"I'm listening." "You ever heard of the Iron Ghosts? Another pause, longer this time. That's old school, before my time. Club out of Ohio, right?
Disbanded in the 70s? 79. They were Korean War vets, six guys. Built a brotherhood when nobody else would have them. Why are you telling me this at 6:00 in the morning?
Because one of those six was my uncle, and yesterday a 73-year-old woman drove 400 miles to remind me what he stood for. What they all stood for. And I realized I've spent the last 10 years building an empire on everything they would have hated. Silence on the other end. Cole could almost hear Hammer thinking.
We're riding in two weeks, Cole continued, to honor them, to pay respects at their graves, to remember what this life was supposed to be about before it became about money and territory and who's tougher than who. You're inviting me to a memorial ride? I'm inviting every club within 500 miles. No colors, no territory disputes, no business, just riders remembering where we came from. You've lost your mind.
Maybe, or maybe I finally found it. Hammer was quiet for a long moment. Cole waited, didn't push, let the words sit. You know what's going to happen, right? You do this, people are going to think you've gone soft.
They're going to test you, see if you mean it. Let them. You're serious. Dead serious. Another long pause, then My old man rode in the 60s before he patched into the Outlaws.
He used to talk about clubs like the Iron Ghosts. Said they were the real deal. Said most of us nowadays are just playing dress-up. Was he right? Yeah, he was right.
Hammer exhaled. Send me the details. I'll be there. Cole felt something loosen in his chest. Thank you.
Don't thank me yet. This is either the bravest thing you've ever done or the stupidest. We'll find out which. The line went dead. Cole looked at Wrench, who'd been listening from across the bar.
One down, Wrench said. 15 to go, Cole replied. He made the next call. Over the next 12 hours, Cole worked his way down the list. Some presidents hung up on him.
Some laughed. Some told him to go to hell. But some listened. By sunset, he had commitments from eight clubs. Hells Angels chapters from three different states.
Two Bandidos chapters. The Outlaws from San Bernardino. Even the Mongols. The same ones Brutus had almost called in for backup. Eight clubs.
473 riders confirmed. More or less, they're saying maybe. It wasn't everyone. But it was enough. Wrench planned the route.
530 miles over two days. Starting in Riverside, cutting through Nevada, ending at a small cemetery in rural Ohio, where all six founders were buried. They'd ride in formation. No club colors. Just black leather and chrome and the open road.
The word spread fast. Within 3 days, every major club in the Southwest knew what was happening. Opinions were divided. Some called it weakness. Some called it attention-seeking.
Some called it the most honest thing they'd seen in decades. But they were talking. And that was something. On the fifth day, Cole got a call he didn't expect. It was from a woman.
Mid-30s by the sound of her voice. Professional. The kind of crisp diction that came from education and practice. Mr. Brennan? My name is Sarah Chen.
I'm a reporter with the Los Angeles Times. I heard about your memorial ride. Cole's first instinct was to hang up. Nothing good ever came from talking to reporters. I'm not interested in publicity, he said.
I'm not calling for a story. Not the kind you're thinking anyway. She paused. My grandfather was a veteran, Korea. He came home with PTSD before they had a name for it.
Drank himself to death when my mother was 12. She never talked about him, never kept photos, just tried to forget. Cole listened. Last year I was going through her things after she died. Found a box in the attic.
Letters my grandfather had written to someone named Silas. They rode together apparently. There were photos. Six men in their motorcycles. Cole's hand tightened on the phone.
Your grandfather was in the Iron Ghosts? I don't know. The letters never mentioned a club name, just talked about the road, about brotherhood, about trying to outrun ghosts. Her voice got quieter. I never got to know him.
But reading those letters, I felt like I understood him for the first time. What was his name? Garrett Finch. Cole stopped breathing. Garrett Finch, the quiet one, the one who disappeared in Mexico in 1981, the one nobody knew what happened to.
Miss Chen, Cole said carefully, we thought your grandfather died in Mexico 43 years ago. He did, but not the way everyone thinks. She took a breath. He didn't disappear, he was killed. Ambushed by traffickers on a highway outside Tijuana.
They found his body 3 weeks later. No ID, no bike. Mexican authorities buried him in a mass grave. How do you know this? I spent 2 years researching, found the police reports, found the grave.
I had him exhumed and brought home. He's buried now in Sacramento, next to my grandmother. Cole felt something twist in his chest. Does anyone else know? No, I only found out last year.
I've been trying to figure out who to tell. Then I heard about your ride, about honoring the founders, and I thought maybe this was why I was supposed to find out, so I could tell you. So someone would know he didn't just run away. He was coming home. Can you prove it?
I have the letters, the police reports, photos of the grave site, everything. Cole looked at the vest on the wall, at Garrett Finch's signature. We're riding to Ohio in 9 days. Six graves, but if what you're saying is true, there should be seven. There's a cemetery in Sacramento, Oak Hill, plot 23.
If you want to include it in your route. Cole closed his eyes. We will. Thank you for telling me. Mr. Brennan, can I ask you something?