Conversation stopped.
Fifteen leather-clad veterans sat frozen, staring at this tiny kid in a dinosaur shirt. Who'd just asked us to commit murder
like he was requesting extra ketchup.
His mother was in the bathroom,
no idea her son had approached their table, had no idea what he was about to reveal.
"Please," he added, his voice small but determined.
"I have seven dollars."
He pulled out crumpled bills from his pocket, placing them on our table ,
His little hands were shaking, but his eyes were dead serious.
Big Mike, our club president and a grandfather of four, knelt down.
"What's your name, buddy?"
"Tyler," the boy whispered.
"Mom's coming back soon.
Will you help or not?"
"Tyler, why do you want us to hurt your stepdad?" Mike asked gently.
The boy pulled down the collar of his shirt. Faint, purple fingerprints marked his throat. "He said if I tell anyone, he'll hurt Mom worse than he hurts me.
But you're bikers.
You're tough.
You can stop him."
That's when we noticed everything else: the way he favored his left side, the brace on his wrist, the faded yellow bruise on his jaw .
Before anyone could answer, a woman emerged from the bathroom.
Pretty, but walking with the careful movements of someone hiding pain.
She saw Tyler at our table and panic flashed across her face.
"Tyler! I'm so sorry, he's bothering you—" She rushed over, and we all saw her wince.
We also saw the heavy makeup on her wrist, smudged just enough to reveal purple bruises that matched her son's.
"No bother at all, ma'am," Mike said, standing slowly. "Actually, why don't you both join us , It wasn't a request.
She sat down reluctantly, pulling Tyler close.
"Tyler," Mike said, "
is someone hurting you and your mom?"
Her composure cracked.
"Please," she whispered.
"You don't understand.
He'll kill us."
"Ma'am, look around this table,"
Mike interrupted quietly
.
"Every man here served in combat.
Every one of us has protected innocent people from bullies.
That's what we do.
Now, is someone hurting you?"
Her silent, weeping nod was all the answer we needed.
And that's when a man in a polo shirt shot up from a booth ,his face red with rage.
"Sarah! What the hell are you doing talking to these freaks?
And you, kid! Get over here now!"
He started storming toward our table.
Big Mike quickly stood up. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't clench his fists.
He simply became a mountain.
"Son," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble ,
I suggest you go back to your booth.
"That's my wife and kid!"
"No," Mike said, taking a small step forward, the other fourteen bikers rising silently behind him.
"That is a mother and a child who are under our protection now. You a
