PART 1: THE SCREAM IN THE SILENCE

There’s a specific kind of freedom you only find straddling a hunk of American steel, doing eighty down a backroad with your brothers at your back. It’s a vibration that starts in your boots, rattles up your spine, and settles somewhere in your chest, shaking loose the dust of a life that hasn’t always been kind.

I’m Colt Henderson. People see the patch on my back—Iron Heaven Riders—and the silver in my beard, and they usually cross the street. They see the leather, the grime, the scars that map out a history of bad decisions and hard lessons. They don’t see the brotherhood. They don’t see that for most of us, this club was the only family that didn’t walk out or die out.

That Saturday was supposed to be a charity run. Just a long stretch of asphalt, the smell of pine and gasoline, and the hypnotic roar of ninety-nine V-twin engines singing in unison. The sun was high, bleaching the color out of the empty country road. I was out front, the wind tearing at my beard, my sunglasses cutting the glare. My mind was empty, a rare mercy.

Then I saw her.

At first, she was just a speck of color against the gray tarmac and the wall of green forest. A glitch in the perfect scenery. I squinted, easing off the throttle just a hair.

Pink. It was bright, jarring pink.

As we closed the distance, the speck resolved into a shape. A child. Running. Not playing, not jogging—fleeing. She was barefoot, her legs pumping furiously, her pink dress flapping like a torn flag. She was in the middle of the road, heading straight for us, waving her arms frantically.

“Hand up!” I signaled, raising my left fist.

I squeezed the brake lever, the hydraulics hissing, tires biting into the asphalt. The sudden drop in speed sent a ripple effect through the pack behind me. A hundred bikes decelerated, the roar dropping to a low, predatory rumble.

I brought my Harley to a halt ten feet from her. The smell of burning rubber mixed with the sweet scent of the pines.

She didn’t stop. She stumbled toward my front wheel, her chest heaving so hard I could see her ribs straining against the fabric of her dirty dress. She looked about seven years old. Her face was a mask of mud, snot, and tears. But it was her eyes that punched the air out of my lungs. They were wide, feral, swimming with a terror that no child should ever know.

I killed the engine. The silence that followed was deafening, save for the ticking of cooling metal and the ragged gasps of the girl.

I swung my leg over and planted my boots on the ground. “Easy, little bit,” I said, my voice gravelly. I held out a hand, palm up. “You’re safe. Just breathe.”

She grabbed my hand. Her grip was shockingly strong, her fingers ice cold despite the heat. She was shaking so violently her teeth chattered.

“Please!” she choked out, her voice cracking like a broken bell. “Please, mister!”

“What’s wrong?” I asked, dropping to one knee to look her in the eye. “Who’s chasing you?”

She whipped her head around, looking back at the dense tree line she’d just burst from, as if she expected a monster to tear through the brush. When she looked back at me, the desperation in her face broke my heart into jagged pieces.

“They…” She swallowed a sob, air hitching in her throat. “They hung my mom on a tree.”

The world stopped.

I felt the blood drain from my face. Behind me, I heard boots shuffling on gravel as the guys dismounted, sensing the shift in the atmosphere.

“Say that again,” I whispered, praying I’d heard her wrong.

“They hung her!” she screamed, the sound tearing through the peaceful afternoon. “Save her! Please! She’s turning blue!”

A cold rage, old and familiar, flooded my veins. It was the same feeling I’d had years ago, standing in a hospital room, looking at an empty bed where my own daughter should have been. That dark, hollow ache snapped shut, replaced by a singular, burning purpose.

I stood up, turning to the pack. My brothers—Jax, Tiny, Repo, and the rest—were watching me, waiting. They saw the look on my face. They knew.

“Mount up!” I roared, my voice carrying over the idling engines. “We got a situation!”

I looked down at the girl. “What’s your name, honey?”

“Harlo,” she whimpered. “Harlo Grace.”

“Okay, Harlo. I need you to be brave for two more minutes. Can you do that?”

She nodded, wiping her nose on her arm.

“Where?” I asked.

She pointed a shaking finger at a narrow, overgrown deer trail disappearing into the woods about fifty yards back. “Down there. Deep. near the big rock.”

“Get on.”

I didn’t wait. I scooped her up—she weighed nothing, like a bird made of hollow bones—and set her on the gas tank in front of me. “Hold the handlebars. Don’t let go.”

I didn’t care about the chrome. I didn’t care about the paint job. I hit the starter, and the bike roared to life, an angry beast waking up.

“Let’s ride!” I signaled toward the trees.

I dropped the clutch and twisted the throttle. The back tire spun, spitting gravel, then caught. We shot forward. I veered off the road, hopping the ditch. The suspension groaned as we hit the dirt.

“Hold on tight, Harlo!” I yelled over the engine.

The trail was a nightmare. Roots snaked across the path, slick with moss. Low-hanging branches whipped at us. I ducked, shielding Harlo with my body, taking the stinging slaps against my helmet and leather vest. Behind me, the roar was apocalyptic. The Iron Heaven Riders weren’t built for off-roading, but today, we were a tank division. Ninety-nine bikes forcing their way through the undergrowth, a storm made of steel and thunder.

Harlo was screaming something, but the wind stole it. I could feel her tiny heart hammering against my arm as I leaned into a sharp turn, mud spraying my jeans.

Please be alive, I prayed. I wasn’t a religious man, but in that moment, I was bargaining with every god I’d ever ignored. Don’t let us be too late.

The trail widened slightly, the canopy thickening, blocking out the sun. It was darker here, cooler. The air smelled of damp earth and rot.

“There!” Harlo shrieked, pointing.

We burst into a clearing. It looked like a wound in the forest, a circle of trampled grass dominated by a massive, ancient oak tree in the center.

And there she was.

My stomach dropped to the soles of my boots.

Aubrey Grace.

She was swaying. Just slightly. A pendulum in the gentle breeze.

Her feet were inches off the ground, toes pointed down, searching for purchase that wasn’t there. Her hands were bound behind her back with thick, yellow nylon rope. Another rope, pulled taut over a thick branch, was cinched tight around her neck.

She wasn’t moving. Her head was lolled forward, chin to chest. Her long hair curtained her face.

“MAMA!” Harlo’s scream was a physical blow.

I didn’t bother with the kickstand. I let the bike drop beneath us, grabbing Harlo and rolling us onto the grass to avoid the hot pipes. I was up in a nanosecond, sprinting.

“KNIFE!” I bellowed. “I NEED A KNIFE!”

I reached the woman and wrapped my arms around her legs, hoisting her upward with everything I had to relieve the pressure on her neck. She was heavy, dead weight. Her skin was warm, but clammy.

“Jax! Get her down!”

Jax was already there, a massive Bowie knife gleaming in his hand. He didn’t hesitate. He scrambled up the trunk like a bear, reached out to the rope, and slashed.

Snap.

Gravity took over. I braced myself, catching her as she fell, her body collapsing into me like a wilted flower. We hit the ground hard, me taking the brunt of the impact.

“Back up!” I barked at the guys crowding around. “Give her air!”

I laid her flat on the forest floor. Her face was a terrifying shade of purple-grey. The rope had dug deep, leaving an angry, red trench around her throat. Her lips were blue.

Harlo threw herself onto her mother’s chest, sobbing hysterically. “Mommy! Mommy, wake up! Please!”

“Harlo, baby, I need you to move,” I said, my voice shaking. I gently pushed the girl aside, handing her to Tiny, our biggest, scariest-looking rider who had the heart of a teddy bear. He wrapped his massive arms around the kid, burying her face in his vest so she wouldn’t see what came next.

I pressed two fingers to Aubrey’s neck.

Nothing.

I moved my ear to her mouth.

Silence.

“Come on,” I growled, interlocking my hands over her chest. “Not today. You hear me? Not today.”

I started compressions. One, two, three, four. Pumping hard. Cracking ribs? Maybe. didn’t matter. Ribs heal. Dead doesn’t.

“Repo! Med kit!” I shouted between pumps.

Repo tossed me the bag. I ripped it open, grabbing the ambu-bag, but I didn’t stop the rhythm.

Pump. Pump. Pump. Pump.

“Breathe, damn you!” I yelled at her silent form. Sweat stung my eyes. The forest was eerily quiet now, the engines off, a hundred tough men standing in a circle, holding their breath, hats in hands.

A minute passed. It felt like an hour.

“Colt,” Jax said softly. “She’s been up there a while, man…”

“Shut up!” I snapped, not breaking rhythm. “I said not today!”

I pinched her nose and tilted her head back, breathing two sharp breaths into her mouth. I went back to the chest.

Pump. Pump. Pump.

And then—a spasm.

Her body jerked under my hands. A wet, ragged cough erupted from her throat, sounding like gravel rattling in a tin can.

She sucked in a breath—a desperate, harsh gasp that sounded like tearing fabric.

“Roll her!” I shouted.

We rolled her onto her side just as she retched. She gasped, choking, coughing, dragging air into starved lungs. It was the ugliest, most beautiful sound I had ever heard.

“Mommy?” Harlo struggled against Tiny’s grip.

Aubrey’s eyes fluttered open. They were bloodshot, unfocused, darting wildly. She tried to scramble away, her hands still bound behind her, panic seizing her.

“Easy! Easy!” I soothed, holding her shoulders firmly but gently. “You’re safe. We got you. You’re safe.”

Jax stepped in and sliced the ropes binding her wrists. Aubrey collapsed back onto the leaves, trembling so hard she vibrated. She looked up at me, her eyes wide with confusion. She saw the beard, the leather, the patch. She flinched.

“Harlo…” she rasped, her voice a ruin. “Harlo…”

“She’s right here,” I said. I nodded to Tiny.

He set the girl down. Harlo launched herself at her mother, burying her face in Aubrey’s neck. They clung to each other, a tangle of limbs and tears and mud.

I sat back on my heels, wiping sweat and dirt from my forehead. My hands were shaking. I looked around the circle. Hard men, men who had done time, men who had fought in wars, were openly wiping their eyes.

But as I looked at Aubrey—really looked at her—the relief began to curdle into something darker.

I saw the bruises on her arms. Fingerprints.
I saw the cut on her cheek.
I saw the torn hem of her dress.

This wasn’t a suicide. Harlo had said “They.”

I stood up, the adrenaline fading into a cold, sharp clarity. I looked at the rope still dangling from the tree. A noose.

Someone did this. Someone strung this woman up like livestock and left her child to watch or die.

I turned to scan the woods. The shadows seemed deeper now. My eyes landed on the house visible through the trees about a hundred yards away. A small, ramshackle cabin. The front door was wide open, hanging off its hinges.

“Jax,” I said, my voice low and dangerous. “Take five guys. Perimeter. Now. Anyone who isn’t us gets dropped. No questions.”

“On it,” Jax growled, signaling a crew.

I looked back down at the mother and daughter. They were alive. But we were miles from help, in the middle of nowhere, and whoever did this was likely still close.

“Tiny,” I said. “Get the satellite phone. We need a dust-off or an ambulance, whichever is faster. And call the sheriff. Tell him… tell him the Iron Heaven Riders are conducting a citizen’s arrest if we find these bastards.”

I knelt back down beside Aubrey. She was looking at me, her eyes clearing. She gripped my hand with surprising strength.

“Thank you,” she mouthed. No sound came out, but the message hit me like a sledgehammer.

“Don’t thank me yet,” I told her, my face hardening. “We ain’t done.”

I looked at Harlo. She was watching me, her little hand resting on my knee.

“Harlo,” I said gently. “I need you to tell me exactly what happened. Can you do that?”

She nodded, sniffling.

“Who did this?”

She took a deep breath, her eyes flicking toward the house.

“The bad men,” she whispered. “They had skulls on their jackets too. But… not like yours.”

My blood ran cold.

Skulls.

“What kind of skulls, Harlo?”

“Red ones,” she said. “With snakes.”

I froze. I exchanged a look with Jax, who had paused at the edge of the clearing. He knew. We all knew.

The Red Vipers.

This wasn’t just a crime. This was a declaration of war.

PART 2: THE VIPER’S NEST

“Red Vipers,” Jax spit the name onto the forest floor like it was poison. “You gotta be kidding me, Colt. They haven’t been seen in this county for five years.”

“Harlo saw what she saw,” I said, my voice tight. I looked down at the little girl, who was now clutching my leather vest so hard her knuckles were white. “Red skulls with snakes. That’s their patch. No mistaking it.”

The mood in the clearing shifted instantly from relief to a high-voltage tension. The Iron Heaven Riders and the Red Vipers weren’t just rivals; we were natural enemies. We rode for freedom and brotherhood; they rode for chaos and profit. Meth, trafficking, contract hits—if it was dirty, the Vipers were swimming in it. And if they were here, hanging a woman in her own backyard, it meant something big and ugly was going down.

“We need to move,” I commanded, standing up. “This isn’t a rescue anymore. It’s an extraction.”

We worked with military precision. Four guys improvised a stretcher using jackets and sturdy branches. We carefully lifted Aubrey onto it. She drifted in and out of consciousness, groaning in pain every time we jostled her. Her throat was swelling fast, a dark purple collar of bruises that sickened me every time I looked at it.

“Tiny, you take point,” I ordered. “Repo, rear guard. Keep your eyes peeled. If the Vipers are still close, they won’t like us undoing their handiwork.”

I turned to Harlo. “You riding with me again, Little Bit?”

She nodded furiously, reaching her arms up. I lifted her, but this time, I didn’t set her on the tank. I sat her on the seat in front of me, wrapping one arm around her waist to secure her. “Lean back against me,” I told her. “I got you. I won’t let you fall.”

She pressed her back against my chest, her head tucking under my chin. She smelled like mud and rain, but underneath that, just the scent of a kid—innocent and small. It triggered a flash of memory so sharp it almost doubled me over. Sarah. My daughter. She used to ride like this, sitting in front of me around the driveway, laughing at the rumble of the engine. She was six when the leukemia took her. I hadn’t held a child since the day we buried her.

I shoved the memory down into the dark box where I kept my ghosts. Focus, Henderson.

We roared out of the woods, a convoy of chrome and vengeance. We hit the main road and tightened the formation. I was in the center, the “VIP” slot, with forty bikes ahead and fifty behind. We took up both lanes. If anyone wanted to get to Aubrey or Harlo, they’d have to chew through a wall of steel to do it.

The ride to the county hospital in Oakhaven was a blur of wind and adrenaline. I kept checking Harlo, feeling her small hands gripping my forearms. She was trembling, but she wasn’t crying anymore. She was in shock, probably. Or maybe she just felt safe for the first time in hours.

When we rolled into the hospital parking lot, it looked like an invasion. Ninety-nine bikes thundering to a halt at the Emergency entrance turns heads. Security guards rushed out, hands on their holsters, but stopped dead when they saw the size of us.

“We need a trauma team!” I bellowed, killing the engine. “Now!”

Doctors and nurses swarmed out, professional instincts overriding their fear of the biker mob. They took Aubrey from the makeshift stretcher onto a gurney.

“Mom!” Harlo cried out as they wheeled her away.

“It’s okay,” I said, crouching down and holding her shoulders. “They’re going to fix her. They have to fix her.”

“I want to go with her!”

“You can’t go in there right now, honey. Doctors need room to work.” I looked up at the head nurse, a stern woman who looked like she took no nonsense. “She stays with me.”

The nurse eyed my tattoos, my road dust, the knife on my belt. Then she looked at the terrified little girl clinging to my leg. Her expression softened. “Family waiting room. Third door on the left. I’ll come get you as soon as we know anything.”

We took over the waiting room. Literally. The Iron Heaven Riders filled every chair, lined every wall, and spilled out into the hallway. The vending machine was emptied in ten minutes. The TV was turned to the news, volume low.

I sat in the corner on a vinyl loveseat, Harlo curled up next to me. She refused to let go of my hand. Every time the automatic doors hissed open, she jumped, shrinking into my side.

“Hey,” I whispered, using my free hand to brush a tangled lock of hair from her face. “You hungry? Tiny got you some chips.”

She shook her head. “Why did they do it, Colt?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

“I don’t know,” I lied. I had a pretty good guess. Men like the Vipers don’t hang women for sport. They do it to send a message. Or to silence a witness. “But we’re going to find out. And I promise you, they won’t ever hurt you again.”

“They said… they said Daddy owed them.”

My eyes narrowed. “Your Daddy? Where is he?”

“He’s gone,” she whispered. “He left a long time ago. But the bad man with the gold tooth… he said Daddy stole from the King and now the debt was ours.”

The King.

The name hit me like a physical slap. King Cyrus. The President of the Red Vipers. A man who was rumored to be more myth than flesh—a psychopath who ran his club like a cult. If Cyrus was involved, this wasn’t just a local beef. This was high-level cartel stuff.

“Did your mom know about this?” I asked gently.

“Momma cried when they came in. She told them she didn’t have it. She told them she burned it.”

“Burned what?”

“The book. The black book Daddy hid under the floorboards.”

My mind raced. A black book. Stolen from King Cyrus. Burned by Aubrey. No wonder they tortured her. They were looking for leverage, or trying to find out if she’d made copies.

“Did she really burn it, Harlo?”

Harlo hesitated. She looked around the room at the bikers, then up at me with big, trusting eyes. She leaned in close, whispering so softly I barely heard her.

“No. She gave it to me.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. “She gave it to you?”

Harlo nodded. She reached into the bodice of her dirty pink dress and pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook, no bigger than a deck of cards. It was warm from her skin.

“She told me to run,” Harlo said, her voice trembling. “She told me to take this and run and never let the bad men get it. She said it was our insurance.”

I stared at the book in her small hand. It looked innocuous, just a cheap diary you’d buy at a drugstore. But if it belonged to King Cyrus, and if it was worth hanging a woman over… this little book was a death warrant.

I gently took it from her. “You did good, Harlo. You did so good.”

I slipped the book into the inside pocket of my vest, right next to my heart. “Nobody sees this. Just you and me. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Suddenly, the double doors swung open. The doctor, a man with tired eyes and scrubs stained with sweat, stepped in. The room went silent. Ninety-nine bikers held their breath.

“Family of Aubrey Grace?”

I stood up, pulling Harlo with me. “That’s us.”

The doctor looked at the sea of leather and denim, then nodded. “She’s stable. It was… close. Larynx is crushed, severe bruising, oxygen deprivation. She’s in a medically induced coma to let the swelling go down. But she’s alive. She’s a fighter.”

A collective breath was released in the room. Tiny let out a “Hoorah” that sounded like a bear sneeze.

“Can we see her?” Harlo asked, her voice small.

“Just for a minute,” the doctor said. “She needs rest.”

I led Harlo into the ICU. The room was dim, filled with the rhythmic beeping of machines. Aubrey looked so small in the bed, tubes and wires snaking everywhere. Her neck was wrapped in thick gauze.

Harlo climbed onto the chair beside the bed and took her mother’s limp hand. She just sat there, stroking Aubrey’s fingers, whispering things I couldn’t hear.

I stood by the door, watching them, feeling that ache in my chest expand. I should have walked away. I should have called child services, handed over the book to the cops, and rode off into the sunset. That was the smart play.

But looking at that little girl, so brave and so broken, I knew I couldn’t. I was hooked. Line and sinker.

The door creaked behind me. Jax slipped in.

“Colt,” he whispered urgently. “We got a problem.”

“What?”

“Repo was doing a perimeter check outside. He saw a black SUV circle the lot three times. Tinted windows. No plates.”

“Vipers,” I growled.

“They know she’s here,” Jax said. “And if they know she’s here, they know the kid is here.”

“They’re scouting,” I said, my mind shifting into tactical mode. “They want to finish the job.”

“We can’t hold a hospital, Colt,” Jax said, worry creasing his brow. “Cops are already getting antsy with us taking up the waiting room. If a shooting starts…”

“We aren’t staying here,” I decided. “It’s a sitting duck. As soon as Aubrey can be moved, we move her.”

“Move her where? Her house is a crime scene and a death trap.”

I looked at Harlo, then back at Jax. “The Clubhouse.”

Jax’s eyes widened. “Colt… you can’t bring civilians to the Clubhouse. Especially not a woman and a kid. It’s against the bylaws. The Elders will flip.”

“Screw the bylaws,” I snapped. “You see that little girl? She’s holding a grenade that could blow King Cyrus off his throne. And the Vipers are coming to pull the pin. The Clubhouse is the only place we can fortify.”

“It’s war, Colt. You bring them there, you bring the war to our doorstep.”

“The war is already here, brother,” I said, patting the pocket where the black book burned against my chest. “We just didn’t know it yet.”

I walked over to Harlo. “Hey, Little Bit. We’re going to have a sleepover. How does that sound?”

She looked up, tear tracks on her cheeks. “With you?”

“Yeah. With me and all your new uncles. But we gotta be quiet, okay? Like secret agents.”

I turned to the doctor who had just entered to check the monitors.

“Doc,” I said, my voice leaving no room for argument. “Pack her up. We’re discharging her.”

“Are you insane?” the doctor sputtered. “She’s in a coma! She needs critical care!”

“Does this hospital have bulletproof glass?” I asked calmly.

The doctor blinked. “What?”

“Does it have twenty men with automatic weapons guarding the doors?”

“No, but—”

“Then she’s safer with us. We have a medic in our crew—used to be a field surgeon. He can handle the IVs. We’re taking her. Now.”

Ten minutes later, we were moving. It was a spectacle. We wheeled the gurney out the back exit, flanked by two rows of bikers. We loaded Aubrey into the back of our support van—an old converted ambulance we used for long runs. I put Harlo in the passenger seat next to Tiny, who was driving.

“Stay low,” I told her.

I mounted my bike. The sun was setting, casting long, bloody shadows across the parking lot. I revved the engine, the vibration centering me.

We rolled out. But we didn’t get far.

As we hit the main intersection leaving the hospital, a black SUV screamed out of a side street, T-boning the lead bike—Repo’s bike.

Metal crunched. Glass shattered. Repo flew over the hood, landing in a heap on the pavement.

“AMBUSH!” I screamed into the comms.

Three more SUVs screeched to a halt, blocking the road. Doors flew open. Men in red-and-black leather spilled out, chains and bats in their hands. They didn’t have guns out yet—too public—but the intent was clear.

They wanted the girl.

I saw a massive man step out of the lead SUV. He had a shaved head and a tattoo of a viper coiling up his neck and onto his face.

“Give us the girl!” he roared, pointing a baseball bat at me. “Give us the brat and we leave the rest of you breathing!”

I looked at Repo, groaning on the ground. I looked at the van where Harlo was huddled. I looked at the ninety-eight brothers behind me, revving their engines, waiting for my signal.

I reached into my saddlebag and pulled out a length of heavy iron chain. I wrapped it around my fist.

“Iron Heaven!” I bellowed, my voice cracking with fury. “RIDE OR DIE!”

“RIDE OR DIE!” ninety-eight voices roared back.

I popped the clutch and launched my bike straight at the man with the bat.

The war had begun.

PART 3: THE LAST STAND OF IRON HEAVEN

The impact was bone-shattering. I hit the Viper square in the chest with my front tire, sending him flying backward into the grill of his own SUV. My bike wobbled, but I wrestled it steady, swinging the chain in a wide arc. It connected with another Viper’s helmet—crack—dropping him instantly.

Chaos erupted. It wasn’t a fight; it was a brawl of medieval proportions on Main Street. My brothers swarmed the blockade like angry hornets. Bikes slammed into cars, fists met jaws, boots crunched ribs. The air filled with the sounds of shouting men, revving engines, and the sickening thud of violence.

“Tiny! Get the van out of here!” I screamed over the din. “Go! Now!”

Tiny didn’t hesitate. He floored the converted ambulance, mounting the curb and tearing across the hospital lawn, debris flying. Two Vipers tried to intercept him, but Jax and a rider named Stone cut them off, using their bikes as battering rams.

I saw a Viper aiming a pistol at the retreating van.

“NO!”

I abandoned my bike, letting it ghost-ride into a cluster of enemies, and tackled the gunman. We hit the asphalt hard. He was big, smelling of stale beer and sweat. The gun skittered away. He threw a haymaker that caught me on the jaw, seeing stars. I shook it off, headbutting him—once, twice—until he went limp.

Sirens wailed in the distance. The cops were coming.

“FALL BACK!” I bellowed, spitting blood. “REGROUP AT THE COMPOUND!”

We scrambled back to our bikes. Those who had lost theirs jumped onto the back of others. Repo was limping but conscious, hauled onto Jax’s bike. We peeled away just as the first squad cars screeched around the corner, leaving the Vipers battered and broken in the street.

The ride to the Clubhouse was a blur of paranoia. We took the back roads, zigzagging through the woods, checking our mirrors every second. The Clubhouse was an old fortified warehouse on the edge of town, surrounded by a chain-link fence and acres of salvage yard junk. It was our fortress.

We rolled inside the gates, and the heavy steel doors slammed shut behind us.

“Lock it down!” I ordered, dismounting. My hands were trembling, adrenaline crashing. “Bar the doors. Snipers on the roof. Nobody gets in or out.”

I ran to the van. Tiny was already unloading Aubrey’s stretcher, carrying her toward the infirmary we’d set up in the back room. Harlo was right behind him, clutching the black book to her chest like a shield.

“You okay?” I asked, grabbing her shoulders.

She nodded, eyes wide. “Are the bad men coming here?”

“Let them come,” I growled. “They won’t get past the gate.”

The next few hours were a frantic preparation for siege. We didn’t know if the Vipers would attack tonight or wait for reinforcements, but we weren’t taking chances. We sandbagged the windows. We checked ammo. We tended to the wounded.

I sat in the infirmary with Harlo while our medic, Doc, worked on Aubrey. The woman was still out cold, the machines beeping rhythmically.

“She’s stabilizing,” Doc said, wiping his hands. “But she needs a hospital, Colt. Real bad.”

“She’s safer here,” I said stubbornly.

“Is she?” Doc gestured to the wall. “We got a hundred angry bikers outside who want to burn this place down. And we got a kid in the middle of it.”

I looked at Harlo. She had fallen asleep in a chair, her head resting on the bed, holding her mother’s hand. She looked so peaceful amidst the chaos.

I pulled the black book from my pocket. It was time to see what we were dying for.

I sat under a flickering lamp and opened it. The pages were filled with handwriting—names, dates, numbers. At first, it looked like gibberish. Then, I saw it.

Police Chief Miller – $5k/mo.
Judge Reynolds – $10k/case.
Senator Higgins – Campaign fund drop.

My blood ran cold. This wasn’t just drug money. This was a ledger of every payoff, every bribe, every dirty secret in the state. King Cyrus owned the law. That’s why the cops hadn’t arrested the Vipers. That’s why Aubrey was so terrified.

This book could bring down half the government.

“Holy hell,” Jax whispered, looking over my shoulder. “Colt… this is suicide. If we have this, everyone is coming for us. Vipers, cops, feds… everyone.”

“We can’t give it back,” I said. “If we do, Harlo and Aubrey are dead. They’ll tie up loose ends.”

“So what do we do?”

I looked at the sleeping girl. I thought about the way she had clung to me on the bike. The way she trusted me when everyone else in her life had failed her.

“We fight,” I said softly. “We burn it all down if we have to.”

The attack came at 3:00 AM.

It started with a Molotov cocktail crashing through a skylight. Fire rained down on the pool tables. Then came the crash of a truck ramming the main gate.

“INCOMING!”

The warehouse erupted into noise. Gunfire chattered from the perimeter. I grabbed Harlo, shaking her awake.

“Stay here!” I shouted, shoving her under a heavy steel desk in the infirmary. “Don’t come out no matter what!”

“Colt!” she screamed, reaching for me.

“I’ll be back!” I promised. “I swear!”

I ran into the main hall. It was a war zone. The gate was buckled. Vipers were pouring through the breach, firing wildly. My brothers were returning fire from behind overturned tables and the bar.

I grabbed a shotgun from the rack and joined the line. “HOLD THEM BACK!”

The air filled with smoke and lead. I saw Tiny take a round to the shoulder but keep firing. I saw Stone go down. It was chaos. We were outnumbered. The Vipers had brought everything—automatics, grenades, sheer numbers.

King Cyrus himself walked through the smoke, a giant of a man wearing a long coat, calm as a reaper in a wheat field. He wasn’t firing. He was just watching.

“HENDERSON!” his voice boomed over the gunfire. “GIVE ME THE BOOK AND THE GIRL, AND I’LL LET YOUR CLUB LIVE!”

I racked the shotgun. “COME AND GET THEM!”

I fired. He didn’t flinch. His men surged forward.

We were losing ground. They were pushing us back toward the infirmary.

“Colt!” Jax yelled, sliding next to me. “We can’t hold them! There’s too many!”

I looked around. My family was bleeding. My home was burning. And behind me, a little girl was hiding under a desk, trusting me to save her.

I made a choice.

“Jax,” I said, grabbing his vest. “Take the back door. Get Harlo and Aubrey out. Put them in the van. Go.”

“What? No! I’m not leaving you!”

“This ends tonight!” I shouted. “I’m going to buy you time. GO!”

I shoved him. Jax looked at me, tears in his eyes, then nodded. He ran for the infirmary.

I stood up, stepping out from cover.

“CYRUS!” I roared.

The firing slowed. Cyrus looked at me, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

“Smart man,” he sneered. “Hand it over.”

I reached into my vest and pulled out the black book. I held it up high.

“You want this?”

“I want what’s mine.”

“Come and get it.”

I turned and ran. Not toward the exit. Toward the salvage yard out back.

“GET HIM!” Cyrus screamed.

I sprinted through the labyrinth of rusted cars and stacked metal. I could hear them behind me, baying like hounds. I scrambled up a pile of crushed sedans, reaching the top of a crane tower.

I was trapped. Thirty feet up. Nowhere to go.

Cyrus and a dozen Vipers surrounded the base of the pile.

“End of the road, Colt,” Cyrus called up. “Throw it down.”

I looked out over the fence. I saw the converted ambulance tearing away down the back road, disappearing into the night. Jax had them. They were safe.

I looked down at Cyrus. I pulled a Zippo lighter from my pocket. flicked it open. The flame danced in the night air.

“You forgot one thing, Cyrus,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t ride for money. I ride for freedom.”

I held the lighter to the book. The dry paper caught instantly.

“NO!” Cyrus screamed, raising his gun.

I held the burning book high, letting them see their empire turn to ash. The flames licked my fingers, but I didn’t feel it.

Bullets struck the metal around me. One clipped my arm. Another hit my leg. I crumpled, but I didn’t drop the book. I watched it burn until it was nothing but charred flakes drifting on the wind.

“It’s gone!” I laughed, the pain in my leg sharp and hot. “It’s all gone!”

Cyrus was apoplectic. “KILL HIM!”

The Vipers swarmed up the pile. I closed my eyes, waiting for the end. I had kept my promise. Harlo was safe.

Then, a sound cut through the night.

Whup-whup-whup-whup.

Floodlights blinded us from above. A megaphone voice boomed from the sky.

“THIS IS THE FBI! DROP YOUR WEAPONS! YOU ARE SURROUNDED!”

Helicopters. SWAT trucks smashing through the fence. Men in tactical gear rappelling down.

It turned out Jax hadn’t just called an ambulance. He’d sent photos of the book’s pages to a contact he had in the Marshals Service before the attack started.

The Vipers froze. Cyrus looked around, realizing it was over. He dropped his gun.

I lay back on the cold metal of the crushed car, watching the chaos below as the Feds rounded them up. I was bleeding. I was exhausted. My club was half-destroyed.

But as I looked up at the stars, for the first time in years, I didn’t see the face of my dead daughter.

I saw Harlo’s smile.

SIX MONTHS LATER

The barbecue at the rebuilt Clubhouse was in full swing. The smell of ribs and burgers filled the air. The music was loud, the laughter louder.

I sat on the porch, nursing a soda. My leg still had a limp, and I had a few new scars to add to the collection, but I was upright.

“Colt!”

I looked up. Harlo came sprinting across the grass, wearing a miniature leather vest with a patch that said “Iron Princess.”

She jumped into my lap, wrapping her arms around my neck.

“Careful with the old man,” I grumbled, hugging her back.

“Mom says dinner’s ready,” she beamed.

I looked over at the grill. Aubrey was there, laughing at something Tiny said. She looked healthy. Happy. The shadows were gone from her eyes.

“You know,” Harlo said, leaning back to look at me. “You never finished your story.”

“What story?”

“The one about how you’re a superhero.”

I chuckled, flicking her nose. “I ain’t no superhero, kid. Just a biker.”

“You’re my superhero,” she said firmly.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Yeah. Well. You’re mine too.”

I looked at the brothers around the yard. Jax, Repo, Tiny… my family. And now, Aubrey and Harlo.

We had lost a lot. But we had found something better.

We found that blood doesn’t make a family. Love does. Loyalty does. Showing up when the world is burning and standing your ground does.

I squeezed Harlo tight.

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go eat.”

The road is long, and it’s full of twists and turns. But as long as you have a pack to ride with, you never have to ride alone.

THE END.