Chapter 28 #2
It seems they aren’t willing to murder unarmed men in cold blood, nor do they want to kill us in front of our pregnant old lady.
King snarls. “I said kill them!”
A younger man lowers his weapon slightly. “This wasn’t the plan,” he says under his breath.
King swings the gun toward him for a split second. “You’re gonna question me? She’s my daughter, and these men are our sworn enemies!”
The hesitation spreads like wildfire. I see it ripple through the Raging Bulls—doubt, disgust, recognition of how unhinged their leader truly is.
“You said we were taking her,” another man says. “Not executing everybody.”
King’s face contorts. “They’re our enemies!” he shouts. “They stole my daughter, they deserve to die.”
Tori’s voice cuts clean through the tension.
“They might have taken me, but you didn’t want me back, you rejected me, and I chose them.
” She’s calm, serene, completely unafraid.
Her composure and bravery are awe-inspiring.
She looks more beautiful, more powerful, than ever before as she stands there, holding her stomach, eyes steely with resolve as she refuses to back down.
Her words are powerful. Her fearlessness, more so. There’s silence as they hit their mark, sinking in. The wind pushes smoke across the road. Her hair sticks to her face and blood trickles from a small cut near her temple where glass caught her, but she stands tall.
King presses the gun harder against her head. “You think they can protect you?” he sneers. “We’ll kill them where they stand, and you’ll have nothing.”
Tori looks over at the Raging Bulls as she replies to her father, her words intended more for them. “You’re a coward if the only way you can win is to shoot men who aren’t fighting back, men who are willing to die if it means I live.”
He looks at his men again. “What the fuck are you waiting for? I gave you an order, finish it!”
No one raises their gun. A vein in King’s head throbs, his face turning purple with rage and frustration.
“You’re gonna shoot a pregnant woman if they don’t?” Smoke calls out. “Your own fucking daughter?”
That lands hard. King’s threat to shoot her is why the fighting stopped.
If things don’t go his way, he has to follow through on his threat or show his weakness.
One of King’s men lowers his weapon completely.
“This ain’t what we signed up for, Prez.
We aren’t shooting unarmed men and a pregnant woman. This ain’t right.”
King’s breathing grows ragged. “You think you’re better than me?” he spits at them. He turns the gun briefly from Tori toward his own men.
That’s the moment he finally loses them.
Flint moves first, running toward King. The Raging Bulls could easily stop him, but they don’t. He slams into King from the side, knocking the gun free. I lunge forward with Smoke and Drifter close behind me.
Cyrus grabs Tori and pulls her down behind the SUV. Gunfire erupts, but it’s scattered now, reluctant and uncoordinated. Some don’t fire at all. The Bulls aren’t unified. Some drop their weapons entirely, unwilling to fight this fight any longer. One of them kicks King’s fallen gun away.
Flint and King crash onto the asphalt in a brutal tangle of fists and fury.
Flint’s punch lands square, snapping King’s head back.
King swings wildly, blood already soaking through his shirt from an earlier graze.
I cover the perimeter, but most of the Bulls are stepping back, backing away, some climb onto their bikes and use the opportunity to flee before the cops arrive. It is over, and they know it.
King tries to reach for the gun again, but Smoke kicks it farther down the road.
Flint pins him hard, fist at his throat. “You lost,” Flint growls.
King’s eyes flick around. His men are lowering their weapons. One removes his cut, tossing it to the floor in defiant disgust.
“We followed you for the club,” he says quietly. “Not this.”
Another nods. “This ain’t leadership. We’re Raging Bulls, not your mercenaries.” King’s empire collapses in a matter of seconds.
Tori steps out from behind the SUV despite Cyrus’s hand trying to hold her back.
“Stay—” I start.
She shakes her head and walks toward King. I watch as Tori, six months pregnant, dusty and shaking, yet unbroken and unafraid, moves to speak to the man who has done her so much wrong.
King looks up at her, something in his expression shifts, as if finally accepting he’s lost. “You’d rather die than come home?” he asks, his voice small and sad.
“The Raging Bulls was never my home. You made sure of that,” she replies without sadness, just acceptance, stating a fact. The words hit like a final nail.
He studies her. Really studies her. His gaze lingers on her swollen belly before meeting her steady expression.
“You look like your mother,” he says hoarsely, and the rage drains from his face.
“She was brave, too.” He exhales sharply, like something inside him finally gives way. “I underestimated you.”
Flint keeps him pinned, not wanting to fall for a trap laid by hollow, too-late apologies.
King’s eyes flick to his men, realizing that none are stepping forward to help him. None of them is willing to defend him. He’s alone. He looks back at Tori, his expression a mixture of emotions as he wrestles with the stubborn beliefs he’s held for so long and the reality he now faces.
Police sirens wail faintly in the distance. Someone must have called in the gunfire, one of the cars that turned and sped away when they spotted the fighting, no doubt.
King stops struggling, but Flint releases him only when officers flood the scene.
The remaining Bulls who didn’t escape in time offer no resistance.
As the police cuff him, King looks at Tori one last time.
His expression is no longer filled with hatred.
It’s not quite proud either, but he’s aware that he’s lost, not just the fight, but her.
The sirens fade as they haul him away. The rest of us briefly explain what happened, and all of us will have to go down to the station for questioning, but the Raging Bulls don’t deny that we’re the victims.
The road is littered with shell casings and shattered glass. Our bikes are scratched but upright. The SUV’s windows are blown out, and the interior is dusted with safety glass. Officers begin working the scene.
I rush to Tori, who sits in the back of an ambulance, paramedics checking her over. Cyrus is beside her; he presses his hand to her stomach, breath shaking.
“You okay?” I ask, cupping her face carefully.
She nods, though her eyes are glassy with adrenaline. “They’re moving,” she whispers, holding her stomach. The relief that the babies are okay is overwhelming.
Flint moves to join us, knuckles bloody, chest heaving. “It’s over,” he says quietly.
And I know he’s right, the war is finally over. Not because we crushed them or won by force, but because of Tori’s bravery, King showed his own men exactly who he was, and they chose not to follow.
I wrap my arms around Tori carefully, feeling the steady kicks of our babies letting us know they’re okay beneath my hands.
These babies are fighters, just like their parents.
I tell Tori how incredible and brave she was, how she ended this war, not us, and the guys echo my words.
We hold one another tightly, savoring the brief stillness and moment alone before the mundanity of police interviews and hospital checks will temporarily separate us.
War doesn’t always end in victory parades.
Sometimes it ends on the side of the road with a father realizing too late that he lost everything the moment he pointed a gun at his own daughter.
Sometimes it ends with a new family, bonded by strife, holding each other and knowing that, as long as they have each other, nothing can stop them.