His face was badly bruised and cut. His breathing was shallow and uneven.
His lips were turning blue. Magnus had seen hard men broken by less.
For a street kid to step between a Hells Angels wife and a suppressed weapon took a kind of insane courage that money couldn't buy and threats couldn't manufacture.
"Doc." Magnus bellowed the word over his shoulder.
A tall, wiry man with graying red hair and a heavy canvas duffel bag shoved his way through the crowd. Doc Rafferty didn't ask questions.
He just dropped to his knees, snapped on a pair of black nitrile gloves, and went to work. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, checking pulse, checking pupils with a penlight, palpating ribs, assessing the head wound.
"His pulse is weak. His pupils are sluggish."
"He's got a severe concussion, two maybe three cracked ribs, and he's suffering from acute hypothermia and malnutrition. His body is shutting down, boss."
"We need him in a warm, sterile environment 10 minutes ago. Bring the chase van up now."
Magnus stood, turning his attention back to his wife. "The case safe?"
Cass nodded toward the silver Halliburton, still sitting in the rain where she dropped it. "But Magnus, they knew exactly when I was making this run."
"They knew I'd be alone. This wasn't random."
"This was a targeted strike."
Magnus's expression darkened, turning as hard and cold as obsidian. The briefcase contained financial documents, encrypted drives, offshore routing numbers, the club's transition into legitimate commercial real estate.
If a rival syndicate got hold of it, they could dismantle the Bakersfield charter's financial future overnight. Only three people in the entire world knew Cass was moving those drives tonight.
Magnus, Cass, and the club's vice president Garrett Sloan.
A heavy, suffocating tension settled over the parking lot. "Axel."
Magnus said the name quietly, almost gently, which made it more terrifying than if he'd shouted.
A mountain of a man with a scarred face stepped forward from the ranks.
"Axel, get the security tapes from the roadhouse. I want the plates on that gray Charger."
"Put the word out to every tow truck driver, every chop shop, and every street corner in this county. I want those two attackers found before sunrise."
Axel nodded once, sharp and efficient.
"And Axel?"
"Yeah, boss?"
"Garrett Sloan didn't show up to the church meeting tonight. Said his bike threw a rod."
Magnus's voice dropped to a lethal whisper.
"Find Garrett. Bring him to the clubhouse."
"Do not let him speak to anyone."
"Done."
As Doc and two other angels carefully lifted Finn onto a collapsible stretcher, Magnus stepped into the boy's line of sight. Finn's eyes fluttered open for a brief second, unfocused, glazed with pain and shock.
He saw the towering, terrifying figure of the biker president looming over him.
"You hold the line, Finn." Magnus's deep voice was unexpectedly gentle.
"You fight to stay awake. You're under the wing now."