Chapter 8 #2
"We go loud," Logan says, his voice dropping an octave. "We don't sneak. We don't infiltrate. We roll deep. We show him what happens when you threaten Pine Valley."
"He wants me," Tiffany says, her voice trembling but gaining a strange, desperate strength. "If I go down there... if he sees me... he might wait. He might hesitate."
"Absolutely not," I snarl, turning on her. "You are not bait. I told you that was a lie. I am not letting you within a hundred yards of him."
"I have to go, Blake!" She grabs the lapels of my vest, shaking me. "It’s my bakery! It’s my life! I’m not going to hide up here in the woods while he burns down my home! I’m not that victim anymore. You taught me that. You made me strong."
Her words land with impact. She is right. I have spent weeks watching her, protecting her, building her up. I have forged steel bars for her doors, but I have also tried to forge steel in her spine. If I lock her away now, I become just another man controlling her. Just another cage.
But God, the thought of taking her into the line of fire makes my stomach turn. I look at Austin. He jerks his chin in a sharp, singular motion. "We can armor the truck. Put her in the middle of the column. She stays inside until the threat is neutralized."
I look back at Tiffany. Her jaw is set. She is terrified, yes, but she isn't backing down.
"Okay," I breathe, the word scraping my throat. "Okay. But you listen to me. We are doing this my way. You stay in the truck. You stay down. And you watch me end him."
I turn to the brothers. "Load up. Full patch members only. Tell the others to lock down the gate. I want the heavy ordnance."
Shane grins, a feral, terrifying expression. "I'll get the shotgun."
The courtyard of the Broken Halos clubhouse becomes a storm of controlled chaos. Engines roar to life—the deep, thumping bass of V-twin engines echoing off the pines. The smell of exhaust mixes with the crisp mountain air, creating the scent of the MC.
I bypass my bike. Today, I need armor. I walk toward the blacked-out Ford F-250 we use for "heavy lifting." It has reinforced panels in the doors and bulletproof glass—modifications I welded myself in the Forge.
I open the passenger door for Tiffany. She climbs in, clutching the flannel shirt around her like a shield. I lean in, buckling her seatbelt myself, pulling it tight.
"Keep your head down," I order, my face inches from hers. "If the shooting starts, you get on the floorboard. You do not look up. You do not try to be a hero. You let me be the shield. You let me be the monster so you don't have to be. Do you understand?"
"I trust you," she says.
Those three words weigh more than the steel plate carrier I wear. I trust you. She is handing me her life.
I slam the door and walk around to the driver's side. As I climb in, I see Logan on his bike at the head of the column. Austin waits beside him. Shane and Tristan are in the SUV behind us. We form a rolling wall of iron and vengeance.
I key the radio. "Prospect is rolling. Target is Main Street."
"Copy that," Logan’s voice crackles in the cab. "Let’s go protect our town."
The convoy rolls out of the compound, tires crunching on the gravel before hitting the asphalt of the mountain road.
The descent is fast. I drive with one hand on the wheel and one hand on the gear shift, my eyes scanning the tree line, my brain processing tactical scenarios at a thousand miles an hour.
Beside me, Tiffany remains silent. I reach over, taking her hand in mine. Her fingers are cold, but she squeezes back with a strength that surprises me.
"He thinks he's winning," I say, keeping my eyes on the road as the switchbacks blur past. "He thinks because he has a hostage and a bomb, he has the power. But he made a mistake."
"What mistake?" she asks softly.
"He came to the mountain," I say darkly. "He thinks he's fighting a man. He doesn't know he's fighting a pack."
We hit the edge of town. The transition from the wild, rugged wilderness of Grizzly Peak to the civilized streets of Pine Valley usually feels like stepping into a different world. Today, the town feels like a battlefield.
The streets are eerily empty. The Sheriff has done his job; the perimeter was established two blocks back.
But we don't stop at the police barricade.
Logan doesn't even tap his brakes. The deputy manning the sawhorse barrier takes one look at the phalanx of bikers bearing down on him and scrambles to drag the wood out of the way.
We own this town. We protect this town. And nobody stops the Gunnars when they are on a warpath.
We turn onto Main Street. There it is. Sweet Pine Bakery.
The building gapes like a wound. Smoke drifts out of the door—not the black smoke of a raging inferno yet, but the gray, lazy smoke of a warning fire. My heart hammered against my ribs, a war drum calling for blood.
Ramon’s black Mercedes sedan is parked right out front, blocking the handicap ramp. Two men in dark suits stand by the car, holding submachine guns openly. They aren't hiding anymore.
Logan raises a fist, and the column grinds to a halt fifty yards out. We form a blockade, the bikes and trucks spanning the width of the road. I put the truck in park but left the engine running.
"Stay here," I say to Tiffany. "Lock the doors."
"Blake—"
"Lock. The. Doors."
I don't wait for an answer. I bail out of the truck, the heavy thud of my boots hitting the pavement signaling the beginning of the end.
The air on Main Street holds a silence, suspended in that breathless second before violence erupts.
I walk to the front of the truck, standing shoulder to shoulder with Logan and Austin.
Shane flanks us, his shotgun resting casually across his shoulder.
The two men by the sedan raise their weapons, nervous energy radiating off them. They are hired guns. Mercenaries. They do this for a paycheck. We do this for blood.
"Ramon!" I roar, my voice carrying down the empty street, bouncing off the brick facades of the library and the general store. "Come out and die like a man!"
Movement in the doorway of the bakery. Ramon steps out. He still holds that half-eaten muffin. He looks impeccable in his suit, not a hair out of place, contrasting sharply with the destruction behind him. He smiles, wiping crumbs from his lip.
"Mr. Gunnar," he calls out, his voice smooth, oily. "And the whole biker trash family. I'm touched."
He tosses the muffin into the gutter.
"I assume you brought my wife?" he asks. "Or do I need to light the fuse?"
I take a step forward, my hand hovering over the Glock. "The only thing you're leaving here with is a body bag."
Ramon chuckles. He pulls a small remote from his pocket. A detonator.
"Tut tut," he chides. "One step closer, and your little mountain town loses its best bakery. And possibly the hardware store. That old man inside seemed very stubborn about leaving."
My vision blurs at the edges. He has Frank.
"Where is she?" Ramon demands, his smile dropping. "Bring her out. I want to see her crawl to me."
The truck door vibrates as it opens behind me. My lungs freeze. "No," I whisper.
Tiffany doesn't just step out; she descends like a goddess of vengeance. She is still wearing my oversized flannel, the fabric clinging to her skin where she is still damp from my mouth. Her dark hair is a chaotic curtain, and she smells of my sandalwood and the musky scent of her arousal.
She walks past the armored grill of the truck, her thighs likely still trembling from the way I’d just dismantled her, but her chin is up. She stands right at my shoulder, a living mark of my possession.
"I'm right here, Ramon," she calls out, her voice cutting through the idling roar of the Harleys. "But I'm not the girl you broke. I'm the woman who claims the monster standing beside me. And he's going to make you pay for every bruise."
Ramon’s face contorts, his eyes raking over her, seeing the swollen state of her lips and the way she stands—the stance of a woman who has been thoroughly claimed.
The sick, possessive gleam in his eyes turns into a frantic, jealous rage.
He looks at her bruised tits under my shirt and his hand tightens on the detonator.
"Tiffany!" I snarl, reaching for her, but she steps just out of range.
"You want me?" she yells at him. "Come and get me."
Ramon’s eyes light up with a sick, possessive gleam. "There she is. My wayward little girl. Come here, Tiffany. Come give Daddy a hug, and maybe I won't blow your friends into orbit."
She looks at me then. Terror fills her eyes, but beneath the fear burns a fierce trust. She gives me a microscopic nod. A distraction. She offers herself up to give me an opening.
Ramon looks at her. His men look at her. For one second, the focus shifts from the killers to the prize. That was all I needed.
My world narrows down to a single point. The distance between me and the man who had hurt her. The wind speed. The angle. I don't draw the Glock. I don't have to.
Logan’s heavy hand lands on my shoulder for a split second—the silent permission of a President and a brother. To my left, Austin and Shane step forward, drawing the fire of the mercenaries with a wall of lead, while Tristan and Chase move with surgical precision to flank the sedan.
I move as the tip of a spear six Gunnars deep.
I launch myself forward as Shane raises the shotgun and unleashes a boom that shatters the storefront windows of the neighboring building. The two mercenaries on the street duck, returning fire, bullets sparking off the pavement and the armored grill of my truck.
But I am not there anymore.
I sprint, a juggernaut of muscle and rage, closing the gap. Ramon fumbles with the detonator, his eyes widening as he realizes that seeing his wife has cost him his tactical advantage. He tries to press the button. I don't let him.
I don't just tackle him; I hunt him. The moment his focus shifts to the curve of Tiffany's hips, I launch. I hit him with two hundred and fifty pounds of scarred muscle and pure, unadulterated hate.
We slam onto the hood of his black Mercedes sedan, the metal screaming and glass shattering under the impact. The detonator flies from his hand, skittering into the gutter, but I don't care. I want to feel his life go out under my hands.
We roll onto the asphalt, and the sound of my boots hitting the pavement is the last thing he hears before I am on top of him.
I don't punch him—I dismantle him. My knee drives into his sternum with a sickening crunch of bone and cartilage.
He wheezes, the smell of his expensive cologne mixing with the sharp, copper tang of the blood leaking from his nose.
He tries to claw at my face, but I catch his wrist, the bone snapping like dry kindling in my grip.
He screams, a thin, pathetic sound that doesn't even scratch the surface of the rage burning in my gut.
I pin his throat with my forearm, cutting off his air until his face turns a bruised purple, his eyes bulging as he looks into the face of his executioner.
I grab him by the lapels of his expensive suit and slam him back against the pavement.
"You touched her," I snarl, spit flying from my mouth. "You put your hands on her."
"Do it!" he wheezes, blood bubbling on his lips, laughing up at me. "Kill me in front of the whole town. Show them what animals you are."
I lean in close, the scent of his expensive, cowardly cologne clashing with the iron tang of the blood leaking from his nose.
I don't drive the blade home. Not here. Not in front of the bakery where Tiffany spent her mornings kneading dough.
This town is hers. It is soft, quiet, and cozy.
I won't stain her pavement with his filth.
"You're not dying here, Ramon," I growl, the sound vibrating from the darkest pit of my chest. "The good people of Pine Valley don't need to see the trash being taken out. But the mountains? The mountains have a way of swallowing secrets."
I look up at Tiffany. She stands ten feet away, her eyes wide, but the fear is gone. She sees the monster in me, and for the first time, she isn't flinching. She gives me a single, slow nod—the silent permission of a Queen to her executioner.
I whistle, a sharp, piercing sound. Austin and Shane move in instantly, grabbing Ramon by the armpits and dragging his broken body toward the back of a blacked-out van.
The townspeople, watching from the safety of the barricades, see a rescue.
They see the 'scary bikers' helping the police. They don't see the zip-ties or the way Austin’s hand hovers over the man’s mouth to stifle his whimpers.
Ramon is gone. Erased from her world. Now, I just have to erase the memory of him from her skin.