Chapter 14 Zara
I’m frozen with fear as the Bushrangers descend on me. One minute I’m talking about my inspirations and the next my throat closes like I’ve swallowed ice.
Menace’s eyes find mine immediately. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t have to. The corner of his mouth twitches like he already knows I’m scared.
And I am.
The journalists around me are still smiling, still nodding, one of them asking something about my time at university in Auckland—but their voices start to sound far away. Muffled. Distant.
The six of them spread out slowly, deliberately.
They don’t touch me.
They don’t need to.
One drags a chair across the floor and turns it backward, straddling it so close I can feel his breath on my neck. The scrape of wood against tile makes my pulse spike. Another plants both hands on my table and leans down, invading every inch of my space.
“Hello, Zara,” Menace growls. “It’s been a long time. You grew up to be quite the beauty.”
I can’t breathe.
I try to look past them—to the far wall where Arson and Piston were standing—but all I see is leather, muscle, and patches. They’ve formed a wall around me—a human cage.
I’m shaking.
I hate that they can see it.
Their President, Vandal, joins us. “Miss us, sweetheart?”
My vision tunnels. I can’t hear the reporters anymore. Can’t see Tony. It’s just them. Six men who once destroyed everything my father built. Six men who could destroy me just as easily.
Then—
A loud clap splits the air.
“Oh. My. God.”
Tony.
I blink.
He’s suddenly there, pushing into the circle like he’s crashing the world’s strangest cocktail party. His expression is pure theatrical awe.
“Excuse me,” he gushes, fanning himself dramatically. “Are you gentlemen imported? Because I refuse to believe Chicago just casually produces this level of brooding Norse magnificence.”
The reporters turn.
The bikers look confused.
Tony circles them like they’re runway models. “The shoulders. The jawlines. That accent. Please tell me one of you owns a motorcycle named something aggressive and poetic. You’re like bad boy Thor with a felony record and a gym membership.”
One of the female journalists laughs.
Another lifts her camera.
Tony presses a hand to his chest. “Ladies, I am unwell. Look at the biceps. Look at the tattoos. Is this a biker club or a casting call for ‘Sons of Asgard’?”
And just like that, the attention shifts.
Microphones pivot away from me. Questions start flying at the men instead.
“Are you guys local?”
“What’s with the patches?”
“Are you involved in Fashion Week?”
The Bushrangers try to maintain their intimidation, but it’s difficult when a crowd of excited reporters is asking about their workout routines.
The wall around me loosens.
Arson appears at my left side like a shadow breaking free. Piston steps in on my right. I hadn’t been able to see them before, but now they’re there—solid, steady, and real.
Tony grabs my hand.
“Autographs later, gentlemen,” he says brightly. “We have couture to conquer.”
He pulls me up.
My legs barely cooperate, but I move. Arson clears a path. Piston blocks the closest biker with a look that promises violence.
The bell above the coffee shop door jingles as we spill outside into the cold air.
I suck in a breath as if I’ve been underwater.
My whole body is trembling.
Tony keeps an arm around me, steering me toward the SUV while Arson and Piston flank us. They scan the streets with lethal intensity.
Through the window, I see the Bushrangers still trapped in a swarm of curious journalists.
For now.
“They found me,” I whisper, my voice barely there.
Tony squeezes my shoulders. “Sweetheart, they found fabulous chaos and walked straight into it.”
But I don’t laugh.
Because I know that next time, they won’t be so easily distracted.
Once we’re in the SUV, I expect Arson to drive off, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls out his phone.
“We’re outside, and Zara is safe,” he says when whoever is on the other end answers.
“Yeah, all six of them tried to corner Zara in the coffee shop. Her friend Tony caused a distraction so we could get her out.” He’s silent as he listens.
“They’re still here. The journalists have them trapped for now.
” Silence. “You’re sure you want to do that? Okay, we’ll wait here.”
“What’s going on?” Piston asks.
“The club’s coming. Chrome wants to confront them. This should be interesting. Bush is on his way, too.”
“What? Why? What if they see him?” I ask in a panic.
“Bush is hoping they do see him. He wasn’t going to keep hiding.
That’s not who he is,” Arson tells me. “It’s better we control the narrative.
Besides, they’re about to learn that we weren’t buying their schtick.
They tried to tell us that they weren’t here to cause trouble.
They thought they had us fooled. Bush’s presence proves otherwise. We won’t give them time to regroup.”
I fully expect to see the Bushrangers escape the coffee shop before the Demon Dawgs show up, but the roar of motorcycles grows louder as the Demon Dawgs arrive.
At the same time, the Bushrangers try to extricate themselves from the women inside.
The Demon Dawgs arrive in a large group.
A dozen or so men stalk past the SUV and aim for the coffee shop.
Piston and Arson both open their doors before Arson turns and pins us with a look.
“Don’t leave this SUV. I’ll lock it when I get out. It’s bulletproof, and the windows are tinted. They can’t see you in here.”
I nod while Tony gives him two thumbs up.
Arson shakes his head before stepping out and locking the doors.
He rounds the hood and joins the other men on the sidewalk.
When I see Bush, I can’t look away. He’s standing at the front of the group, nearest the door.
Next to him is Chrome. Bush is focused on the men inside, but he spares a single look over his shoulder to the SUV.
I feel his eyes on me even though I don’t think he can see me.
The calm expression on his face relieves some of my fear. Some, but not all.
Chrome opens the door to the coffee shop, but instead of going inside, he shouts something. I don’t hear his words over the sound of the traffic going by. However, I think he’s calling out the Bushrangers. They come pouring out, which confirms my suspicion.
I’m shaking again—but this time I’m inside the safety of the Demon Dawgs’ SUV.
Tony grips my hand in the back seat while we watch through the tinted windows.
Outside, the street has transformed into something out of a war movie or a documentary on biker wars.
The Dawgs form a loose circle, leather cuts and broad shoulders boxing the Australians in. The pedestrians have scattered. Even traffic seems to hesitate in the street to watch.
At the center stands Chrome.
He looks calm. Too calm. Arms folded over his chest, stance relaxed, but there’s nothing soft about him.
The Bushrangers’ president actually smiles at first, spreading his arms like he’s greeting old friends. I can’t hear the words, but I can read body language. Mock warmth. Fake reunion.
Then everything shifts.
The six men notice Bush when he steps confidently forward. There is no hesitation or fear in his stance.
Recognition slams into the Bushrangers all at once. Their faces harden in anger.
I know the history. Bush testified. Bush helped put them away.
One of the Australians lunges a half-step, snarling something I can’t hear but don’t need to. Another points directly at him. Threats. Promises.
Tony squeezes my fingers tighter.
Chrome unfolds his arms and barks at the Bushrangers.
The energy changes again—less posturing, more lethal.
Vandal’s expression turns ugly. His jaw moves in slow, deliberate words. He gestures toward the city around us, then toward the ground, like he’s claiming territory.
Chrome doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
Even from here, I can see the moment he delivers his message.
Leave.
Go back to Australia.
You won’t like the outcome if you stay.
Vandal laughs—but it’s hollow now. He fires back, clearly refusing. They’re here for a reason. They’re not leaving without whatever they came for.
My stomach drops.
Chrome steps closer. Close enough that they’re nearly chest to chest.
He points subtly around them.
Outnumbered.
Outgunned.
If you stay, you die.
The words don’t need sound. The meaning is written in every rigid spine and clenched fist.
For a second, I think it’s going to explode. Twelve against six. Guns. Knives. Blood in the street.
Then Vandal jerks his chin.
The Bushrangers shove forward, forcing their way through the Demon Dawgs’ circle. There’s shoulder-checking—hard contact. But no one throws the first punch.
When they reach their bikes, Vandal glares at Bush one last time before the engines roar to life.
Then Vandal shifts his attention to the SUV, toward me.
Then they peel out and disappear down the street.
Only when the sound fades do I realize I’ve stopped breathing.