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His honesty was both terrifying and necessary.

Chase never sugar-coated reality -- not since the day at fourteen he’d found me unconscious in our bathroom and had to decide whether to call an ambulance and risk his father’s wrath or try to handle it himself.

He’d chosen the former, and we’d all paid the price.

“I’ve been saving,” he admitted quietly, pulling a worn envelope from his jacket. “Working at the garage, skimming from Dad’s poker winnings when he was too drunk to count straight. It’s not much, but it’ll help.”

He pressed the envelope into my hands, and I felt the thickness of what had to be hundreds of dollars. Money earned from oil changes and tire rotations, stolen in increments small enough to avoid detection, saved for this exact moment.

“I should have gotten us out sooner,” I whispered, the weight of the envelope nothing compared to the weight of my failure.

Chase’s eyes met mine, and I saw reflected there not accusation but a bone-deep weariness.

“We’re getting out now,” he said simply.

“That’s what matters.” He straightened up, resuming his guard position as the couple with the dog disappeared around a curve in the shoreline.

My son, the sentry, the protector, the strategist. My boy who’d never had the chance to be just a child.

Chase and Levi exchanged a look that spoke volumes, the silent communication of brothers who had weathered storms together.

Despite their one-year age gap, they moved in tandem, anticipating each other’s thoughts in a way that only came from shared trauma.

I watched as Chase passed Levi a water bottle without being asked, and how Levi automatically shifted to make room when his brother finally sat back down beside us on the sand.

“We should head back to the car soon,” Chase murmured, his voice low. “Being in one place too long isn’t smart.”

Levi nodded but made no move to get up. Instead, he pulled his knees to his chest and leaned almost imperceptibly against his brother’s shoulder. For a brief moment, Chase’s vigilant expression softened, and he allowed the contact.

These quiet moments of connection between them were rare and precious.

Chase had learned to keep physical affection to a minimum -- displays of emotion had been dangerous in our household, seen as weakness by Piston and targeted accordingly.

But with Levi, especially when we were alone and far from their father’s watchful eye, he allowed these small gestures of brotherhood.

“The contact should respond by morning,” Levi said, his eyes on the darkening horizon. “Scratch has a ninety-eight percent response rate according to the forums.”

Chase snorted softly. “Forums can be faked, Lev. Especially when it comes to this sort of thing. I find it odd there’s even a forum at all.”

“Not these. I checked IP addresses, cross-referenced testimonials, verified identities through social media footprints.” Levi pushed his glasses up with one finger, a gesture that made him look even younger than his fifteen years. “They’re legitimate.”

“Computer shit doesn’t mean anything in the real world,” Chase countered, though there was no heat in his words. “These are bikers, not tech support.”

I watched the familiar dynamic unfold -- Chase, practical and street-smart, grounded in harsh realities; and Levi, analytical and tech-savvy, navigating the world through information and systems. Two sides of the same coin, both trying to survive in their own way.

“The Devil’s Boneyard has successfully extracted eighty-three women and children from situations like ours in the past two years,” Levi continued, unfazed by his brother’s skepticism. “They have a network that spans --”

“I know what they have,” Chase interrupted, his voice gentler than his words. “I’m just saying we need contingencies that don’t rely on the goodwill of strangers.”

Levi’s shoulders tensed, and for a moment I thought he might withdraw into himself, as he often did when stressed. Instead, he turned to face his brother directly. “Not everyone is like him, Chase.”

The tension between them crackled in the salt-heavy air.

This was an old argument -- Chase’s deep-seated distrust of everyone versus Levi’s desperate need to believe in something beyond our toxic family unit.

Both perspectives shaped by the same abusive household but manifesting in opposite directions.

“I know that,” Chase finally conceded, running a hand through his hair. “But until we’re clear, we trust no one completely. Deal?”

Levi hesitated, then nodded. “Deal.”

I watched my sons with a mixture of pride and heartache.

They shouldn’t have had to become this -- one a hyper-vigilant guardian, the other a strategic escape artist. They should have been arguing about video games or girls or whose turn it was to take out the trash.

Normal teenage concerns, not survival strategies.

“Your brother has a point, Levi,” I said gently. “The Devil’s Boneyard might be our best shot, but Chase is right about having backups.”

Levi glanced at me, then back at his brother. Something unspoken passed between them again, and Chase’s posture relaxed slightly. The silent debate was over, at least for now.

“I already have three alternate routes programmed,” Levi admitted, a small smile touching his lips. “And emergency contact protocols if we get separated.”

Chase bumped his shoulder against his brother’s. “And I already scouted two alternative meeting spots if the primary one is compromised.”

I felt a swell of emotion watching them -- pride tangled with sorrow, hope entwined with fear. My boys, so different in their approaches but united in their determination to get us to safety.

Levi hunched over his phone, his slender fingers flying across the screen as he checked his encrypted messages for the fifth time in twenty minutes.

The blue light illuminated his face in the growing darkness, highlighting the fading bruise around his eye and the thoughtful furrow between his brows.

My youngest son had always been my thinker, more comfortable with books and code than with the physical world that had brought him so much pain.

“Still nothing,” he murmured, the disappointment evident in his voice. I took note of his nervous twitches and wished I could assure him everything would be fine. “They should have responded by now.”

Unlike Chase’s imposing build, Levi was slight, his frame still caught in that awkward transition between boyhood and adolescence.

His blond hair -- Piston’s color but softer, gentler somehow -- fell across his forehead in waves that no amount of combing could tame.

But while he lacked his brother’s physical presence, Levi’s mind was a formidable weapon all its own.

“Give it time,” I told him, reaching out to push that wayward hair from his eyes. “It’s only been a few hours since you sent the message.”

He nodded but didn’t look convinced. “I included all the relevant data points -- Dad’s MC connections, his typical surveillance patterns, our current status.

I even encrypted everything using a protocol I modified myself.

” He glanced up at me, his brown eyes -- so like mine -- wide with a vulnerability that made my chest ache. “What if they don’t want to help us?”

The question hung between us, heavy with fear. We’d pinned so much hope on this plan -- Levi’s plan -- that the possibility of rejection threatened to unravel what little courage we’d managed to gather.

“Then we move to Plan B,” Chase answered before I could, his voice firm. “Like we discussed.”

Levi swallowed hard, the motion visible in his thin neck. “Plan B has a sixty-seven percent lower success probability.”

Numbers and statistics -- they were Levi’s security blanket, his way of making sense of a world that had never made sense to him.

While other kids his age were memorizing football stats or video game cheat codes, my youngest had taught himself risk assessment and probability calculations as a survival mechanism.

Although, there had been a few times his calculations had been a bit off, and his brother had teased him mercilessly for days.

I smiled a little at the memories. Levi had narrowed his eyes at his brother and refused to believe he was wrong, until Chase had proven otherwise.

The dumbfounded expression on Levi’s face would probably stay with me forever.

“How did you find them?” I asked gently, wanting to redirect his spiraling thoughts. He’d mentioned a forum, but I had no idea what he was talking about. “The Devil’s Boneyard. How did you know they could help?”

The question seemed to center him, pulling him back to firmer ground. He tucked the phone away and pulled out a small notebook instead, flipping to a page filled with his neat, precise handwriting.

“I started researching exit strategies six months ago, after the incident with Dad’s gun.

” His voice was clinical, detached, as if he were presenting a school project rather than discussing the night his father had waved a loaded pistol at us during a drunken rage.

“Most women’s shelters don’t have the security infrastructure to handle someone with Dad’s connections.

Police protection is statistically ineffective against organized MC retaliation. ”

He flipped to another page, this one containing what looked like a complex diagram.

“I found references to the Devil’s Boneyard on three different secure forums for abuse survivors.

They specialize in extractions where conventional protection fails, particularly cases involving motorcycle clubs or organized crime. ”

“You’ve done amazing work, Levi,” I told him, meaning every word. “None of this would be possible without you.”

He ducked his head at the praise, but I caught the small flash of pride in his eyes. Approval had been rare in our household, compliments even rarer.

“I just don’t want him to hurt you anymore,” he said quietly, his voice suddenly that of a child again rather than the tactical analyst he’d been playing at. “Or Chase. Or me.”

I gathered him close, feeling his thin shoulders under my arm. For all his intelligence and planning, he was still my baby, still the little boy who needed his mother’s protection -- even as he was working so hard to protect her.

“He won’t,” I promised, hoping I could make that true. “Not ever again.”

Levi leaned into me for a moment before straightening, some internal alarm seeming to remind him that vulnerability was dangerous. He adjusted his glasses again and pulled his phone back out, checking for messages that hadn’t arrived.

“The statistical likelihood of successfully evading Dad decreases by twelve percent for every day we delay,” he said, his voice steadier now.

“If the Devil’s Boneyard doesn’t respond by morning, we should consider initiating contact with the secondary option I identified -- a women’s advocacy group in Atlanta with connections to --”

A soft ping from his phone cut him off. We all froze, staring at the device in his hand as if it might explode. With trembling fingers, Levi opened the message, his face illuminated once more by the blue glow of the screen. I watched as his expression shifted from tension to cautious relief.

“They responded,” he whispered, looking up at us with wide eyes. “Scratch wants to meet.”