Chapter 7 - The Final Stand at Thunder Ridge
Marcus looked down over the edge of the roof.
Through the pouring rain and swirling smoke, he saw Vincent Stallone standing alone in the middle of the courtyard, his shotgun held low, his broad chest rising and falling steadily, showing no fear, no hesitation, and no mercy.
Around the perimeter of the courtyard, the remaining club members stopped firing. They looked from Vincent to Marcus, their faces filled with hesitation. They were realization that they had been dragged into a personal, dirty war to protect a monster’s lies.
"What are you waiting for?!" Marcus screamed at his men, his voice cracking with wild, pathetic desperation. "Shoot him! Kill him!"
Not a single biker raised his gun.
Duke—the northern chapter president who had followed Marcus up the mountain—stepped forward from the shadows near the gates, holding a bloodied handkerchief to a cut on his forehead. He tossed his handgun onto the wet pavement.
"It’s over, Marcus," Duke called out, his voice heavy with disgust. "Look around you. You dragged us up here to murder a mother and an elder. You lied to us about the money, you lied to us about Elena, and you used that little girl as a human shield. You’re done."
"Shut up!" Marcus shrieked. "I’m the president of this club!"
"Not anymore," Duke said coldly. "We’re stripping your colors tonight."
Driven completely insane by the total loss of his authority, Marcus turned his rifle back toward Vincent, screaming a wild, incoherent roar as he aimed for Vincent’s head.
BANG.
A single shot echoed across the courtyard.
It wasn't Vincent who fired.
It was Trent, standing on the high balcony above the loading bay, his sniper rifle leveled with absolute precision. The round struck Marcus squarely in his shoulder, blowing the assault rifle from his grip and sending him spinning backward off the roof.
Marcus slammed heavily onto the wet asphalt six feet below, groaning in agony, clutching his shattered shoulder.
Vincent walked slowly across the courtyard, his heavy boots splashing in the puddles. He stopped beside the fallen club leader, looking down at him with a mixture of cold disappointment and profound disgust.
He reached down, grabbed the front of Marcus’s leather vest—the patch that Marcus had held above his own daughter’s tears—and with one violent, powerful wrench, ripped the heavy leather emblem clean off the vest.
He threw the torn patch onto the wet pavement beneath Marcus’s face.
"You brought shame to this leather, Marcus," Vincent said softly. "You built a life out of fear, and in the end, you're dying alone in the rain."
Sirens suddenly wailed in the distance—dozens of state police vehicles and federal task force units were winding their way up the mountain road, their blue and red lights flashing through the dense pine trees.
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Vincent didn't wait for the police. He turned his back on Marcus, walking back toward the loading dock where Elena was waiting.
He lifted her gently into his arms once more, carrying her toward the warmth of his private SUV as the rain began to clear, revealing the first faint golden light of dawn breaking over the distant mountain ridge.
