Page 9 of Thor

I grunted in appreciation.

“Alternator’s toast,” I said, unclipping a compact jump pack from my saddlebag. “I’ll isolate it so it stops draining the system, then we’ll give the battery a boost. You’ll have maybe twenty minutes of run-time—enough to get you home if you keep the lights off. Tomorrow, swing by the shop and I’ll swap the alternator properly.”

Martha nodded, watching intently. "My husband used to tinker with cars before he passed. He'd have appreciated your skill."

I glanced up, catching the wistful look in her eyes. For a moment, I wondered what she saw looking at me—a helpful stranger, or the dangerous biker that mothers warned their daughters about. Probably both.

"Try it now," I instructed, stepping back from the engine.

Martha slid into the driver's seat and turned the key. The engine coughed twice, then hummed to life. Relief washed over her face, visible even in the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

"I can't thank you enough," she said, climbing out of the car. "What do I owe you?" She reached for her purse, but I waved her off.

"No charge," I said firmly. "Just wouldn't feel right leaving you stranded."

Something in her expression told me she wasn't used to kindness without a price tag. The thought made something twist uncomfortably in my chest.

"At least let me pay you for parts or—"

"The parts were nothing," I interrupted. "Just a couple connections from my toolkit."

She hesitated, then asked, "Is there something else I could do to repay you? I don't like being in debt, even for kindness."

I considered her question, glancing at her car and the dark, winding road ahead. "I'll follow you home," I decided. "Make sure you get there safe. These roads can be dangerous at night."

I didn't add that the danger might be the very Serpents I was supposed to be looking for. Some things civilians were better off not knowing.

I followed Martha's Honda through the winding roads, my headlight cutting through the darkness behind her. My Harley's engine growled low and steady, a protective shadow ensuring she made it safely through Heavy Kings territory. The car's temporary fix was holding, but I kept close, watching for any sign of electrical failure. Or Serpents. The night remained quiet except for our engines, the roads empty at this hour as we approached the modest East Ridge neighborhood on the outskirts of Ironridge.

Martha pulled into the driveway of a small ranch-style house with well-tended flower beds visible even in the darkness. I stopped at the curb, planning to nod goodbye once I knew she was safely inside. Instead, she walked over to where I idled my bike.

"Would you like to come in for coffee?" she asked, her voice carrying easily in the night quiet. "It's the least I can do, even at this ungodly hour."

I hesitated. Brotherhood protocol discouraged unnecessary civilian contact—the fewer people who could identify us, the better. But something in Martha's genuine gratitude tugged at me, a rare moment of normal human connection outside the club.

"Just for a minute," I conceded, killing the engine and following her up the short concrete path.

Inside, her living room was exactly what I'd never had—warm, lived-in, with furniture that had seen decades of use but was meticulously cared for. Family photos crowded every surface, telling the story of a life woven through with connections—children growing up, grandchildren arriving, holidays and graduations and weddings. A life built on relationships rather than territory and respect won through fear.

I stood awkwardly, too large for the delicate space, while Martha bustled into the kitchen to start coffee. My eyes were drawn to the photos, particularly one on the mantel—a young woman with Martha's same kind eyes, wearing blue scrubs and smiling broadly as she stood beside a sign for Mercy Hospital's Children's Ward.

"Your granddaughter?" I asked when Martha returned, gesturing toward the image.

Her face lit up with the particular pride reserved for grandparents. "That's my Katie. Been a pediatric nurse at Mercy Children's Ward going on five years now." She handed me a mug of coffee in a cup that seemed comically small in my large hands. "Never made much money at it, but that girl has a heart of gold. Works extra shifts just to be there for the long-term patients."

"The children's ward," I repeated, something shifting inside me as I stared at the photo. I thought of the room in my cabin, the toys and books waiting for someone who might never come. "Must be hard work."

"Heartbreaking sometimes," Martha agreed, settling onto her sofa. "She says the hardest part is when the kids get bored and restless during long stays. The hospital budget for games and activities gets cut first when money's tight."

My fingers tightened around the delicate mug. I'd spent thousands on my hidden room, on toys that sat untouched on shelves. Meanwhile, sick kids lay in hospital beds with nothing to distract them from their pain.

"Instead of paying me for the car," I heard myself saying, "maybe you could do me a favor."

I set down the coffee and reached for my wallet, pulling out five crisp hundred-dollar bills—my personal money, not club funds. Martha's eyes widened as I counted them out.

"Do you have an envelope?" I asked.

She brought me one, watching in confusion as I placed the money inside and wrote "For the kids' game fund" on the outside in my surprisingly neat handwriting.

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