NO ONE DOES HONEST LIKE A KID

HOLLYWOOD

The air was wired. Charged like someone had taken a pair of jumper cables to it. No one joked or fucked around. We barely even talked.

Standing outside the clubhouse on Thursday morning, my Court of Mayhem brothers and I did one last run-through of our plan, our equipment, and our supplies. Once we confirmed we were good to go, everyone biked—or, in Haze and my case, vanned—up and hit the road.

I envied the brothers who were on their bikes. With the cold wind and the open road, the ride would’ve done a lot to relax the tension that bunched my muscles. Extractions always put me on edge.

Ones that involved kids made me feel like I was comin’ outta my skin.

Even when they went smoothly, it was hard for kids. They were confused. Angry. Scared.

Or, worse, they were happy to leave everything behind. They wanted to leave.

They were relieved that their entire life was about to change.

We reached the stereotypical suburban house—complete with porch swing, garden flag, and perfectly trimmed lawn—right on schedule. Slowing down, we moved at a crawl to look for any signs there’d been a change in plans. Usually, we circled the block a couple of times to be thorough before parking.

Beth didn’t give us the chance. With a toddler girl on her hip, she stepped onto the porch and waved.

Everyone pulled over and killed their engines, filing onto the sidewalk.

Beth’s wide eyes darted between us. I could only guess what her neighbors thought—or how many of them had already dialed 911 and were just waiting for a reason to hit connect.

Judge was the only one to approach, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. “You ready to do this, Beth?”

Making the decision to leave was a helluva lot different than following through. It wasn’t uncommon for women to change their minds when they suddenly had a yard full of bikers who were there to uproot their lives.

It got too intimidating.

Too daunting.

Too real.

Beth wasn’t one of those women. At Judge’s question, she gave a wobbly smile. “Get us the hell out of here.”

That was all we needed.

Opening the van, we grabbed the assembled boxes and carried them inside.

“Start with what’s important, then move on to the rest if we have time,” Judge instructed as we set the boxes in the living room.

The place was nice. Too nice. I had no clue how to decorate, but at least I had pictures. A couch made to stretch out on. A big-ass TV.

The info said there were kids in the house. Beth was holding one. But I’d never guess ’cause there was no sign of them. No toys. No books. No cereal crumbs, abandoned shoes in the walkway, or speck of dirt.