Page 24 of Judge's Justice

"What does he want?"

"He wants us to come home."

"Are we going to?"

"No." I sign it firmly. Definitely. "No, baby. We're not going back."

"Good." Grace looks back out the window. "I like it here better. Even with the mean men. Because Judge is here."

"You like Judge?" I sign.

"He's nice. And he listens when I talk. And he knows how to sign like you." Grace pauses. "Daddy never learned."

I close my eyes. Try to breathe through the guilt that crashes over me. How long did I let that go on? How long did I make excuses for his refusal to communicate properly with our daughter, his impatience, his complete inability to connect with her?

Too long.

Way too long.

"I'm sorry, baby," I sign when I can open my eyes again. "I should have left sooner. I should have protected you better."

"You did protect me. You left." Grace looks up at me with absolute certainty. She turns back to the window. "And now Judge is protecting us too."

I don't know what to say to that. Don't know how to explain that the scarred, dangerous man standing guard in our front yard might not always be there. That this is temporary. That we can't rely on him forever.

But looking at her face, at the absolute trust there, I can't bring myself to say it.

So, I just pull her closer and watch Judge through the window.

Then I hear it.

The rumble of motorcycle engines. Distant at first. Then closer. Grace hears it too, or feels it, the vibration through the walls. She grabs my hand, her fingers tight around mine.

"Is it them?" she signs with her free hand.

"I don't know."

Judge moves. Finally. Just a small shift: his hand going to his waistband where I now see the outline of a gun. His shoulders squaring. His stance widening slightly.

Ready.

The sound gets louder. Three bikes. I can count them now by the distinct rumbles. My heart is in my throat. I'm gripping Grace so tight she makes a small sound of protest, but I can't let go. Can't do anything except watch, pray and feel utterly, completely helpless.

The bikes come into view.

Three of them. Three men in leather vests. Even from here, even through the window, I can see the serpent patches on their backs.

Vipers.

Oh God. They came. Grace presses closer to me, and I wrap both arms around her, holding her tight.

Judge doesn't move. Just stands there, watching them approach, his hand still near his gun. I can see the calculation in every line of his body. Three against one. Terrible odds. Where are his reinforcements? Where are Saint and Canvas? They were supposed to be here in ten minutes and it's been—

I don't even know how long it's been. Time has lost all meaning.

The bikes slow. Pull to a stop about twenty feet from Judge.

Three men climb off. I recognize one of them immediately, the Viper from last night. The one Judge beat. His arm is in a makeshift sling, his nose covered with tape and bandages, his eyes swollen and purple. But he's grinning. Actually grinning like he's won something.