The EMTs exchanged uneasy glances. The child was in shock, they assumed. But before they could argue, the low thunder of engines rolled over the horizon.

Dozens of motorcycles appeared, roaring in unison, the ground trembling as they braked hard and leapt from their saddles. Men in leather vests rushed forward, boots pounding the dirt.

The first to reach them was a massive man with “IRON JACK” stitched across his chest. He froze when he saw Sophie kneeling there. His sunburned face drained of color.

“Isla?” he whispered hoarsely. “God above… you’re supposed to be gone.”

The bikers around him fell silent. Every man there knew the name. Isla Keller—Jonas’s daughter. She had died of leukemia three years earlier, before she reached her sixth birthday. She had been the heart of their club, the little sister to every man who wore the patch.

Sophie looked up, puzzled but steady. “I’m Sophie. But Isla says to hurry. He needs O-negative, and you have it.”