“I do.”
“She said you have too many.”
“That part is unfair.”
Several bikers behind him coughed suspiciously.
The girl looked toward the rows of motorcycles.
“How many are yours?”
“Depends how you define mine.”
She narrowed her eyes.
The Lead Biker smiled.
“Three.”
A biker whispered, “Five.”
The girl heard.
Her mouth twitched.
The Lead Biker glared over his shoulder.
“Traitors.”
For the first time, the little girl smiled.
Tiny.
Gone quickly.
But it existed.
The Lead Biker felt something painful open inside him.
His daughter had smiled like that when she was small.
Not exactly.
But enough.
After she finished half the sandwich, a female child-services worker arrived.
The Lead Biker expected resistance from the girl.
Instead, the worker sat on the floor too.
That helped.
She explained gently that they needed to make sure everybody was safe.
The girl asked one question.
“Do I have to leave Grandpa?”
The Lead Biker’s eyes closed briefly.
Grandpa.
First time.
The child-services worker answered carefully.
“We need to understand where your mom is and what happened.”
“But nobody is taking you anywhere without explaining it.”
The girl looked toward the Lead Biker.
He said, “I’m staying.”
The worker looked at him.
He clarified.
“Whatever paperwork.”
“Whatever background checks.”
“Whatever you need.”
“I’m staying available.”
The girl nodded.
That was enough for now.
The police found the first lead through the bus map.
A route had been circled.
The line began near an extended-stay motel roughly six miles from the garage.
The older officer dispatched another unit.
Within thirty minutes, they found a motel room registered under the daughter’s name.
Empty.
Door unlocked.
Signs someone had left quickly.
The Doberman’s water bowl remained inside.
Several clothes.
Medicine.
A child’s school workbook.
The daughter’s purse.
But no daughter.
No vehicle.
No blood.
No obvious struggle.
Then the desk clerk remembered an ambulance.
Previous afternoon.
A woman had collapsed near the parking lot after arguing with a man beside a pickup.
The clerk had called emergency services.
The woman was taken away.
The man left before police arrived.
Nobody connected the child to the incident because the girl had been inside the room at the time.
The Lead Biker listened as the officer relayed the information.
“Which hospital?”
The officer checked.
“County General.”
The Lead Biker stood.
The girl stood too.
“Mom?”
“Maybe.”
Her eyes widened.
“Can we go?”
The child-services worker answered, “We’re checking first.”
The Lead Biker hated waiting.
He had spent much of his life responding to problems physically.