My heart dropped into my stomach. Not loves. Loved. She used the past tense.
The boy finally spoke, his voice dry as sandpaper. “Did Mama send you?” he whispered.
My throat tightened up immediately. “Yeah, buddy,” I lied softly. “Mama sent us.”
My name is Marcus “Tank” Williams. I’m a 64-year-old veteran and president of the Iron Wolves MC. We were clearing out an abandoned house at the edge of our Midwest town to stop copper thieves. We found a seven-year-old named Timmy instead.
Crow grabbed the heavy bolt cutters from his saddlebags and snapped the padlock. Timmy swayed on his feet, barely weighing forty pounds. His clothes hung off his tiny frame like old rags.
“Mama said angels would come,” the kid whispered, touching the patches on my leather vest. “Big angels with wings that roar.” He looked out the broken window toward our bikes.
She meant our heavy motorcycle engines. She’d been listening to us cruise the neighborhood.
