Page 33 of Triplets for the Rival MC

Inside, the lights are low. Rows of crates line the walls, stacked high and marked with shipping labels meant to disguise what they’re really transporting. Voices echo from deeper in the building. The Bulls are comfortable, not expecting an attack. A foolish confidence given the slow buildup of targeted assaults we’ve been launching against them. That’s their mistake.

I raise my hand again, slicing it forward. Chaos explodes. Gunfire cracks the air, deafening in the enclosed space. Shouting erupts as the Raging Bulls realize they are under attack. A man screams as he goes down, blood splattering across a crate. Hunter moves like a force of nature, taking out two guards before they can even raise their weapons. Cyrus is pure precision, each shot measured, controlled, deadly.

I advance, firing, my focus locked on keeping my men alive. Tori would never forgive me if I came back without one of them. Smoke billows thick and acrid, burning my eyes, filling my lungs. I hear Drifter’s voice somewhere to my left, fierce and steady as he covers our flank. Hank takes a hit to the shoulder. He grunts but stays upright, returning fire like nothing’s wrong. Tough old bastard, Shelly’s gonna tear us a new one. A Bull charges me from behind a crate, eyes wild. I sidestep and smash the butt of my gun into his nose, enjoying the satisfying sound of the bone crunching. Blood gushes from it, and he drops hard, not getting back up.

“Flint!” Drifter yells. “Back rooms!”

I pivot, sprinting down a narrow corridor toward a reinforced door. Two guards try to block us. They fail. The door bursts open under a kick from Hunter, and everything inside me goes cold at the sight I see. Women huddle against the far wall, wrists bound, eyes wide with terror. Some are crying silently. Others stare at us like they don’t dare believe this is real. Some of them are young. Too young. They’re bruised, exhausted, wrapped in thin clothes that do nothing to hide how vulnerable they are. Rage burns hot and sharp in my chest.

“We’re here to rescue you,” I say, forcing myself to speak steadily, not wanting them to hear the rage and feel afraid of me. “You’re safe now.” I translate into Spanish; I’m not fluent, but I know enough to explain that we’re the good guys.

One of the women sobs loudly as she realizes help has come. Another collapses to her knees, thanking us profusely in Spanish. Cyrus and Red move fast, cutting restraints, murmuring reassurances. I take position at the door, weapon up, heart hammering as more Bulls pour into the hallway, realizing what’s happening. There are more here than we expected. Perhaps they weren’t so stupid as to believe we weren’t behind their recent string of misfortunes.

The firefight resumes, louder now, more desperate. Bullets tear into metal, sparks flying. Smoke chokes the air. My arm vibrates with recoil as I fire, counting rounds without thinking.

“Move them!” I bark. “Now!”

We herd the women toward the exit, forming a protective wall around them. Smoke is limping, but he keeps shooting. Screw goes down hard, a bullet catching his leg. “Motherfucker!” he curses, firing back furiously. Hank’s there instantly, hauling him up, teeth gritted.

“Let’s go!” I shout.

The Bulls are panicking now. They know they’re in a world of trouble when King finds out what’s happened. The mafia he’s in bed with for this deal won’t take kindly to the fuck up, to the theft of their assets. With any luck, they will take the Raging Bulls out for us. Worst-case scenario, we’ve made a powerful new enemy. But right is right, no way were we leaving these women to their fate.

We break into the night in a storm of noise and motion. Engines roar to life as we load the women onto bikes, two to a seat where we can manage it. My heart breaks as the woman behind me winces, not wanting to touch me. I dread to think of the cruelty she’s suffered at the hands of men. I point to the handles she can grip onto, making sure she knows I won’t touch her. I lock eyes with Hunter and Cyrus.

“Go!” I yell.

We tear out of the lot as gunfire erupts behind us, bullets pinging off tarmac, narrowly missing us, sparks flying. I ride hard, every sense on fire, wind ripping at my jacket, engine screaming beneath me. I glance back constantly, counting headlights, making sure no one drops behind.

Screw’s with Hank. Smoke’s still riding. Red’s a blur of red hair and fury, steady as ever. An ex-marine, he’s one of the toughest we’ve got. He’s got three on his bike, the youngest wrapped in his arms, face buried in his chest. We hit the highway and disappear into the night, splitting up just like we planned, shaking pursuit until the road opens up and the only sound left is the thunder of our bikes and the ragged breathing of people who’ve just survived hell. Only when we’re miles away do I let myself slow and finally let out a breath.

We regroup at a safe house just before dawn, ushering the women inside. We give them blankets, water, food, and space. Some of my men slump against walls, bloodied and exhausted. Hank finally sits, pale but smiling through clenched teeth. Screw is getting patched up, cursing the whole time.

I stand there, hands on my hips, adrenaline draining, leaving behind the familiar ache of responsibility. I look at my crew. They’re alive. We succeeded in our mission, even if we took more hits than I wanted. Cyrus meets my gaze, understanding passing between us without words. Hunter claps my shoulder, hard and grounding.

Somewhere across town, Tori is probably pacing, worrying herself sick. I ache to be with her, to take her in my arms and never let go, to tell her that because of her, we rescued twelve women from hell tonight. I’ll go to her soon. I’ll let her know that we did it thanks to her.

But for now, I watch the first tendrils of dawn creeping in while we wait for our contact, who is going to take things from here and get the women someplace safe, either home or wherever else they want, and I let myself feel the weight of it all. I finally allow myself to feel the fear, the anger, the pride, the bone-deep relief.

This is what it means to lead, what it means to protect, what it means to be a man, to be a Ghost Rider.

Chapter 20

Tori

I hear the bikes before I see them, the sound like thunder rolling up the driveway, vibrating straight through my chest. Relief loosens the tight knot of worry, and I’m already moving before the engines cut.

“They’re back,” I say to Shelly as I rush outside into the rain.

Shelly’s been as anxious as I’ve been. We were both too distracted to focus on work earlier, making silly mistakes, the kind of things you expect from someone on their first day. We finished hours ago, leaving the night staff to manage, but we both remained at the bar, both too wired to consider waiting at home alone. We didn’t speak much, lost in our worry for our men, but we kept each other distracted as much as we could while we nervously waited for them to come home. I think I’d have gone mad with worry without her. I can hear her close on my heels, rushing outside to search for Hank as I do the same for my men.

When the Ghost Riders pull in, headlights slice through the darkness, catching dust motes like sparks. I scan the crowd for my men, noting with a frown that some are injured, others missing.

My frantic gaze finally lands on my men, and I let out a sigh of relief. All three of them are here. Disheveled but alive.

Shelly’s howl tells me she’s not been as lucky. Red holds her close, comforting her. “It’s alright, Shell, really, Hank and Screw are gonna be just fine. It’s nothing major, I’ll take you to the hospital now, and you can see for yourself.”

I tear my gaze away from my men and to my friend. “Hank’s hurt, he got shot, Screw too,” she tells me numbly.