“Who?” she asked. Ray gestured toward the ICU entrance. “Michael Torres. Room fourteen.”
Recognition flickered in her expression. “Motorcycle collision. Severe internal trauma.”
Ray nodded once. Michael Torres was twenty-seven years old, a former Army medic who had struggled after returning home. No parents living. No siblings nearby. He had found his community with Iron Resolve two years earlier after walking into their garage one afternoon looking for help fixing a broken bike and leaving with more than just mechanical advice.
When a distracted driver ran a stoplight and sent Michael’s motorcycle into a guardrail, it was Ray who got the call. Michael had listed the club’s hotline number as his emergency contact.
“He didn’t have family to call,” the nurse said quietly. “He does now,” Ray replied.
Holloway’s posture eased, though he remained alert. Ray had promised every young rider who joined their circle one thing: “You don’t ride alone.” It wasn’t about highways. It was about life.
For five nights, Ray had kept that promise alone on a vinyl bench. Now he wasn’t alone. The ICU doors opened, and a physician stepped into the hallway. “Family of Michael Torres?” the doctor asked.
Nine leather-vested riders stood quietly. Ray stepped forward. “That’s us.”
The doctor hesitated only briefly before nodding. “He’s stable,” the doctor said. “We were able to control the bleeding. He’s not conscious yet, but he’s responding to stimuli.”
The exhale from the group was collective and raw. One rider wiped his eyes discreetly. The woman bowed her head for a moment. Holloway lowered his hand from his radio entirely.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
