PART 2

The door opened again.

The man who walked in didn’t belong in Maggie’s. Mid-forties, expensive suit—tailored and sharp, but now scuffed and dirty. His breathing was uneven, his eyes scanning the room with sharp precision. Then they landed on the boy… and shifted to me.

He straightened his jacket, fixed his posture, and rebuilt his confidence like flipping a switch. Like he still owned the situation.

That was his first mistake.

“This child,” he said calmly, “is under my legal supervision.”

No one moved. No one spoke.

I took a slow sip of my coffee. “He’s under my hand right now,” I said. “That’s where he stays.”

Something flickered in his eyes—annoyance, then calculation.

“You don’t understand,” he replied. “There are documents—”

“What’s your name, kid?” I asked, cutting him off.

There was a pause. Then, quietly, “Ethan.”

“You know him, Ethan?”

The silence stretched longer this time. Then the boy whispered, “He said my mom sent him… but my mom doesn’t know where I am.”

That was all it took.

The air changed. Cold. Heavy. Final.

I looked back at the man. He knew. He knew we understood exactly what was happening. And just like that, he wasn’t in control anymore.

“Maggie,” I called.

“Already calling,” she answered from behind the counter.

I pointed to a stool. “Sit.”

He hesitated, glancing around—fifty bikers, one door. Then he sat.

Minutes later, Maggie returned with confirmation. Missing child report. Chicago. Fourteen weeks. Same face. Same kid.

I turned the screen toward him. “Fourteen weeks,” I said.

He didn’t respond.

“Where were you taking him?”

“Private matter,” he snapped.

I leaned forward. “It stopped being private when he ran in here screaming.”

Then the phone rang again.

A name—William Holloway. A jet. Four more kids. Twelve miles north. Leaving in less than an hour.

I stood up.

“Spider. Dutch. Tiny. With me.”

The rest stayed behind.

Protecting Ethan.

Because this wasn’t over yet.

PART 3