Chapter 2 - The Blood Debt
“Where did you get these?” Mack whispered, his voice completely losing its intimidating edge.
“They were Grandpa’s,” Eli answered quietly.
Mack slowly turned the left glove over. His thick thumb stopped and traced the edges of the red fabric patch. For several long, agonizing seconds, he didn't say a single word. He just stared at the stitching, his chest rising and falling heavily.
Finally, Mack looked up, staring directly into the nine-year-old’s innocent eyes. “What was your grandfather’s name?”
“Walter. Walter Turner.”
The diner suddenly became dead silent. The biker sitting opposite Mack slowly lowered his fork, his jaw dropping open. Another man aggressively wiped his mouth and sat up perfectly straight.
“Walter…” Mack whispered, the name carrying a profound, crushing weight.
Eli nodded. “He said you’d remember the gloves.”
Mack leaned back against the vinyl booth. “I remember,” he choked out, his eyes glistening. He looked at the faded red patch again. “Your grandfather tore these gloves open, ripping his own hands to the bone, to pull me out from under a collapsed steel beam.”
Eli’s eyes widened in sheer awe. “When?”
“Long before you were born, kid,” Mack said, a sad, nostalgic smile crossing his scarred face.
Mack reached into the lunchbox and picked up the photograph. It showed five young, filthy construction workers standing beside the unfinished framework of a massive bridge. Their hard hats were scratched. A much younger, thinner Mack stood second from the left. And standing right beside him, with a protective arm slung around Mack’s shoulder, was Walter Turner.
Eli leaned forward, pointing a tiny finger at the picture. “That’s Grandpa.”
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Mack’s smile faded. A dark, terrifying realization suddenly washed over his features. “Where is he, Eli? Why didn't he bring this to me himself?”
👉 What devastating news is the little boy about to deliver to the bikers?
