Stone checked his phone.

“Twenty-three so far.”

Another message appeared.

“Forty.”

Then:

“Seventy.”

Stone looked at Emma.

“You know what you just did?”

She shook her head.

“You found a lot of people who don't like bullies.”

By 3:30 a.m., motorcycles were arriving from three directions.

The parking lot filled.

Twenty riders.

Then fifty.

Then more.

By sunrise, 147 riders had gathered.

They weren't there to start a war.

They were there because a child had asked for help.

At 5:12 a.m., Stone led a small group toward the old mill.

Emma stayed safely behind with two female riders.

Stone didn't want her anywhere near the danger.

The mill looked abandoned.

Broken windows.

Rusty doors.

Overgrown weeds.

But there were fresh tire tracks.

Stone crouched.

“Someone's been here.”

Another rider pointed.

“Look.”

A small camera had been mounted beneath the roof.

Stone's expression hardened.

“This place isn't abandoned.”

They entered quietly.

Inside, they found an office.

Maps.