Page 86 of Single Mom's Bikers

Clay meets me a block away, face grim in the fire’s glow. “They hit fast. Security cameras were disabled first.”

“Mario? His family?”

“Safe. They’re out of town at his daughter’s wedding.” Clay’s jaw clenches. “This was planned. They knew the timing.”

Firefighters battle the blaze while cops hold back gathering crowds. Through the chaos, I spot what Clay wanted me to see—words spray-painted across the shop’s remaining wall: SELL OR BURN.

“Teller’s calling for a full meeting,” Clay says.

The Den’s packed by five AM. Every available member plus associates. The tension is thick enough to choke on.

“This isn’t random.” Teller stands at the head table, footage playing behind him. “Death’s Head is bringing in professionals. Former military, maybe ex-cops. Connections to the Sacramento mob.”

“Why now?” someone asks. “Why escalate?”

“Because they’re not just bikers anymore.” Clay pulls up new intel on the screen. “They’re running girls. Young ones, and they need new territory for distribution.”

The silence that follows feels like a physical thing. I think of Violet’s innocent smile, of Daisy’s careful watchfulness. Of all the children in our town.

“We’ve tracked three operations they’re running.” Kip’s usual humor is gone as he points out locations. “Taking kids from small towns, moving them through bike runs. Using MC culture as cover.”

Bile rises in my throat. Beside me, Chase’s hands clench while Zane vibrates with barely controlled rage.

“They want Wolf Pike.” Teller’s voice carries clear authority. “Good highway access, minimal law enforcement presence. Perfect distribution hub.”

“Over my dead body.” The words come out of me like gravel.

“Might come to that.” Clay brings up more photos. “These guys aren’t playing biker games anymore. They’re professional traffickers.”

The evidence is damning. Photos of girls being moved between cities. Financial trails showing profits. Death’s Head patches provide legitimacy.

“So we shut them down.” Chase’s voice holds cold fury. “Burn them out like they did Mario.”

“It’s bigger than that.” Teller paces, every inch the president Tank trained him to be. “They’ve got political protection. Corrupt cops on the payroll. We hit them direct, they’ll bury us.”

“So what’s the play?” Zane asks what we’re all thinking.

“We go legitimate.” Teller lets that bomb drop. “Work with clean cops. Build a RICO case.”

The uproar is immediate. Working with law enforcement goes against everything we stand for.

“Listen!” Teller’s voice cuts through chaos. “You’ve all got families. Kids. Think about what these bastards will do to our town. Our children.”

The words hit like physical blows. I see understanding dawn on faces around the room. This isn’t about territory anymore. It’s about protecting innocence.

“We’ve got a contact.” Clay pulls up one final file. “Federal task force specializes in trafficking rings. They’ve been building a case?—”

Glass shatters upstairs. Gunfire erupts, sharp and precise.

“Gallery!” Multiple voices shout. We move as one, charging upstairs.

More shots. The sound of tires squealing.

“Everyone down!”

The gallery’s front windows are gone, morning light streaming through jagged holes. Shell casings litter the sidewalk.

“Message received,” Clay says grimly. “They’re listening.”

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