“Please, just pretend you’re hugging me,” a terrified eight-year-old boy whispered after crashing into me on a rain-soaked Chicago sidewalk and wrapping both arms around my leather vest.

(Word count: ~1,510 words)

The fog off Lake Michigan was thick as soup as eighty heavy motorcycles tore down the industrial access roads leading toward Pier 42.

Pier 42 was a massive, private shipping terminal owned by Sterling Global Logistics. Rows of towering steel shipping containers stretched across the wet concrete pavement like a giant maze. Moored at the end of the long concrete dock was a sleek, three-hundred-foot private cargo vessel, its diesel generators humming heavily in the damp air.

Through the fog, I saw four black tactical SUVs parked near the gangway ramp of the vessel. Armed men in dark suits were frantically loading heavy metallic storage cases onto the ship’s lower deck.

Richard Sterling was standing near the foot of the gangway, wearing his heavy gray coat, screaming orders into a satellite phone.

“Faster, damn it!” Sterling yelled, his voice carrying across the wet dock. “The federal court in Chicago just issued a freeze order on our accounts! Get those servers on board now!”

Suddenly, the night air shattered.

Eighty heavy motorcycle engines rounded the corner of Container Row, their high-beam headlights slicing through the thick fog like blinding laser beams.

We swept across the paved lot in a wide, tactical horseshoe formation, surrounding the gangway, the SUVs, and Sterling’s entire security team within ten seconds. The roar of eighty idling V-twins echoed off the steel shipping containers, creating a terrifying wall of sound that shook the ground beneath our feet.

Sterling’s armed tactical guards instantly drew their submachine guns, taking defensive positions behind the SUVs, their hands shaking as they stared at the massive wall of leather-clad bikers surrounding them.

I pulled my custom road glide to a stop fifteen feet from Sterling, kicking down my kickstand, and stepped off the bike with slow, deliberate grace.

Grizzly, Marcus, and twenty of our heaviest brothers dismounted beside me, their iron wrenches, tactical batons, and sidearms held ready at their sides.

Sterling stared at me, his slicked-back hair messy from the wind, his face slick with cold sweat.

“Whitman!” Sterling spat, stepping behind two of his heavily armed guards. “You’re out of your mind! This is private commercial property! If your men take one step closer, my team will open fire!”

“Go ahead and try it, Sterling,” Marcus yelled, stepping up with a heavy iron crowbar over his shoulder. “See how many of your boys make it up that ramp before we tear them apart!”

I walked forward calmly, stopping ten feet from the guards’ raised weapons.

“It’s over, Sterling,” I said, my voice steady, clear, and cold as ice. “At 11:15 PM, Vance Mercer delivered Sarah’s complete evidence file to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Department of Justice, and the Chicago District Attorney.”

Sterling’s eyes widened with pure terror. “What... what file?”

“The file Sarah spent three years building,” I replied, stepping right up to the barrel of the lead guard’s gun, ignoring it completely. “The medical records from St. Jude’s Annex. The wire transfers to your offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands. And the vehicle telemetry data from the night you had her brake lines sabotaged on the Joliet highway.”

Sterling took a staggering step backward, his back hitting the steel railing of the gangway ramp. “She... she died in a car accident! You can’t prove anything!”

“The feds don't need to prove it tonight,” I sneered, pulling my cell phone from my pocket and turning on the speakerphone.

A sharp, official voice echoed loudly across the dock through the phone speaker.

“Attention Richard Sterling and Sterling Global Logistics security personnel! This is Special Agent Miller with the Federal Bureau of Investigation!”

The sound of multiple heavy helicopters suddenly roared from the dark clouds above us. Two massive FBI tactical choppers descended through the fog, their powerful searchlights illuminating the entire pier in blinding white light.

“Put down your weapons immediately!” the FBI megaphone boomed from the lead helicopter. “The perimeter is secure! Pier 42 is now a federal crime scene!”

Sterling’s tactical guards looked up at the hovering choppers, then at eighty armed bikers surrounding them, and slowly lowered their weapons to the concrete, raising their hands into the air in surrender.

Sterling looked around in utter desperation, realizing his escape route was completely cut off.

He suddenly pulled a small silver pocket pistol from his coat lining, aiming it straight at my chest.

“If I’m going down, Whitman,” Sterling screamed hysterically, his finger tightening on the trigger, “I’m sending you to join your dead wife!”