PART 2
The air seemed to hold its breath.
Duke’s voice carried across the blacktop, low and steady.
“Your dad rode with us.”
A murmur rippled through the teachers and parents. Deputy Ellis didn’t lower his guard, but he stopped advancing. Principal Lawson’s expression shifted — not relaxed, but reconsidering.
Landon blinked.
“My dad?” His voice was barely audible.
Duke nodded once. “Corporal Ethan Brooks. Highway 54 memorial ride.” He paused, letting the weight of recognition settle. “He was one of ours. Not just in the club — in life.”
Behind him, the forty members of Steel Guardians MC remained on one knee. No one fidgeted. No engines revved. No theatrics. Just stillness.
Duke continued. “When a rider falls, we stand up for their family. That’s the rule. Always has been.”
A few of the parents exchanged uneasy glances. One whispered, “Is this some kind of club thing?”
But another parent, whose husband had served overseas, felt something different stir in his chest. He recognized the posture — the deliberate kneel. It wasn’t submission. It was respect.
Duke slowly reached into the inside pocket of his leather vest. Deputy Ellis stiffened again, hand tightening near his belt.
Duke pulled out a small wooden box.
He opened it carefully.
Inside was a folded American flag patch and a pair of worn leather riding gloves — cracked at the knuckles, the kind that had gripped handlebars for years.
Landon’s eyes widened. He knew those gloves.
“They were in his saddlebag,” Duke said softly. “He was bringing them to the next ride. Said he’d worn them on every memorial since he got back.”
Landon stepped forward without realizing he had moved.
The other riders bowed their heads lower.
“We didn’t get to say goodbye,” Duke continued. “So today, we’re saying it to you.”
The silence that followed no longer felt heavy. It felt sacred.
Duke placed the wooden box gently on the asphalt in front of Landon — not forcing it into his hands, not stepping closer than invited. Just offering.
“We can’t replace him,” Duke said. “But if you ever need someone to sit in the stands, teach you to fix a chain, or make sure nobody makes you feel small — you’ve got forty uncles now.”
A sharp inhale came from the fence line.
One of the mothers who had been clutching her daughter’s hand wiped her eyes without realizing it.
Landon looked at the kneeling line of leather and steel and weathered faces. For the first time in weeks, something other than confusion filled his expression.
“Did he… talk about me?” he asked.
Duke’s mouth twitched into the smallest smile. “Every single ride.”
A quiet chuckle moved through the kneeling men.
“Said you beat him at checkers. Said you were braver than he ever was.” Duke tilted his head. “Said you hated mustard.”
A faint, startled laugh escaped Landon before he could stop it.
That did it.
The tension on the playground broke like a cracked dam.
Teachers lowered their shoulders. Deputy Ellis exhaled slowly and let his hand fall from his radio. Principal Lawson pressed a hand to her chest.
Duke remained on one knee. “We don’t kneel for many things,” he said. “We kneel for fallen riders. And we kneel for their kids.”
Landon stepped forward fully now. He picked up the wooden box with careful hands. His fingers trembled, but not from fear.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
Duke raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”
“You can come to my soccer game,” Landon clarified.
For the first time since arriving, several of the bikers smiled openly.
Duke nodded solemnly. “We wouldn’t miss it.”
And then — as deliberately as they had knelt — the riders rose together.
Boots pressed against asphalt. Leather creaked. Forty men stood tall, but no longer imposing. Just present.
Duke extended his hand, not for a handshake, but for a small fist bump — the kind Ethan had apparently used.
Landon hesitated only a second before tapping his knuckles against Duke’s.
From the fence, a parent began clapping.
It was hesitant at first — unsure, almost embarrassed.
Then another joined.
Within seconds, the entire playground echoed with applause.
The Steel Guardians didn’t bow. They didn’t wave. They simply nodded in acknowledgment, mounted their bikes in the same disciplined formation, and rolled out as quietly as they had come.
The rumble faded down Oak Hollow Road.
And in its place remained something none of the parents had expected to witness that afternoon:
Not intimidation.
Not danger.
But forty leather-clad men keeping a promise to one of their own — by kneeling for the son he left behind.
