Chapter 2 - Shadows of the Past
Z
The morning Baby Boy Nolan—now named Liam—left Pine Valley Children’s Hospital was supposed to be the end of a quiet, beautiful chapter. But in a city like Pine Valley, where the affluent suburbs collided abruptly with the rust-belt underbelly of industrial motorcycle clubs, happy endings rarely stayed untouched for long.
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass doors of the NICU, watching Shelby buckle little Liam into her beat-up sedan. Wade stood a few paces back, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his dark jeans, a gentle look in his eyes that I had come to treasure over the past few months.
"You did good, Grizzly," I murmured, stepping up beside him.
"She did the hard part, Nurse Sarah," Wade replied softly, his rumble of a voice barely carrying over the hum of the hallway ventilation. "She came back. Most people run when the fire gets too hot."
Before I could reply, the calm was shattered by the harsh, metallic screech of tires echoing from the parking garage ramp across the street. A matte-black SUV with dark tinted windows slowed to a crawl near Shelby’s car. Through the partially rolled-down passenger window, a man leaned out. Even from thirty feet away, I could see the thick black tattoos crawling up his neck—the signature iron-cross and serpent motif of the Iron Scars Motorcycle Club, the ruthless rival gang that controlled the south side of the city.
The man didn't step out. He simply raised a phone, took a deliberate photograph of Shelby and the baby, and flashed a cruel, predatory grin before the SUV roared off into the morning traffic.
Shelby froze, her face draining of all color. She fumbled with the keys, practically throwing herself into the driver's seat, and sped away in the opposite direction.
Beside me, Wade shifted. The gentle giant who had spent weeks cradling three-pound newborns transformed in a fraction of a second. His jaw clenched so hard I heard the joint crack. His massive shoulders squared, and his eyes—usually warm and sorrowful—hardened into something terrifyingly cold.
"Wade?" I whispered, a sudden wave of panic washing over me. "What was that? Who were those people?"
"Ghost from an old grave, Sarah," Wade said, his voice dropping an octave into a low, lethal register. "I need you to go back inside. Right now."
"No, Wade, talk to me. You’re a volunteer here. You’ve been cleared by every federal and state background check—"
"Background checks only see what the court records state," Wade cut in, turning his gaze toward me. For the first time since I’d met him, he looked at me not as a gentle volunteer, but as a man who had survived a war. "They don't show the blood that didn't leave a trace. Shelby’s baby... do you know who his biological father is?"
My heart plummeted into my stomach. "His chart said father unknown. Shelby refused to list a name."
"His name is Marcus Vance," Wade said, the words dripping like poison. "Current Vice President of the Iron Scars. And the man who drove by just now was one of Marcus’s enforcers."
I backed up a step, my hand instinctively flying to my mouth. "Marcus Vance? The man who was indicted last year for interstate trafficking?"
"The same," Wade confirmed coldly. "Shelby didn't just run from poverty, Sarah. She ran from Marcus. She hid in Pine Valley hoping he’d never track her to this hospital. But a infant in the NICU leaves a paper trail of medical billing and state assistance. They found her."
"We have to call the police! We have to put a protective order on her apartment—"
"The police in this town are either bought by the Scars or too terrified to step between Marcus and his blood," Wade said quietly. He pulled his phone from his pocket, his massive thumbs flying across the screen. "If Marcus takes that child, he won't raise him. He’ll use him as collateral to force Shelby back into his network—or worse."
"And what are you going to do?" I demanded, grasping his heavy denim sleeve. "Wade, you spent years building a peaceful life! You can't get dragged into this!"
Wade paused, looking down at my small hand clutching his arm. A shadow of profound pain passed over his rugged features, the memory of his own lost daughter flickering behind his eyes.
"Thirteen years ago, Sarah," Wade whispered, "I wasn't just a welder. I was the President of the Black Jackals. We fought the Iron Scars for control of this valley. When my daughter got sick... when she passed away in a room just like the one upstairs... I buried my vest. I walked away from the violence because I thought I was cursed. I thought everything I touched died."
He gently pried my fingers off his sleeve.
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"But I didn't hold that little boy for a hundred hours just to let a monster strip his life away. If the law can't protect Baby Nolan, then the man I used to be will."
Before I could scream for security, before I could reason with him, Wade turned and marched toward the lower parking lot, where his unbranded, heavy-duty Harley-Davidson sat waiting under the shade of a maple tree.
