Martha’s hands moved without hesitation as she knelt beside the first biker. a massive man with graying temples whose leather vest bore the insignia of the Iron Wolves MC. Blood seeped from a gash across his scalp, and his breathing came in shallow gasps. She’d seen worse, much worse, in the field hospitals of places that didn’t exist on any official maps.
“Easy there, soldier,” she murmured, cleaning the wound with practice deficiency. The man’s eyes fluttered open, confusion replacing pain as he focused on her weathered face. “Who who are you?” he wheezed. “Someone who knows what it looks like when men are left to die,” Martha replied, her voice carrying an edge that hadn’t been there during her morning coffee.
She moved to the second biker, younger, his arm bent at an unnatural angle. “What’s your name?” Tank, the older managed. That’s Rico. And the kids called Mouse. Mouse couldn’t have been more than 25. Blood matting his blonde hair where someone had worked him over with something heavier than fists. Martha’s jaw tightened as she assessed the damage.
This wasn’t a random beating. This was methodical, professional. Someone had wanted information. The rumble of engines in the distance made her pause. She’d been expecting this. In her experience, men who left others for dead rarely stayed gone for long. They came back to clean up loose ends. “Can any of you move?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
Tank tried to sit up, and immediately collapsed back against the gravel. They took our phones, said they’d be back to finish the job after they handled some business. Martha stood, brushing dirt from her knees. 23 years of retirement had made her soft around the edges, but muscle memory was a powerful thing. She walked back into the barn and emerged with a hunting rifle that looked well-maintained despite its age.
“Ma’am, you need to get inside and call the police,” Tank said, alarm cutting through his pain. “These aren’t ordinary men. They’re cartel. We stumbled onto something we shouldn’t have. And now, now they’re coming to tie up loose ends,” Martha finished. She checked the rifle’s action with movements that spoke of decades of familiarity.
