"
"Because I've been watching. Because whoever planted those bombs knows she saw them. They're erasing her quietly, systematically."
The Preacher steps up, holding a different folder. "It gets worse. I made some calls. Kesha Williams was fired from her cleaning job yesterday. Building management got a call from someone claiming she violated safety protocols by bringing her daughter to work—which she did, but they never cared before. Someone pressured them."
The room murmurs. Anger ripples through the crew.
Tommy, the club's vice president, speaks up. He's Black, 48, with a scar running from his temple to his jaw. "So, what are we talking about here? Are we playing guardian angels now?"
"We're paying a debt," Reaper says flatly. "That girl stood between us and death. She didn't have to. She could have stayed hidden, let us die, gone home safe. But she didn't. And now the system is crushing her for it."