Saturday mornings at Rick's Roadhouse were usually loud.

Thirty motorcycles filled the parking lot.

Inside, leather jackets hung from chairs, coffee cups clattered against wooden tables, and the Ghost Riders filled the diner with laughter.

Then the door opened.

Nobody paid much attention at first.

A small boy stood just inside.

He was ten years old.

His jeans were too large.

His sneakers were badly worn.

And he held a folded piece of paper against his chest with both hands.

He looked terrified.

But he didn't turn around.

He walked straight through the crowded diner.

Several bikers watched him pass.

One called out.

“Hey, little man. You lost?”

The boy didn't answer.

He continued toward the back of the room.

A tall biker sat alone there.

His name was Shade.

Scarred face.

Gray beard.

Quiet eyes.

The boy stopped in front of him.

His hands were shaking.

“I need your help.”

Shade put down his coffee.

“What happened?”

The boy unfolded the paper.

“This is the man who took my brother.”

The room went silent.