There were bodies everywhere: Harlow had one biker in a chokehold, lifting him off the ground so his boots thumped against the siding. Ransom and Quiad worked together, fists and elbows and knees, breaking a biker’s guard before tossing him over the railing and into the flowerbeds.
But Harley just watched, like a king inspecting the carnage in his court. When he saw me, his face lit up in a way I remembered and hated.
"Finally decided to come back to your rightful owner?" he called, voice loud enough to cut through every scream and engine whine.
I didn't answer. I kept moving, knife flat against my arm, eyes locked on Ma. She saw me too. For a second, the fear in her face broke, and she flashed that old, stubborn look like she used to when I tracked mud in after she’d just mopped.
"Don't you even think about it, Bodean," her voice rasped, but I could hear the pride behind it.
The biker holding her flexed his arm, knife digging deeper. He was big, older than I remembered, with hair in tight cornrows and arms sleeved in blurry tattoos. He braced himself, set his legs, and tried to drag her back.
"Let her go," I said, low and mean.
Harley stepped forward, hands up in mock surrender. "We just want to talk, Bo. Man to man. Well—" He paused, flicked his eyes at Jo, who was now coming around the side of the porch, fists already bloodied— "man to whatever he is."
Jo didn't say anything. He just glared at Harley with that steady, flat look that meant shit was about to get biblical.
Harley grinned wider. "Oh, don't be like that, Moxley. I always said you'd make a better guard dog than a boyfriend."
Jo’s voice was calm, cold as river ice: "Let her go, and I won't break your fucking neck."
Harley barked a laugh. "You hear that, Bo? Still letting other people do your fighting for you. You ever get tired of being someone else's chew toy?"
I took a step closer, slow and deliberate. "Only thing I got tired of was your mouth."
He made a tsk sound, then motioned to his guy. "Go ahead. Give the boy a reunion. Just don't mark the merchandise too much."
The biker yanked Ma in front of him like a shield, knife pressed so hard it left a white line above the red.
My hands shook, but I kept moving. I let the knife show, watched the biker's eyes clock it, and waited for him to get cocky.
They always did.
Behind me, I heard boots crunch the gravel. Knox and Ransom, closing in, guns drawn but not pointed. I could feel their presence, a weight on either side of me, like we were back in the yard as kids facing down the school bullies, only this time with grown-up toys.
Harley looked past me, past Jo, and grinned wider. "You see this, Bo? This is what happens when you leave. People get hurt. Things get... messy." He let his hand hover over his belt, where I knew he kept a switchblade.
Jo moved then, stepping forward, blocking Harley's view of me. "He doesn't belong to you," he said, voice loud enough to bounce off the porch columns. "He belongs to no one but himself."
Harley's face darkened. "That's not what he told me when he was begging on his knees." He snapped the switchblade open, the sound loud and sharp in the cold air.
I didn't wait for Jo to react. I lunged, feet barely touching the steps, and drove my blade at the biker’s knife hand. Metal on metal shrieked as the knives collided. The impact sent shock upmy arm, but I didn't let go. I slammed my forearm into the inside of his wrist and twisted, just like the brothers taught me.
He screamed, dropped Ma, and tried to pivot, but I was already inside his guard. I caught his arm, rolled my shoulder, and slammed him face-first into the porch rail. He went limp, sliding down in a spray of blood and splinters.
Ma staggered free, clutching her neck. She stared at me, eyes wide, and I almost missed the swing of the cast-iron skillet until it was too late.
She brained the next biker in the temple so hard I heard the pan ring. He dropped instantly, legs folding like a card table.
“Sorry, baby,” she said, spitting blood, “but that’s for bringing this mess to my door.”
I grinned, because what else could you do?
Then Jo let out a roar. Two bikers had managed to tackle him together, driving him back across the steps. He barely staggered, but they hung on, clawing at his shirt, going for the eyes.
He shrugged one off with a twist, then buried his fist in the second’s stomach. The sound was wet and final; the biker puked and went down, clutching his gut.
The first one came at Jo again, this time with a length of chain. He swung it, aiming for Jo’s head, but Jo ducked, caught the chain mid-swing, and yanked. The biker flew forward and Jo kneed him in the face, breaking his nose with a sick crunch.
