The orphan boy ran from bullies and fell into a forbidden mine. In the darkness, he found a trapped biker who recognized a symbol in his only photo. The same mark the biker wore on his jacket. What the boy didn’t know, that symbol would bring 6,500 riders to his rescue, revealing his parents were legends he never knew existed. The rock hit Eli Square in the back.

 

 

 He stumbled forward, his worn sneakers skidding on the gravel path behind Metobrook Foster Home. Laughter erupted behind him. Three boys, all bigger, all meaner. Where you running, freak? Tommy’s voice cut through the autumn air. Going to cry to Miss Patterson again. Eli didn’t answer. He never did. Talking only made it worse. Instead, he ran.

 His lungs burned as he sprinted past the rusted fence that marked the edge of the property. The forbidden zone lay ahead, the old Blackwood mining site. Everyone knew the rules. No kids allowed. Dangerous ground. Unstable tunnels. The town had sealed it off 20 years ago after the last accident. But rules didn’t matter when Tommy and his friends were throwing rocks.

 Eli ducked under the yellow caution tape, his heart hammering. The mine entrance loomed before him like a gaping mouth, surrounded by rotting wooden beams and signed screaming warnings in faded red letters. He’d never been this close before. The foster kids whispered stories about it. Ghost stories mostly tales of miners who never came out.

 He went into the mine, one of the boys shouted. Forget him, Tommy said. Miss Patterson will kill us if we go in there. Their footsteps retreated. Eli sagged against the damp wall of the mine entrance, gasping for air. His hands trembled. The photo. He reached into his pocket, checking frantically.

 Still there, the only thing he owned that mattered. His parents frozen in time, smiling, young. His father’s arm wrapped around his mother’s shoulders, both of them standing in front of a motorcycle. Eli had been two when they died. He didn’t remember their voices or their faces beyond this creased photograph, but he carried it everywhere. A sound echoed from deeper in the mine. Eli froze.

It came again. A rhythmic tapping like metal on stone. Slow, deliberate, human. His instincts screamed at him to leave. But something else, curiosity maybe, or the desperate loneliness of a boy with nothing to lose, pulled him forward. The darkness swallowed him whole.

 Eli clicked on the small keychain flashlight he’d gotten from the library lost and found. Its weak beam barely cut through the blackness. The air grew colder with each step, heavy with the smell of damp earth and rust. The tapping grew louder. He was so focused on the sound that he didn’t see the ground change. The floor crumbled beneath his feet. Eli didn’t even have time to scream.

 He dropped straight down, his body scraping against jagged rocks as he tumbled through a shaft no wider than his shoulders. He hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. For several terrifying seconds, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Then his chest expanded and he sucked in a painful gasp of air. “Kid!” A rough voice cut through the darkness.

Kid, is that you making that noise? Eli’s flashlight had fallen a few feet away, its beam pointing at an uneven ceiling of stone and rotting support beams. He grabbed it with shaking hands and swept the light across the cavern. A man lay pinned under a collapsed stone ledge.

 He was maybe 40, with a weathered face covered in several days worth of stubble and stre with dirt. His leather jacket was torn at the shoulder, revealing a bloodstained shirt beneath. One leg disappeared under a massive slab of rock. Empty water bottles lay scattered around him along with a dead cell phone and what looked like a broken flare gun. “Oh god,” Eli whispered.

 “Are you still alive?” Barely, the man’s voice was ow, kid. 10 12 11 Eli said, crawling closer. What happened? How long have you been down here? 3 days. Maybe four. Lost track, the man coughed, wincing. Name’s Razer. Razor Miles. I was riding through exploring the old mining trails. Ground gave way beneath my bike.

 woke up like this. Razor Miles. Eli had heard that name before. Whispered in town, always with a certain tone. Trouble, danger, criminal. But the man in front of him just looked hurt and scared. “We need to get help,” Eli said, standing up too quickly. His head spun. “I’ll go back to town.” “Wait,” Razer’s voice sharpened. Don’t go yet.

 Just Just talk to me for a minute. It’s been so quiet down here. Thought I was going crazy. Eli hesitated. Something in the man’s eyes, a desperate loneliness that mirrored his own, made him sit back down. What’s your name, kid? Eli. Eli Foster. It wasn’t his real last name. Foster kids without family just took the generic surname.

 I live at Metobrook. The foster home. Razer nodded slowly. Tough break. Eli shrugged. He’d heard that before, too. As he shifted to sit more comfortably, the photograph slipped from his pocket, landing face up between them. Razer’s eyes locked onto it immediately. Can I see that? Something in his tone made Eli hand it over without argument.

Razer stared at the photo for a long moment, his face going pale even in the dim light. Where did you get this? His voice had changed completely. Urgent, almost frightened. It’s my parents. It’s the only picture I have. They died when I was little. Razer’s hand trembled as he held the photograph closer to his face. Your father, his arm, that tattoo.

 Eli looked. He’d seen it a thousand times. Geometric lines forming a strange symbol like a stylized hawk with its wings spread over a road that stretched into infinity. That’s the Iron Hawk’s mark, Razer said quietly. And this isn’t just any photo, kid. I know exactly when this was taken. Spring rally 15 years ago. I was there.

He pointed to his own jacket where despite the dirt and blood, Eli could see a patch on the chest. The exact same symbol. The cavern seemed to spin around Eli. You knew my parents. I didn’t just know them. Razer met his eyes. Something like wonder and grief mixed in his expression. Your father saved my life twice.

 And if you’re who I think you are, if you’re really Jacob and Sarah’s kid, then you’re not just some random boy who fell down here. The tapping sound echoed again, and Eli realized with a chill that it was coming from somewhere deeper in the tunnels. Not from Razer at all. What is that sound? He whispered. Razer’s face hardened. That’s the mind settling. These tunnels are coming down.

We don’t have much time. He grabbed Eli’s wrist with surprising strength. Listen to me carefully. You need to get out of here and find help. But not from the police. They won’t come. You need to find the writers. Do you understand? Find the Iron Hawks. I don’t know how. You’ll figure it out.

 Your Jacob’s son, Razer, released him, settling back with a grimace of pain. Now go before this whole section collapses. Eli looked at the tunnel opening above him. Too high to climb, too smooth to grip. He’d have to find another way out. He picked up his photograph, tucking it carefully back into his pocket. I’m coming back, he promised. I’m going to get you out.

 Razer smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Just like your old man. Stubborn as hell, Eli turned toward the darkness, his weak flashlight beam trembling in his hand. Somewhere in these collapsing tunnels was a way out. And somewhere beyond them was a mystery about his parents that he’d never known existed.

 The tapping came again, closer now. Stone grinding against stone. Eli started running. Eli’s flashlight beam danced across the tunnel walls as he searched for an exit. The cavern where Razer lay trapped had three possible passages, each one darker and more threatening than the last. He chose the middle one. It angled upward slightly, and up meant out.

 His mind raced faster than his feet. Your father saved my life twice. How? When? Why had no one ever told him his parents were connected to bikers? Miss Patterson at the foster home had only said they died in an accident. No details, no stories, nothing that would help a 2-year-old boy understand why he was suddenly alone in the world. The tunnel narrowed.

 Eli had to turn sideways to squeeze through, his jacket scraping against damp stone. Water dripped somewhere nearby, a steady plinking that echoed in the darkness. He thought about the symbol, the Iron Hawks mark. The same image on his father’s arm and razor’s jacket. It had to mean something important.

 You didn’t tattoo something on your skin unless it mattered. The passage opened into a small chamber. Eli swept his flashlight around, looking for any crack of daylight, any hint of the surface. Instead, the beam caught something on the wall that made him freeze.

 Carved into the rock, barely visible under years of dirt and mineral deposits, was the Hawk symbol. Eli moved closer, his heart pounding. It wasn’t just one carving. As he traced the light across the wall, he found more. A series of symbols and marks forming what looked like a crude map. Arrows pointing in different directions, numbers scratched beneath some of the hawks. “What is this?” he whispered.

 his parents had been here or someone like them. The symbols were old but deliberate, hidden in a place where only someone looking would find them. A deep rumbling sound rolled through the tunnel. Dust rained from the ceiling. Eli pressed himself against the wall as a section of the passage behind him collapsed with a thunderous crash.

 Rocks bounced past his feet and the air filled with choking dust. When the rumbling stopped, the way he’d come was completely blocked. Panic clawed at his chest. He couldn’t go back to Razer now, even if he wanted to. He had to find another route, both to escape and to return with help. Eli forced himself to breathe slowly. Think. Use your head.

 Miss Patterson always said he was smart when he wasn’t being stubborn. He studied the symbols again, trying to understand their pattern. The largest hawk had an arrow pointing left. Beneath it, scratched numbers, 40 to 12. He turned left, counting his steps. At 40 paces, he found another symbol on the wall, smaller, almost hidden in a crevice.

 Another arrow, this time pointing up and to the right. More numbers, 25 to 8. It was a map, a secret path marked by people who knew these tunnels intimately. Eli followed the trail, his confidence growing with each symbol he found. 25 steps. Eight more. Another hawk. The passage began climbing steeply and his legs burned with effort, but he didn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop. The air changed. It felt fresher, less stale. Then he saw it, a thin crack of gray light filtering through rocks ahead. Eli scrambled toward it, shoving aside loose stones. The opening was small, barely large enough for his thin frame, but he squeezed through, ignoring the scrapes on his arms and face.

 He tumbled out onto a hillside covered in dead leaves, and emerged into the fading afternoon light. He’d come out nearly half a mile from the main mine entrance, hidden behind a cluster of boulders that concealed the exit completely. Eli sucked in deep breaths of clean air, his whole body shaking. He’d made it, but Razer was still down there, trapped, dying. He pulled out the photograph again, studying it with new eyes.

 His father’s tattoo was clear in the image, but now Eli noticed other details. His mother wore a small pendant around her neck shaped like a hawk. Behind them, other people stood near motorcycles, their faces blurred, but their jackets visible. All marked with the same symbol. Find the riders, Razer had said. Find the Iron Hawks.

 But how? Eli didn’t know any bikers. Metobrook was a small town and the only motorcycles he’d ever seen were passing through on the highway. The police. He had to try the police first. Even if Razer said they wouldn’t help, a man was dying underground. They had to listen. Eli started running toward town, his legs protesting every step.

 The sun was setting, painting the sky orange and purple. He had maybe an hour of daylight left. As he ran, he memorized the tunnel symbols in his mind, the hawks pointing the way, the numbers marking the path. His parents had created this map or helped create it. They’d known these tunnels were dangerous, but had marked a safe route anyway.

 Why? What had they been doing here? And more importantly, what else hadn’t anyone told him about Jacob and Sarah Foster? The town lights appeared in the distance. Eli ran faster, clutching the photograph in his pocket like a lifeline. Razer was counting on him. And somehow, impossibly, this was about more than just saving one man. This was about discovering who his parents really were.

Eli’s side cramped as he stumbled back down the hillside toward the main mine entrance. The police station was 2 miles away in town, but he needed to mark this location first, the hidden exit he’d found. If rescue came, they’d need to know about it. He grabbed a thick branch and jammed it into the ground near the boulder cluster, then tied his dirty handkerchief to it like a flag.

 It wasn’t much, but in the growing darkness, it might help. The main entrance loomed ahead, its caution tape fluttering in the evening breeze. Eli ducked under it again, his flashlight beam cutting through the gloom. He had to check if there was any other way to reach Razer. something faster than the route he’d taken. The primary tunnel stretched before him, wider than the passage he’d escaped through.

 Old mining equipment lay scattered everywhere. Rusted carts with broken wheels, coils of rotted rope, pickaxes with splintered handles. Everything the mining company had abandoned when they’d sealed the site. Eli moved carefully, testing each step before putting his full weight down. The floor was treacherous.

 Some boards covered pits, others were solid stone. He nearly stepped on a plank that crumbled to powder under his shoe. 20 ft in, he found the first cart. It sat on rails that disappeared into the darkness, heading downward at a steep angle. The cart itself was orange with rust, its metal body pockarked with holes.

 But the wheels surprisingly looked intact. Could he ride it down? Eli examined the rails. They were old, but still bolted to the ground, leading into the depths where Razer lay trapped. It would be faster than walking, definitely faster than the winding path he’d taken before. He grabbed the cart’s edge and pushed. It didn’t budge.

 He pushed harder, throwing his whole weight into it. Something groaned, metal, scraping metal, and the cart shifted an inch. Then another. The wheels began to turn, squealing in protest. The cart started rolling. Eli barely managed to jump in before it picked up speed. The tunnel swallowed him, the rails carrying him down into absolute darkness. Wind whipped his face.

 His flashlight bounced wildly, making the wall strobe past in dizzying flashes. Too fast. This was too fast. He tried to slow the cart by dragging his feet, but the rails were on too steep a decline. The cart bounced over a gap in the track, and Eli’s stomach lurched. For a horrible moment, all four wheels left the rails completely. They crashed back down with a bonejarring impact.

 Ahead, something gleamed in the flashlight beam, a fallen support beam lying directly across the tracks. Eli threw himself sideways. The cart hit the beam and flipped, metal shrieking as it tumbled. Eli rolled across the tunnel floor, his flashlight flying from his grip. He slammed into the wall and lay there gasping, his whole body screaming in pain. The cart’s wreckage settled with a final clang somewhere in the darkness.

 For a long moment, Eli couldn’t move, couldn’t think. His ribs achd, his left arm throbbed, and something warm trickled down his forehead. He touched it gingerly. Blood, but not much. His flashlight. Where was his flashlight? He crawled forward, hands searching the rough ground. His fingers found it wedged between two rocks, still miraculously working. The beam flickered, but held steady.

 Eli pulled himself to his feet, wincing. The tunnel ahead was blocked by the fallen beam and the destroyed cart. No going forward this way, but as he swept the light around, something caught his attention. More symbols on the wall, the Iron Hawks marks glowing faintly in the beam. They were everywhere here, clustered together like they were marking something important. Eli limped closer.

 The symbols weren’t just carved this time. Someone had used paint. Old, faded, but still visible. Red and black hawks covered a 10-ft section of wall along with words scratched beneath them. Rally point 1998. Safe haven. Remember the fallen. Below that, names. Dozens of them carved into the stone like a memorial. Eli’s breath caught. Halfway down the list, he found them.

 Jacob Foster, Sarah Foster. His parents’ names preserved in stone deep underground. His fingers traced the letters, feeling the rough edges where someone had carefully carved each one. Why were they remembered here? What had happened in 1998? More rumbling echoed through the tunnel. The walls shuddered and a crack appeared in the ceiling, spreading like lightning across stone.

 Dust poured down in streams. Eli backed away from the memorial wall, his heart racing. The whole section was unstable. The cart crash must have triggered something. A support beam groaned ominously above his head. He ran. The tunnel behind him collapsed in stages. First the ceiling, then the walls, each section falling like dominoes.

Eli sprinted through the choking dust, his injured arm clutched to his chest, following the weak beam of his flashlight. A side passage appeared on his right. Eli dove into it just as the main tunnel sealed itself with a roar of falling rock. Silence fell, thick and absolute. Eli lay in the darkness of the side passage, dust settling around him.

 His lungs burned, his body achd, and somewhere below, Razer Miles was still trapped, running out of time. The main route was gone. The cart was destroyed. He’d have to use the marked path again, the secret route his parents had helped create. But first, he needed help. Real help. Eli pushed himself up and started walking, following the passage upward.

The symbols would guide him out. They’d guided him before. His parents had left him a map. Even in death, they were trying to help him. Now he just had to figure out why the police would refuse to save a dying man. The Pinewood Police Station sat on Main Street between a hardware store and a diner that had closed hours ago.

 A single patrol car was parked outside, its white paint dulled by road dust. Through the glass door, Eli could see Officer Hrix behind the front desk, half asleep over a cross word puzzle. Eli burst through the door, gasping for breath. Hrix jerked upright, his chair squeaking. “Jesus, kid, you trying to give me a heart attack?” “There’s a man trapped in the Blackwood mine,” Eli blurted out. “He’s hurt bad.

His leg is crushed. He needs help right now. Hendrick’s expression shifted from startled to skeptical. Slow down. What were you doing at the mine? That place is off limits. I fell in by accident, but that doesn’t matter. There’s a man dying down there. What man? Another voice cut in.

 Sheriff Doerty emerged from the back office, coffee mug in hand. He was a thick-shouldered man with gray temples and eyes that had seemed too much to trust easily. Who do you see, son? His name is Razer Miles. He’s been trapped for 3 or 4 days. Please, you have to send someone. Stop right there. Doy’s face hardened instantly. He set his mug down with a sharp click. Razor Miles.

Yes, sir. He’s pinned under rocks. He can barely move. Hris, call Miss Patterson. Tell her one of her kids is out after dark spinning stories. Doority crossed his arms. Boy, I don’t know what game you’re playing, but Razer Miles is wanted for questioning regarding illegal street races, drug trafficking, and inciting violence at that rally last month.

 If he’s really in that mine, he’s hiding from the law. No. Eli stepped forward. He’s not hiding. He fell. His motorcycle crashed through the ground. He’s going to die if we don’t help him. That mine’s been sealed for 20 years, Hrik said, shaking his head. Nobody goes in there. I’m telling you, I was just there.

 I saw him. Doherty studied Eli with cold calculation. You’re from Metobrook Foster Home, aren’t you? The quiet one. Never caused trouble before. He leaned against the desk. So why start now? Who put you up to this? Was it one of Miles’s crew? They pay you to come in here and distract us. Nobody paid me anything.

Frustration boiled over in Eli’s chest. A man is dying and you won’t even check. Watch your tone, son. Door’s voice dropped dangerously low. That mine is unstable and off limits for good reason. We’re not sending officers into a death trap based on a kid’s story, especially not for Razor Miles. But he’s hurt.

 He’s a criminal. Doy said it like that. Explained everything. 6 months ago, his biker gang tore through this town, causing property damage and terrorizing residents. We’ve been trying to run them out ever since. If Miles got himself trapped somewhere doing something illegal, that’s called consequences. Eli’s hands baldled into fists. He told me about the Iron Hawks.

 About my parents? Your parents? Hrix exchanged a glance with Doherty. What do your parents have to do with anything? They were part of the Iron Hawks. They knew Razer Miles. They Okay, that’s enough. Dherty moved around the desk, his presence intimidating.

 I don’t know what lies Miles fed you in whatever fantasy you’ve cooked up, but your parents died in a car accident 11 years ago. They weren’t part of any biker gang. How do you know? Eli demanded. Did you even know them? I know that bikers like Razer Miles prey on kids like you, Dherty said firmly. They fill your heads with stories about brotherhood and belonging because they need recruits. It’s manipulation, son. And I’m not letting you fall for it.

 I have proof. Eli yanked the photograph from his pocket, shoving it toward Doherty. Look, that’s my father with the Iron Hawk symbol. The same one Razer has on his jacket. Doherty barely glanced at the photo. That’s a tattoo. Could mean anything. Could be from before your parents straightened out their lives. He handed it back. Listen to me carefully.

That mine is dangerous. We’ve had structural engineers tell us it could collapse completely any day now. I’m not sending my officers in there. And you’re not going back either. Understood. But Razer, if Razer Miles is really trapped in there, then he put himself there doing something he shouldn’t have been doing. Doy’s tone was final.

 And I’m certainly not risking my men’s lives for a criminal who spent months making this town unsafe. Eli stared at him, disbelief turning to anger. So, you’re just going to let him die? I’m going to protect this community from people like him. There’s a difference. Dohy picked up his phone. Hris, get Miss Patterson on the line.

 This boy needs to go home before he gets himself killed playing hero for the wrong people. Eli backed toward the door. You’re wrong about him. Son, for your own safety, stay away from that mine. It wasn’t a suggestion. And stay away from anyone claiming to be part of the Iron Hawks. They’re not your family. their trouble. Eli’s hand found the door handle. My parents were Iron Hawks. That makes them my family.

 He left before Doherty could respond. The sheriff’s angry voice calling after him. But Eli was already running into the night, his mind racing. The police wouldn’t help. They thought Razer was a criminal. They thought the Iron Hawks were dangerous. But Razer had known his parents, had fought beside them.

 Whatever the truth was, it wasn’t what the sheriff believed. Eli needed a new plan, and he needed it fast. Because 3 mi away, in the darkness beneath the earth, Razer Miles was running out of time. The foster home was dark except for a single light in Miss Patterson’s office. Eli crept along the side of the building, avoiding the gravel driveway that would crunch under his feet and announce his presence.

 His window on the second floor was still open. He’d left it that way this morning, never imagining he’d need to sneak back in. The oak tree beside the house had thick branches that reached almost to the roof. Eli had climbed it dozens of times when he needed to think, to escape, to be alone.

 Now he used it to bypass the front door entirely. He pulled himself from branch to branch, his injured arm protesting with every movement. The window was just within reach. He stretched, grabbed the sill, and hauled himself through, tumbling onto his bedroom floor. Tommy’s bed across the room was empty, probably downstairs watching TV. Good.

 Eli didn’t need questions. He moved quickly, grabbing his backpack and dumping out school books. He needed supplies. Real supplies this time. From under his mattress, he pulled out his emergency stash. $23 earned from odd jobs around the neighborhood. It wasn’t much, but it might help. He stuffed it in his pocket along with the photograph. The shed. That’s where Mr.

 Kowalsski, the maintenance man, kept his tools. Eli had helped him organize it last month, so he knew exactly what was there. He climbed back out the window and dropped to the ground, rolling to absorb the impact like he’d seen in movies. Pain shot through his ribs, definitely bruised from the cart crash, but he gritted his teeth and kept moving.

 The shed door had a simple padlock that everyone knew the combination to. 1-9-7-6, the year the foster home was built. Eli spun the numbers and pulled it open. Inside, illuminated by moonlight through a grimy window, was exactly what he needed. A coil of yellow nylon rope hung on the wall, the good kind, rated for climbing. Eli grabbed it.

 A better flashlight sat on the workbench. industrial strength with fresh batteries. He took that too along with a first aid kit, a thermos he could fill with water, and a pair of work gloves. He was loading everything into his backpack when he heard voices. Probably ran off again. The sheriff called about him making up some story. Miss Patterson, she was on the back porch with Mr.

Kowalsski. That boy’s never been trouble before. Kowalsski said something must have spooked him good. The sheriff said he was talking about bikers about his parents being in some gang. Miss Patterson’s voice was worried. Where would he even get an idea like that? Eli froze, barely breathing. Kids imagine things, Kowalsski said.

Especially ones like Eli. No family, no history. They fill in the blanks themselves. I should have told him more about his parents, but the records were so sparse. Car accident. Both killed instantly. That’s all the state gave me, she sighed. Maybe if he knew something real, he wouldn’t be inventing fantasies.

Their footsteps moved back inside. Eli waited until the porch light went off, then slipped out of the shed, locking it behind him. The mining hills rose dark against the starlet sky. It was past 9:00 now. Razer had been trapped for at least 4 days, maybe longer.

 How much longer could someone survive without food, with limited water, with a crushed leg? Eli’s stomach twisted. He should eat something himself. He’d had nothing since breakfast. But there was no time. He filled the thermos from the outdoor spigot and started walking. The path to the mine took him past the edge of town through the old industrial district where abandoned factories stood like metal skeletons.

 His flashlight beam bounced off broken windows and graffiti covered walls. Somewhere in the darkness, an animal skittered through trash. This was stupid. He was 11 years old, injured, exhausted, and heading back into a collapsing mine that had nearly killed him twice already. But what choice did he have? The adults wouldn’t help. They’d made their decision. Razer Miles wasn’t worth saving. Your parents.

 They saved us all once. That’s what Razer had said before passing out. Saved who? From what? Eli reached the mine entrance just as the moon broke through the clouds, casting silver light across the warning signs. The caution tape fluttered like streamers at a ghost party. He took a deep breath and ducked under.

 The tunnel swallowed him immediately. This time though, he knew where he was going. The symbols would guide him. His parents’ map carved into stone 15 years ago, still showing the way. 40 paces. Turn left. 25 more. Turn right. The deeper he went, the more the mind spoke.

 Creeks and groans, the settling of ancient timbers, the whisper of air through cracks in stone. Every sound made his heart race, but he forced himself forward. He found the hidden passage that had led him out before. The symbols glowed in his flashlight beam, familiar now. The hawk with spread wings, the road stretching to infinity. Iron hawks.

 What did it mean? Why had his parents been part of it? The descent took 20 minutes of careful climbing over rocks and squeezing through narrow gaps. Finally, Eli saw the glow of the cavern ahead. Razer’s dying flashlight still somehow clinging to life. Razer, Eli called softly. No answer. Eli’s heart sank as he scrambled down the final slope into the cavern. Razer lay exactly where he’d been before, but now his eyes were closed, his face pale as death.

 Razer, Eli dropped beside him, shaking his shoulder. Wake up. The man’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused. Jacob, he mumbled. That you? It’s Eli, Jacob’s son. Razer’s gaze cleared slightly. Kid, you came back. I brought water and rope. Eli uncapped the thermos with shaking hands. Here, drink. Razer took small sips, wincing with each swallow. Police. They won’t come.

 They think you’re a criminal. A bitter laugh escaped Razer’s cracked lips. Of course they do. His hand gripped Eli’s wrist weakly. “Your parents. They saved us all once.” “Now? Now there’s no one left to save me.” “I’m here,” Eli said fiercely. “Tell me what to do.” Razer’s eyes drifted to something behind Eli.

 “My bike in the corner. saddle bag. Get it. Eli turned and saw what he’d missed before. A mangled motorcycle half buried in rubble. He scrambled over to it, pulled open the leather saddle bag. Inside was a walkie-talkie. Its antenna bent. Its screen cracked and dark. Won’t work. Razer whispered. Tried. But maybe. Maybe you can fix it. Your dad. He could fix anything.

 Eli stared at the broken device in his hands. He’d never repaired a radio before. Never even tried. But his parents had taught him something once, hadn’t they? A memory flickered. Sitting on someone’s lap, tiny hands guided by larger ones, connecting wires, the smell of solder. Or was that just imagination? A fantasy like Miss Patterson thought? Razer’s breathing became labored.

 Kid, whatever happens, you’re Iron Hawks. Now, your family, stay awake, Eli pleaded. Please. But Razer’s eyes closed again, and this time they didn’t reopen. Eli’s hands trembled as he worked by flashlight, arranging rocks and broken boards around Razer’s trapped leg. He couldn’t lift the massive stone slab.

 It had to weigh several hundred lb, but maybe he could stabilize it, keep it from shifting and crushing what remained of Razer’s leg completely. He wedged a thick plank under the edge of the slab, then stacked flat rocks to create a support. It wasn’t much, but when he carefully tested the structure, it held. The pressure on Razer’s leg hadn’t increased. Small victory, Razer. Eli shook his shoulder gently.

 Can you hear me? The man’s eyelids flickered. A groan escaped his lips. That’s it. Stay with me. Eli held the thermos to Razer’s mouth again. Just a little more water. Razer swallowed, coughed, then his eyes opened more fully. For a moment, he stared at Eli like he was seeing a ghost. “You look just like him,” he whispered. “Same stubborn eyes. Tell me about my parents.

 Eli said he needed to keep Razer talking, keep him conscious. You said they saved people. How? Razer’s gaze drifted to the cavern ceiling, lost in memory. The Iron Hawks. We weren’t what people think. We weren’t criminals. He took a shaky breath. Started in the 80s. Bunch of riders who’d seen too many foster kids slip through the cracks. Runaways freezing on the streets.

 Kids aging out of the system with nowhere to go. My parents were foster kids. Your dad was grew up in six different homes before he turned 18. The system chewed him up. Razer’s voice grew stronger as he spoke like the memories were giving him strength. He met your mom at a rally. She’d been a social worker. Saw the same problems from the other side.

Together, they had this crazy idea. Use the club to fund group homes. Real ones, places with people who gave a damn. Eli sat back, stunned. The Iron Hawks ran orphanages, funded them. Secretly, a ghost of a smile crossed Razer’s face. See, bikers have this reputation, right? Outlaws, troublemakers. We used it.

 Rich folks wouldn’t donate to a bike or charity, but they’d pay us to stay away from their businesses, their neighborhoods. Protection money, they thought. We took that cash and funneled it straight into foster programs across five states. That’s That’s brilliant. Your parents’ idea. They made it work for almost 10 years. Helped hundreds of kids. Razer’s expression darkened.

 Then the scorpions found out. The scorpions rival club, real criminals, drugs, guns, extortion. They’d been running protection rackets the old-fashioned way, actually threatening people. When they learned we were taking their territory without doing any of the dirty work, they got pissed. Razor’s fist clenched weakly.

 said we were making them look bad, making it harder for them to operate. Eli’s throat tightened. He could guess where this was going. They set fire to one of our homes. Place called Riverside Haven over in Milbrook County. Razer’s voice cracked. 32 kids inside. Middle of the night. No, Eli whispered. Your parents were there visiting.

 They got every single kid out. Every single 1-in tears tracked through the dirt on Razer’s face, but the scorpions had blocked the exits with their bikes. Your folks had to break through a second story window, lower kids down on bed sheets. The smoke was so thick. They didn’t make it out. They made it out, Razer said fiercely.

 got the last kid to safety, then went back in because they thought they’d missed someone. The roof collapsed. He closed his eyes. We buried them as heroes. The club president himself spoke at the funeral. Said Jacob and Sarah Foster were the heart and soul of the Iron Hawks. Said their kid, “You would always have family as long as there was a single rider left on the road.” Eli couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe.

 His parents hadn’t died in a car accident. They died saving children. Saving kids like him. Why didn’t anyone tell me? The words came out broken. Why did everyone lie? The club scattered after that. The scorpions came after us hard. Police cracked down on both sides. Couldn’t tell the difference between us and the real criminals.

Most of the hawks went underground, stopped wearing patches, stopped riding together. Razer opened his eyes. Your foster care placement probably had no idea who your parents really were. Records just said accident safer that way. Protected you from the scorpions, but you knew. You could have found me.

 I tried, kid. 5 years ago, I started searching. But foster records are sealed tight. I didn’t know which state you were in. Didn’t even know if you’d kept the foster name. He managed a weak smile. Guess fate had other plans. You found me instead. Eli looked down at his hands. Small, scraped, shaking.

 His parents had used these same hands to pull children from fire, to save lives, to build something good in a broken world. The symbols in the tunnels, he said slowly. The map that was for the club, wasn’t it? Safe routes, meeting places. Your parents knew these minds better than anyone. Map them out in case we ever needed to hide or evacuate.

 Razer’s breathing was becoming labored again. They thought of everything. Always five steps ahead. The cavern groaned. Dust rained down. I need to get you out of here, Eli said. The mines’s collapsing faster. Kid Razer grabbed his hand. Even if you get help, I’m not leaving. My legs destroyed. I’ve been down here too long.

Infections probably already spreading. Don’t say that. Listen to me. Razor’s grip tightened with surprising strength. In my saddle bag, there’s a list. Names and numbers. Old iron hawks who went into hiding. If you can reach them, he coughed violently. If you can reach them, tell them Razer Miles is calling in every favor we’re owed.

 Tell them Jacob Foster’s son needs the family. Eli dug through the saddle bag with shaking hands. Behind the broken walkie-talkie, he found a worn leather notebook. Pages and pages of names, phone numbers, addresses, some crossed out, some with question marks, but dozens still active.

 A network, a family his parents had built. I’ll reach them, Eli promised. I’ll bring everyone. Razer smiled. That’s my boy. Just like your old man. Another rumble. Closer this time. A crack split the cavern wall. Go. Razer urged before this whole section comes down. Eli grabbed the notebook and the walkie-talkie, stuffing them in his backpack.

 But as he stood to leave, he looked back at Razer, at this man who’d known his parents, who’d fought beside them, who was dying alone in the dark. “I’m coming back,” Eli said. “With everyone. I promise.” Razer’s eyes were already closing again. “I know you will, kid. You’re Iron Hawks. We never leave family behind.

” Eli climbed out of the mine entrance just as the first light of dawn painted the eastern sky pink and gold. He’d been underground for nearly 6 hours. His muscles screamed, his vision blurred with exhaustion, but he couldn’t stop now. He stumbled back toward the foster home, the leather notebook heavy in his backpack.

 Names and numbers, writers scattered across the country. But which ones were still active? which numbers were even valid after all these years. The problem nodded at him as he climbed the oak tree back to his window. He needed a phone, needed privacy, needed time to make dozens of calls without anyone stopping him. Inside his room, Tommy was still asleep, snoring softly.

 Eli moved silently to his bed and collapsed onto it, his body begging for rest. But his mind wouldn’t stop racing. He pulled out the photograph again, the one he’d carried his entire life without understanding its true meaning. His parents stood side by side, young and alive, the motorcycle gleaming behind them.

 Other figures blurred in the background, the Iron Hawk symbol everywhere. Eli turned on his bedside lamp, holding the photo close. His father’s tattoo was clear, the hawk with spread wings, the infinite road. But what else had he missed? His mother’s pendant. He could see it now, hanging at her throat.

 A small silver hawk matching his father’s tattoo. She was wearing jeans and a leather jacket with patches on the sleeves. Eli squinted at the patches. One looked like a location marker. He could make out partial letters. RIV. Riverside. The home that burned. This photo was taken there behind his parents. The blurred figures came into slightly better focus under the lamplight.

 Five people, maybe six, all wearing similar jackets. One of them, a tall man on the right, had something in his hand. A bottle? No, the shape was wrong. It looked like a radio. A walkie-talkie. Eli’s breath caught. He grabbed the broken walkie-talkie from his backpack, comparing it to the one in the photo. Similar design, similar antenna placement.

 The Iron Hawks had used these to communicate. He turned the photo over, examining the back. He’d looked at it a thousand times, but always just glancing, never really studying. The paper was creased and water stained, the edges soft with age. But there was writing, faded handwriting in blue ink, partially rubbed away by time and handling. Eli angled it under the lamp.

Letters emerged from the stains. Rally point alpha. Grid 40 to 12, 25 to 8, 15 to 20. Frequency 462. The rest was smudged beyond recognition, but Eli’s heart hammered. Grid numbers. He’d seen those before in the mine marking the secret path. 40 to 12 25 to8. Those were the same coordinates carved into the tunnel walls.

 But what was the frequency? 462 point something. A radio frequency. Eli grabbed the broken walkie-talkie, turning it over in his hands. The screen was cracked. The battery compartment corroded. But when he shook it, something rattled inside. He found a tiny screwdriver in his desk, part of a cheap electronics kit from three Christmases ago, and carefully unscrewed the back panel. Inside was a mess.

Corrosion had eaten through several connections. The battery was dead, swollen, and leaking, but the main circuit board looked intact. The frequency dial was stuck, frozen at some random number by rust and time. Could he fix this? Eli laid out the components on his bed, working by the lamps light. He’d helped Mr.

 Kowolski repair a radio once, just replacing batteries and cleaning contacts. This was more complicated, but the principle was the same. Electricity needed a path. Break the path, the device dies. restore it and maybe he used an eraser to clean the corroded battery contacts, scrubbing until copper showed through green oxidation.

 The battery itself was useless, but Eli had seen something in the shed, something that might work, he glanced at Tommy, still asleep. Good. Eli climbed out the window again, dropping to the ground and racing to the shed. Inside, he found what he remembered. Mr. Kowalsski’s portable work light powered by a rechargeable battery pack. The same voltage as the walkie-talkie needed.

 He unscrewed the battery compartment and extracted the pack, a neat rectangular unit with positive and negative terminals clearly marked. It was bigger than the radio’s original battery, but if he could connect it externally. Back in his room, Eli worked frantically. He stripped wire from an old phone charger, twisting the copper strands together to make improvised connectors.

 His fingers fumbled with the tiny components, but gradually, impossibly, he began bridging the gaps. Connect the positive terminal to the circuit board’s power input, negative to ground. Bypass the broken battery compartment entirely. Tommy stirred in his sleep. Eli froze, but the other boy just rolled over. With shaking hands, Eli twisted the last wire connection tight, then pressed the walkie-talkie’s power button. Nothing happened. His heart sank.

 Of course, he didn’t know what he was doing. He was 11 years old, playing with electronics he didn’t understand. The speaker crackled. Eli nearly dropped the device. Static hiss from the small speaker. Faint, broken, but present. The power light flickered weakly, then steadied to a dim orange glow. It worked. Holy hell, it actually worked.

 Now for the frequency. Eli turned the dial carefully, but it wouldn’t budge. Rusted solid. He’d need to free it somehow. He grabbed a pencil and broke off the eraser, using the metal band to tap gently around the dial’s edge. Patience. Don’t force it. Just like Mr. Kowalsski had taught him with stuck screws. The dial shifted just a fraction, but it moved.

 Eli kept working it back and forth, gradually freeing it from years of corrosion. The numbers on the display were barely visible, but he could make them out. 455,000 megahertz. He needed 462 point something. What came after the decimal? The photo didn’t say. He’d have to guess. Eli turned the dial slowly upward. 456 457. 458. The static changed pitch, wavering.

 His hand cramped from holding the device so carefully. The wire connections were fragile. One wrong move and they’d break. 462000 0. The static cleared slightly. Voices. No, just interference. Eli kept turning. 46210 0 4 6220 0 0. At 462550, something changed. The static organized itself into a pattern, rhythmic, like breathing, like a channel waiting for someone to speak. Eli’s mouth went dry.

This was it. The Iron Hawk’s frequency still active after 15 years. He pressed the talk button. His voice came out as a whisper. Hello, is anyone there? Static answered him. Nothing else. He tried again louder. This is Eli Foster. I’m looking for the Iron Hawks. My parents were Jacob and Sarah Foster.

 Please, if anyone can hear this, I need help. Razer Miles is trapped in the Blackwood mine. He’s dying. I need I need the family. His voice cracked on the last word. He released the button and waited. Seconds crawled by. Nothing. Just static and the morning light growing stronger outside his window. Eli’s chest tightened. It was a stupid plan.

 These people were scattered, hiding, gone. The frequency was probably abandoned. The speaker crackled. Then a voice, rough female, surprised. Say that name again. Who’s trapped? Eli’s hands shook so badly he almost dropped the radio. Razor Miles. He’s in the Blackwood mine in Pinewood. He’s been there for 4 days. Please. The police won’t help. Pinewood.

Where’s Pinewood? Colorado. Northwest of Denver. Please. You have to, kid. The woman’s voice sharpened. Did you say your name was Foster? As in Jacob Foster? Yes, he was my father. A long pause. Then stay on this frequency. Don’t move. Don’t shut it off. Do you understand? We’re coming. The connection died.

 Eli sat frozen on his bed, the makeshift radio clutched in his hands, wondering what he just set in motion. Outside, the sun climbed higher, and somewhere engines were starting to roar. Eli couldn’t stay in the foster home. Not with the radio’s fragile connection, not with the possibility that someone, anyone, might respond again.

 He needed somewhere quiet, somewhere he could wait without questions. He stuffed the radio and battery pack into his backpack along with the photograph and Razor’s notebook. Tommy was starting to wake up, stretching and yawning. Eli slipped out before his roommate could ask where he’d been all night.

 The streets of Pinewood were mostly empty this early on a Saturday morning. A few delivery trucks rumbled past. The diner was just opening, the smell of coffee and bacon drifting through its doors. Eli’s stomach growled viciously. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning, but he kept walking.

 The junkyard sat on the east edge of town, surrounded by a chainlink fence topped with rusted barbed wire. A handpainted sign read, “Mcgrath salvage auto parts and repair.” Eli had been here once before with Mr. Kowolski to find a replacement water heater. He remembered the owner, a grizzly bear of a man named Frank McGrath, who’d been friendly enough, showing them around the maze of wrecked cars and scrap metal.

 More importantly, Eli remembered seeing motorcycles, lots of them, parts and frames scattered among the automotive debris. The gate was unlocked. Eli slipped inside, picking his way through narrow paths between towers of crushed cars. The main garage sat at the back of the lot. A large corrugated metal building with its bay door rolled halfway open.

 Inside, a figure moved in the shadows, working on something with a welding torch. Sparks showered down like miniature fireworks. Eli approached carefully. Mr. McGrath. The welding torch cut off immediately. The figure straightened, lifting a protective face shield. It wasn’t Frank McGrath.

 It was a younger man, maybe 30, with oil stained coveralls and a shaved head marked with intricate tattoos that crawled up his neck. He studied Eli with sharp, calculating eyes. Frank’s not here, kid. What do you want? I Eli hesitated. Something about this man set off warning bells. I was looking for help with a motorcycle part. Yeah. The man set down his torch, wiping his hands on a rag.

What kind of part? A radio. Communications equipment for a bike. The man’s expression shifted just for a second. Something flickered across his face. Recognition. Interest. That’s pretty specific for a kid your age. What bike you working on? It’s not mine. It’s for someone else. Who? The question came too quickly, too sharp. Eli’s instinct screamed at him to leave.

Just a friend. Thanks anyway. Hold up. The man moved between Eli and the exit. Not threatening exactly, but blocking a radio for a bike. You know, the Iron Hawks used to have a whole communication network. custom frequencies, military grade equipment. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. You know anything about the Iron Hawks, kid? Eli’s blood ran cold.

 No, I just need a part, Frank. Another voice called from outside. You got that carburetor ready? The real Frank McGrath walked into the garage 6’4 of bearded mountain man carrying a toolbox. He stopped when he saw Eli. Then his gaze shifted to the tattooed man and his expression hardened. Vince, I thought I told you to work in the back lot. Just helping a customer, Frank.

 Vince’s smile stayed fixed. Kids asking about motorcycle radios. Thought that was interesting. Frank sat down his toolbox with a heavy thunk. Eli, right? From the foster home. What are you doing here, son? I needed to ask about some old radio equipment. But I can come back. No need. Frank’s voice was carefully neutral. Vince, take your break now.

 Vince hesitated, his jaw tightening. Then he shrugged and sauntered toward the back door. Sure thing, boss. But as he passed Eli, he leaned close and whispered, “Careful who you trust, kid.” The Iron Hawks made a lot of enemies. Then he was gone. Frank watched him leave, then turned to Eli with concern etched deep in his face. “You need to be careful around that one.

” Vince just started last week. Good mechanic, but he shook his head. What’s this about radio equipment? Eli made a split-second decision. Something about Frank’s reaction to Vince, the way he protected Eli felt trustworthy. He pulled out the makeshift radio from his backpack. Frank’s eyes went wide.

 Where did you get that? From someone trapped in the Blackwood mine. A man named Razor Miles. Frank’s weathered face went pale. He grabbed Eli’s shoulder, pulling him deeper into the garage, away from windows and doors. “You found Razer? Is he alive? You know him, kid?” Everyone who rode with the hawks knows Razer. Frank’s hands were shaking as he examined the radio. “This is an old Iron Hawks communicator.

I haven’t seen one of these in years.” He looked at Eli with new intensity. “Who are you? Really? Eli Foster. Jacob and Sarah Foster were my parents. Frank actually staggered backward, grabbing a workbench for support. Jesus Christ. Jacob’s kid. You’re Jacob’s kid. He ran a hand over his face. I was at their funeral.

 You were so small, just a tiny thing. Social services took you away before any of us could. He trailed off. Were you Iron Hawks support member? Never patched in, but I helped with the bikes. Kept the fleet running. Frank’s expression turned grim. After Jacob and Sarah died, after the scorpion started hunting us, most of us went underground.

Stopped associating publicly. But we never forgot. He touched the radio reverently. You fixed this. Sort of. It works, but barely. I sent a message on the old frequency. Someone answered. Said they were coming. Someone answered. Frank’s eyes lit up with something between hope and fear.

 Kid, do you understand what you’ve done? That frequency has been silent for over a decade. If you reached someone, if they’re really coming, he grabbed Eli’s shoulders. The family doesn’t ignore a call like that, especially not from Jacob Foster’s son. But the police won’t help. They think Razer is a criminal. That’s the Scorpion’s doing. Frank spat the words.

 They spread lies, paid off officials, made sure the Iron Hawk’s reputation was destroyed. Made it impossible for us to operate. He moved to a filing cabinet, pulling out a folder stuffed with newspaper clippings. Look, biker gang terrorizes neighborhood. A motorcycle rally ends in violence. Police crackdown on criminal club.

 Every one of these stories is  The scorpions staged incidents, blamed them on the hawks, turned public opinion against us. Eli flipped through the clippings, his anger building. Why? What do they want? Control. Money. The hawks protection territories. the businesses that paid us to stay away. The scorpions wanted them. They wanted the charity funds, the connections, everything we built. Frank’s fist clenched. They got most of it, too. Ran us out of town.

 But if the family is really coming, he looked at Eli with fierce determination. Kid, you might have just started something that can’t be stopped. The radio crackled. Both of them jumped. A voice different from before. Mail this time. Calling the foster kid. This is ironside out of Denver. We’re mobilizing. ETA to Pinewood. 4 hours.

 Hold your position. How many riders does Pinewood have? Frank grabbed the radio, pressing the talk button. Ironside, this is Tank. Frank McGrath reading you loud and clear. Pinewood has me and maybe two others we can trust. But brother, we got a problem. Scorpions have influence here. Local sheriffs in their pocket. Copy that, tank. Good to hear your voice. Rally point.

 Frank looked at Eli. Where’s Razer exactly? Blackwood Mine. Main entrance is sealed, but there’s a hidden exit on the north hillside. I marked it with a flag. Frank relayed the information, then added, and Ironside. The kid who called you. It’s Jacob and Sarah’s boy. He’s the one who found Razer.

 He’s the one bringing us back together. The silence on the other end stretched so long, Eli thought they’d lost the connection. Then Jacob’s son. Copy that. We’re not coming with 4 hours of writers. tank. We’re coming with everyone. Every chapter, every state. The Iron Hawks take care of family. And we owe the Fosters everything. The radio clicked off.

 Frank set it down carefully, then looked at Eli with something like awe. Kid, you just called down thunder. The whole damn family is coming to Pinewood. Outside, neither of them noticed Vince standing in the shadows. a cell phone pressed to his ear, his voice low and urgent. Yeah, it’s confirmed. Iron Hawks are mobilizing.

 Heading to Pinewood, and you won’t believe who called them in. The storm was coming, and not everyone in town was going to welcome it. Frank locked the garage bay door and pulled down the metal shutters on the windows. If Vince is what I think he is, words already spreading. We need to move fast. What do you think he is? Eli asked, though he already suspected. Scorpion scout.

 They plant guys in shops like mine to keep tabs on any Iron Hawks activity. Frank pulled a dusty tarp off something in the corner, revealing a beautiful vintage motorcycle, deep blue with chrome accents. I haven’t ridden this in 6 years. Kept her tuned up though, just in case. Eli stared at the bike.

 On the fuel tank, partially hidden under grime, was the faint outline of a hawk symbol. Someone had tried to remove it, but the ghost of the image remained. “We need to get back to Razer,” Eli said. “Make sure he’s still alive.” “And I need to keep the radio working. If more riders call in, I have to be able to answer.” Frank nodded, grabbing supplies from around the garage. You’re thinking smart. Here, take this.

 He handed Eli a proper LED headlamp. Better than a flashlight. Keeps your hands free. He added a emergency radio battery pack, freshwater bottles, energy bars, and a small first aid kit to Eli’s backpack. How bad is Razer’s situation? His legs crushed. He’s been down there for maybe 5 days now.

 He keeps passing out. Frank’s jaw tightened. Infection. Dehydration. Shock. Kid. I’m not going to lie. Even if we get him out, he might not make it. He has to make it. Eli said fiercely. He’s the only one who knew my parents. The only one who can tell me their stories. Hey. Frank knelt down to Eli’s level. Your parents were legends.

Everyone who rode with the Hawks has stories about Jacob and Sarah. If we can bring the family together again, he smiled sadly. You’ll have more stories than you can handle. A loud bang on the garage door made them both jump. McGrath, open up. Sheriff Dohert’s voice boomed from outside. We need to have a conversation. Frank and Eli exchanged glances.

Frank mouthed, “Back door.” But before they could move, another voice called out. “And don’t even think about running, Frank. We’ve got the whole place surrounded. Just want to talk.” Frank cursed under his breath. He grabbed Eli’s shoulder. Listen carefully. There’s a loose panel in the back wall behind the red toolbox.

Crawl space leads under the fence. You take the radio and you run. Get back to Razer. Keep that frequency open. Understand? What about you? I’ll handle Doerty. Go now. The banging intensified. McGrath. Last warning. Eli ran to the back wall, shoving the red toolbox aside. Sure enough, a metal panel hung loose on its bolts.

 He pulled it open, revealing a narrow gap, just wide enough for a kid. He squeezed through into darkness, crawling on his belly through dirt and spiderwebs. Behind him, he heard the garage door rolling up. Frank’s voice casual and unconcerned. Sheriff, what brings you by so early? Eli kept crawling until he saw daylight emerging behind a pile of crushed cars outside the fence line.

 He ran, keeping low until the junkyard was out of sight. The mine. He had to get back to the mine. But the sun was fully up now and Pinewood was waking. People were out starting their Saturday routines. Eli couldn’t just disappear into the hills without someone noticing. He needed a different approach. He ducked into an alley behind Main Street, catching his breath.

 The radio crackled in his backpack. He pulled it out carefully. Foster kid, this is Redeye out of Kansas City. We’re 5 hours out with 32 riders. Need status update. Eli pressed the talk button. This is Eli. I’m heading back to Razer now. The local sheriff is looking for me. He’s trying to stop this. Copy that, Eli.

Stay safe. We’re coming heavy. Another voice broke in. This is Widowmaker, New Mexico chapter. 40 riders rolling north should hit Pinewood by nightfall. Then another Steel Horse Wyoming, 27 riders, ETA 6 hours. The radio exploded with voices, chapters from across the western states, all reporting in. 50 riders here, 30 there.

 Some solo riders, some entire clubs. The numbers kept climbing. Eli’s hands shook as he listened. Hundreds of people were coming, for Razer, for him, for the memory of his parents. He tucked the radio away and started moving again, taking back alleys and side streets toward the edge of town.

 The mining hills rose ahead, dark against the bright morning sky. He was halfway there when he heard the motorcycles, but these weren’t coming from out of town. These were already here. Six bikes roared around the corner, cutting off his path. The riders wore black leather with a scorpion embroidered on the back, red and gold, aggressive and unmistakable. The lead rider pulled off his helmet.

 It was Vince from the junkyard and he wasn’t smiling anymore. Going somewhere, kid. Eli backed up, but two more bikes appeared behind him. Trapped. Vince dismounted slowly. See, here’s the thing about radio signals. They’re easy to track when you know what frequency to listen to. We heard every word you said. Every rider you called in, he stepped closer.

 The scorpion spent years destroying the Iron Hawks. “We’re not letting some orphan kid resurrect them.” “I’m just trying to save someone,” Eli said, his voice steadier than he felt. Razor Miles should have died in that mine. “Would have been convenient,” Vince grabbed Eli’s backpack, yanking it away. He pulled out the radio, examining it. “Impressive work for a kid.

 Jacob taught you well before he died, I guess. He raised the radio above his head and smashed it against the pavement. The plastic casing shattered. Components scattered across the street. The speaker gave one final crackle and went silent. Eli lunged forward, but Vince shoved him back.

 “You made a big mistake calling in the cavalry, kid, because now we know they’re coming. And we’ll be ready.” He climbed back on his bike. One more thing. Razor Miles dies in that mine. You try to help him again, you’ll join him. Understand? The scorpion’s engines roared to life. They circled Eli once, intimidating, then peeled off in different directions.

Eli knelt in the street, gathering the broken pieces of the radio. The circuit board was cracked. The speaker crushed. The battery pack dented, but maybe still functional. Could he fix it again? Did he have time? A hand touched his shoulder. Eli spun, fists raised.

 It was a woman, maybe 50, with gray streak hair pulled back in a ponytail and wearing a faded denim jacket. Her eyes were kind but sharp. Easy kid. I’m not scorpions. She showed him her jacket collar, a small, discrete pin. An iron hawk, no bigger than a dime. Name’s Carol. I’m a friend of Frank’s. He sent me to find you before the sheriff did. She glanced at the broken radio. That’s not good.

They destroyed it. The scorpions know the writers are coming. Carol’s expression hardened. Then we’d better make sure those riders know what they’re walking into. She pulled out her own phone. Not a smartphone, but an old flip phone that looked military grade. This is burner number three. I’ve got encrypted channels that the scorpions can’t trace. Come on.

 We’re going to the mine and we’re going to set up a real communication network. Why are you helping me? Carol smiled sadly. Your mom saved my daughter’s life in the Riverside fire. Sarah literally caught her when she jumped from that second story window. She touched the hawk pin. I owed the fosters everything. Still do.

 And honey, if Jacob and Sarah’s kid is calling in the family, then the least I can do is make sure he doesn’t die before they arrive. She climbed onto a motorcycle Eli hadn’t noticed. Smaller than the scorpion’s bikes, but well-maintained. Get on. We’ve got a man to save and a war to prepare for. Eli climbed on behind her, clutching his backpack with the broken radio inside.

 The engine roared to life, and they shot toward the hills. The Iron Hawks were coming, but so were the scorpions, and Pinewood was about to become a battleground. Carol’s motorcycle climbed the winding path to the mine with practiced ease. She’d clearly ridden these hills before. When they reached the hidden exit Eli had marked, she killed the engine and dismounted.

Smart thinking with the flag, she said, eyeing the handkerchief tied to the branch. Your dad used to do the same thing, mark routes nobody else could see. Eli led her through the boulder cluster to the concealed opening. Carol studied it with an experienced eye, then pulled a compact LED lantern from her saddle bag along with climbing rope and carabiners. How long since you last saw Razer? she asked. Maybe 3 hours.

 He was unconscious when I left. Then we move fast. The descent through the secret passage was easier with Carol’s equipment and expertise. She’d clearly done this kind of thing before, navigating tight spaces, testing handholds, moving with efficiency. They reached the main cavern in half the time it had taken Eli alone.

 Razer hadn’t moved. His face was gray, his breathing shallow. Carol knelt beside him, checking his pulse and examining the improvised support structure Eli had built. “Kid did good work here,” she murmured.

 “Kept the pressure stable,” she pulled out a proper first aid kit and started cleaning Razer’s visible wounds. “Razer, can you hear me? It’s Carol Patterson.” Razer’s eyes fluttered open Carol. His voice was barely a whisper. Thought you went civilian. I did. But Jacob’s son called. And here I am. She held a water bottle to his lips. The family’s coming. Razer. All of them. A tear tracked through the dirt on Razer’s face. The kid. He really did it.

He really did. Carol looked at Eli with respect. He’s more like his parents than he knows. While Carol worked on stabilizing Razer, cleaning wounds, administering water and electrolytes, wrapping his injuries as best she could, Eli pulled out the broken radio. Maybe he could salvage something.

 The speaker was destroyed, but the transmitter might still work. if he could just bypass the damaged components. Carol noticed what he was doing. The scorpions smashed it. They said they’ve been tracking the frequency. They know the writers are coming. Of course, they have. Carol pulled out her militaryra phone, but they don’t know about this.

 It’s on encrypted channels the scorpions can’t access. Problem is, it only reaches about 50 miles. Not enough to coordinate writers coming from six states. Eli stared at the broken radio in his hands, then at Carol’s phone. An idea sparked. “Crazy, impossible, but maybe.” “What if we could boost your signal?” he said slowly.

 “Use what’s left of the radio as an amplifier.” Carol raised an eyebrow. That’s actually not a bad idea. If we can rig the transmitter to relay through multiple frequencies, create a broadcast chain. She set down her medical supplies. Your dad used to do something similar. Called it the echo network. One transmission bounces to the next.

 Each rider passing the message along until everyone’s heard it. Can you help me rebuild it, kid? I can do better than that. Carol reached into her jacket and pulled out a compact toolkit. I was a communication specialist in the army before I joined the Hawks. Let’s see what we’re working with. Together, they worked by lantern light.

 Carol’s expertise combined with Eli’s improvised repairs from earlier created something new. A hybrid device that merged the old Iron Hawks frequency with modern encrypted channels. It wasn’t pretty. wires taped together, components held in place with electrical tape and hope. But after 30 minutes of intense work, something remarkable happened. The device powered on. Carol adjusted the frequency dial carefully.

 We need to send out a coordinated message. Something everyone monitoring can hear, both the encrypted channels and the old hawks frequency. One big broadcast that tells them exactly what they’re writing into. She handed the microphone to Eli. Your call to make, kid. Your message to send. Eli’s hands trembled as he held the microphone.

 Somewhere out there, hundreds of riders were heading toward Pinewood, toward danger, toward a fight with the scorpions. They deserve to know the truth. He pressed the talk button. This is Eli Foster, son of Jacob and Sarah Foster. To all Iron Hawks, active and retired, listening on any frequency, Razer Miles is trapped in the Blackwood mine in Pinewood, Colorado.

He’s alive, but critical. The local authorities won’t help because the scorpions have corrupted them. The scorpions know you’re coming. They’re preparing to stop you.” He paused, thinking about his parents, about what they’d built, about what they’d died protecting. But Razer told me what the Iron Hawks really are.

 You’re not a gang. You’re a family. You saved kids like me. You built homes when the system failed. My parents died making sure 32 children survived a fire. And now I’m asking you to help me save the man who knew them, who fought beside them, who’s kept their memory alive all these years. Eli’s voice strengthened.

 The scorpions think they destroyed the Iron Hawks. They think spreading lies and buying off sheriffs ended what my parents built. But they’re wrong because the Iron Hawks never died. You’re still out there, still riding, still protecting people who can’t protect themselves. He took a breath. Come to Pinewood. Come heavy.

 Razor Miles needs the family. and the family never leaves anyone behind. He released the button. Silence. Then Carol’s phone erupted. Text messages flooded in. Dozens, then hundreds, GPS coordinates, writer counts, ETAs. The encrypted channel lit up with responses from across the western United States.

 But more than that, the old radio frequency crackled to life. Voices Eli had never heard. Riders using the Hawks frequency for the first time in over a decade. Colorado chapter 17 riders 3 hours out. Montana Nomads, eight bikes, 5 hours. This is California North. We’re mobilizing every rider we can reach. 50 plus coming your way. Texas panhandle. 32 riders. Long haul, but we’re coming.

More voices. more chapters. Solo writers who’d hidden their patches years ago but never forgotten their oaths. Support members like Carol who’d gone civilian but never truly left. The numbers climbed, 200 writers, 300, 500. Carol’s eyes went wide. Kid, you just activated the entire network. Every chapter, every generation.

This isn’t just a rescue anymore. This is the Iron Hawks revival. Razer stirred, his eyes focusing on Eli with something like wonder. Your mom and dad would be so proud, he whispered. The radio kept crackling. More riders reporting in. More promises to arrive. The message was spreading beyond just the Hawks, too. neutral clubs, independents, writers who’d heard the story and wanted to help.

 600 writers, 700. Then a voice that made Carol go pale. This is Jack Knife, Scorpion’s national president. To whoever just broadcast on our monitored frequencies, that was a declaration of war. You bring your writers to Pinewood, we’ll be waiting. Let’s settle this 15-year feud once and for all. The transmission cut off.

 Carol and Eli stared at each other. “What have I done?” Eli whispered. “You’ve given the family a reason to reunite,” Carol said firmly. “And you’ve forced the scorpions to face what they’ve been running from. The fact that they never actually killed the Iron Hawks. They just made us quiet,” she grabbed his shoulder. “Now we’re loud again.

” and kid loud is exactly what we need to be above them. The mine groaned more collapse warnings. They had maybe 12 hours before thousands of motorcycles converged on a small Colorado town. 12 hours before the streets would run with engines and adrenaline and the ghosts of 15 years of hatred. 12 hours before Eli Foster learned whether calling the family home was the bravest or most foolish thing he’d ever done. The sound started just after noon.

 Eli heard it first, a distant rumble like thunder rolling across the mountains, but the sky was clear, brilliant blue without a single cloud. He stood with Carol at the mine entrance, having moved Razer as close to the surface as they dared without risking further collapse.

 They’d rigged a makeshift stretcher using climbing rope and wooden planks, ready to extract him the moment help arrived. The rumble grew louder. “That’s not thunder,” Carol said, a smile spreading across her face. “Then Eli saw them. They came from the east first, a line of motorcycles cresting the hill on Highway 34. Their chrome catching the sunlight like a river of stars. 20 bikes. 30 50.

” The line kept coming, stretching back beyond the horizon. Oh my god, Eli whispered. The lead bikes roared into Pinewood, engines echoing off storefronts and houses. People emerged from shops and homes, staring in disbelief as the motorcycles flooded Main Street. The riders wore different colors, different patches, chapters from across Colorado, Wyoming, Kansas.

But many wore the Iron Hawk symbol displayed proudly after years of hiding it. Then the second wave arrived from the north. More bikes, these from Montana and the Dakotas. Riders who’d traveled through the night, their faces weathered from highway wind, but determined. They merged with the eastern group. The sound of engines now a constant roar that shook windows and set off car alarms.

 Carol’s encrypted phone buzzed constantly. She read the messages aloud. California North arrived in Denver. 68 riders heading to Pinewood now. Arizona chapter clearing the state line. 42 strong. New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma. They’re forming a convoy. Over a 100 bikes. The western approach filled next.

 Eli watched in awe as wave after wave of motorcycles descended on the tiny town. They didn’t come in neat formations. They came as a flood, an unstoppable tide of leather and chrome and defiance. The riders began gathering in the open field beside the mine road. Kickstands went down. Engines cut off one by one until relative silence fell.

 But that silence was somehow more threatening than the roar had been. Hundreds of riders standing together waiting. A woman dismounted from one of the lead bikes, 50something with steel gray hair and eyes like flint. She wore a leather vest with president patched on the front and an iron hawk spanning her back.

 She walked straight to Carol. Where’s the kid? Carol pointed to Eli. The woman studied him for a long moment, then dropped to one knee so they were eye level. I’m Ironside, Denver chapter president. I knew your parents. Rode with them for 6 years. Her voice cracked. You look just like your mom.

 Thank you for coming, Eli managed. Kid, you called the family. We come. No question. No hesitation. She stood addressing Carol. Status on Razer. Critical but stable. We need medical equipment and manpower to extract him safely. The mine’s collapsing. We brought a doctor, former army medic, and we’ve got rope, climbing gear, lights, whatever we need. Ironside turn to the assembled riders.

 Extract team with me. Everyone else, form a perimeter. The Scorpions are somewhere in this town, and they’re not going to like us being here. 15 riders mobilized immediately, pulling equipment from saddle bags with military efficiency. Eli led them into the mine, showing them the route he’d marked, the symbols his parents had carved 15 years ago.

 The extraction took 45 minutes. The doctor, a weathered man named Torres, worked quickly, stabilizing Razer’s leg with a proper splint and starting in four for fluids. They lifted him onto the stretcher with practiced care, navigating the narrow passages with patience and skill. When they emerged into daylight carrying razor, a cheer erupted from the assembled riders, but the cheer died quickly.

 Sheriff Doherty stood at the field entrance, flanked by four patrol cars and a dozen deputies. Behind them, blocking the main road, were the scorpions, at least 50 bikes, their riders standing in aggressive formation. This gathering is illegal. Doerti’s voice boomed through a megaphone. You’re trespassing on mining property and creating a public disturbance.

 I’m ordering you to disperse immediately. Ironside stepped forward, her voice carrying without amplification. We’re conducting a rescue operation on public land. Sheriff, last I checked, saving lives wasn’t illegal. That man is wanted for questioning. On what charges? Ironside. Cut him off. Show me a warrant. Show me actual evidence.

 Or admit that you’re just doing the scorpion’s dirty work. Doy’s face flushed red. You’re all in violation of the sound of engines drowned out his words. More motorcycles were arriving. The California contingent roared down Main Street. 68 bikes that swelled the numbers in the field to over 300. Behind them came the Southern Convoy, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, Oklahoma.

Over a hundred more riders flooding into Pinewood like a biblical plague. The deputies shifted nervously. Even the scorpions looked uncertain. They’d prepared for a fight with maybe a hundred iron hawks. This was becoming something else entirely. A truck pulled up.

 One of the riders had called ahead, arranging transport for Razer. Torres supervised, loading him into the back, still hooked to four bags, but alive and conscious. Razer grabbed Eli’s hand as they lifted him. “Kid, you did it. You brought them home. Rest now,” Eli said. “We’ll finish this.” The truck pulled away, heading for the hospital in the next county. Pinewood’s hospital was too small and too controlled by Doherty.

 Ironside turned back to Doherty and the Scorpions. More bikes were still arriving. The sound of engines now a continuous thunder from all directions. 400 riders. 500 600. Eli climbed onto a truck bed so he could see. The field was packed with motorcycles and still they came. The late afternoon sun glinted off hundreds of windshields. Different clubs, different states, but united by the message he’d sent.

 United by the memory of Jacob and Sarah Foster. United by the oath that the Iron Hawks never abandoned family. 6,000 writers, 6,500. The news helicopters appeared overhead. Someone had alerted the media. This was no longer a local incident. This was national news.

 Thousands of motorcyclists descending on a small Colorado town. The largest motorcycle gathering outside of Sturgis or Daytona. Doy lowered his megaphone, his face pale. The scorpions were backing toward their bikes. This wasn’t a fight they could win. The sheer numbers made violence impossible. Any confrontation would be suicide.

 Ironside’s voice rang out across the field. The Iron Hawks are back and we’re done hiding. We’re done letting lies define us. We’re done apologizing for protecting the people society forgets. The roar of approval from 6,000 throats shook the mountains. Eli stood on that truck bed, tears streaming down his face, and finally understood what his parents had built.

 Not a gang, not criminals, a family, a movement, a force that couldn’t be killed because it was built on something stronger than fear or violence. It was built on love, and love, once awakened, was unstoppable. The Pinewood Community Hospital had never seen anything like it.

 Motorcycles lined every street for three blocks in every direction. Riders stood in the parking lot. the lobby, the hallways, a protective wall of leather and denim that no scorpion would dare penetrate. When the surgeon emerged from the operating room, 200 people held their breath. “He’ll live,” the doctor announced. “The leg was severely damaged, but we saved it.

 He’s going to need months of physical therapy, but Razor Miles is one tough son of a gun.” The cheer was deafening. Eli sat in a plastic chair beside Carol, exhaustion finally catching up to him. He’d been awake for nearly 40 hours straight. His body achd. His hands were covered in cuts and bruises. But Razer was alive.

 “You did good, kid,” Carol said softly. “Better than good. You brought the family home.” Through the hospital window, Eli could see the town of Pinewood transformed. What had started as a rescue mission had become something larger. News vans from Denver crowded Main Street. Reporters interviewed writers getting the real story of the Iron Hawks. Not the lies the scorpions had spread, but the truth.

Stories of orphanages funded. Foster kids protected. Communities helped. One reporter had found the owner of a hardware store who admitted the protection money he’d paid the Iron Hawks for 10 years had actually gone straight to a group home for disabled children. “They never threatened me once,” the man said on camera.

 “I paid them because I wanted to because what they were doing mattered.” More stories emerged. A woman whose runaway daughter had been found by Iron Hawks and returned safely. a teenager who’d aged out of foster care and been given a job at an Iron Hawks run garage. Dozens of people coming forward, finally safe to tell the truth.

 The Scorpions had left town before sunset. 50 bikes against 6,000 was no contest. Sheriff Doerty had resigned that evening, citing personal reasons. Three of his deputies were under investigation for accepting bribes. Two days later, they let Eli see Razer. The hospital room was filled with flowers, arrangements sent from all over the country.

 Razer lay propped up in bed, his leg in a cast suspended by cables, but his eyes were clear and alert. There’s my hero, he said when Eli entered. I’m not a hero. I just made some phone calls. Kid, you did more than that. Razer gestured to the chair beside his bed. Sit. We need to talk. Eli sat suddenly nervous. I’ve been thinking about what happens next.

 Razer said to you, I mean, you can’t go back to that foster home. Not after everything that’s happened. Miss Patterson isn’t mad. She called yesterday. Said she understands. I’m sure she does. But that place isn’t where you belong. Razer reached over and took Eli’s hand. “Your parents made me promise something the night before they died. We were at a rally talking about the future.

” Jacob said, “If anything ever happens to us, make sure our kid knows who we were. Make sure he knows he’s loved.” Eli’s throat tightened. “I failed that promise for 11 years. Couldn’t find you. Couldn’t reach you. But I’m not failing it anymore. Razer’s grip strengthened. I’ve talked to my lawyer. Talk to social services. And if you’re willing, I want to be your guardian officially legally. Eli stared at him.

 You mean adopt me? If you’ll have a broken down biker as a dad. Yeah, that’s what I mean. The tears came before Eli could stop them. He’d spent 11 years alone, believing he had no one. Now this man, this stranger who’d become family in the space of 3 days, was offering him something he’d never dared hope for. “Yes,” Eli whispered.

 “Yes, I want that.” Razer pulled him into a careful hug, mindful of his injuries. “Then it’s settled. When I get out of here, we’ll make it official. You’re going to be Eli Miles. How’s that sound? It sounds perfect. 3 weeks later, the Iron Hawks held a rally in Pinewood. Not a protest, not a gathering, a celebration.

 They closed Main Street and filled it with motorcycles. Food trucks lined the sidewalks. Local businesses donated supplies. And in the center of it all, they built a memorial, a granite stone engraved with names. Jacob and Sarah Foster at the top. Below them, others who died serving the Iron Hawks mission. And at the bottom, a new inscription. The family that rides together protects together. We are Iron Hawks.

 We remember. We endure. Ironside led the ceremony. 6,000 writers stood in silence as she spoke about Jacob and Sarah, about their vision, about their sacrifice. Then she called Eli forward. He stood before the massive crowd, clutching the old photograph that had started everything.

 Someone had cleaned it, restored it, protected it in a glass frame. His parents smiled out from the image, forever young, forever brave. Eli Foster, Ironside, said formally, “Your parents gave everything to protect children like you. They built a family that transcended blood. Today, we honor them by welcoming you fully into that family.

” She held out a leather vest, small enough to fit an 11-year-old, but real official. On the back, the Iron Hawk spread its wings. On the front, a new patch, honorary member, next generation. Eli put it on. The leather was soft, broken in, familiar somehow. And then he realized it had been his father’s vest, altered to fit him. The crowd erupted. 6,000 engines roared to life simultaneously.

 A sound like the voice of God announcing that something dead had been resurrected. Razer stood beside Eli, leaning on crutches, beaming with pride. Carol hugged him tight. Your parents would be so proud. Frank McGrath clasped his shoulder. You brought us back, kid. All of us.

 As the celebration continued into the evening, Eli stood on the memorial steps, watching the Iron Hawks, his family, fill the streets with life and hope, and the promise that no child would ever be forgotten again. The symbols in the mind had led him to Razer. Razer had led him to the truth about his parents. And that truth had led 6,500 writers to flood the streets of Pinewood, proving that some families are forged not by blood, but by loyalty, sacrifice, and love.

 Eli Miles, no longer an orphan, but an iron hawk, looked up at the stars and whispered a promise to the parents he’d barely known, but would never forget. I’ll make you proud. I’ll protect the family. And I’ll never let anyone forget what you built. Somewhere in the night, engines roared in answer. The Iron Hawks were home, and they were never leaving again. The end.