Page 35 of My Wild Biker

"Clear," Diesel says.

That leaves Crane.

"Master bedroom," Cain says in my ear. "Door's closed. No movement."

We regroup in the hallway. Six of us now, minus Diesel holding the prisoner. Master bedroom door at the end of the hall. Clint approaches first, the rest of us in formation behind him.

He doesn't knock. Just tries the handle. Locked.

One kick and the door splinters inward.

Victor Crane is standing in the middle of the room with a gun already raised. He's in his fifties, gray beard, scarred face, eyes that are calm despite the situation. President of Marrow MC for fifteen years, architect of more violence than I can count. The man who sent people to hurt Isla last night.

"Clint," he says. Voice steady. "Figured you'd come yourself."

"Victor." Clint's gun is aimed center mass. The rest of us fan out, covering angles. "It's over. Put the weapon down."

"We both know that's not happening." Crane's eyes scan the room, calculating odds. Five guns on him, nowhere to go, but he doesn't look scared. Just resigned. "You came to end this. So end it."

"You made it personal when you went after civilians. When you sent your people after Chuck's woman." Clint's voice is flat. "That was the line. You crossed it."

"War has casualties. She was available leverage." Crane shrugs. "Would've worked too if Chuck hadn't gotten there in time."

Something in me goes cold and tight. The image of Isla with blood on her face. The way she was shaking after. The split lip, the fear in her eyes.

My finger tightens on the trigger but Clint's got point. This is his call.

"Last chance," Clint says. "Put it down."

Crane smiles. "You really think I'm going to prison? Spending the rest of my life in a cell?" He starts to raise his weapon toward Clint. "Not my style."

Clint fires three times. Chest, chest, head. Crane drops before the third shot finishes echoing.

The silence after is complete.

Victor Crane, president of Marrow MC, architect of this war, is dead on the floor of a rental property two counties outside Bloomfield.

It's done.

Clint lowers his weapon and we all just stand there for a second. Years of conflict, months of escalation, all ending here in a bedroom that smells like gunpowder and blood.

"Clear the house," Clint says. "Make sure there's nothing we need."

We move methodically. The prisoner Diesel was holding is zip-tied and left for police with an anonymous tip called from a burner. The one I shot downstairs is dead. Cain checks phones, computers, finds nothing worth taking. We're in and out in fifteen minutes total.

Outside the sun is full up, morning heat already building. We mount up and ride back toward Bloomfield.

Nobody talks on the ride. Just process what happened, what it means, what comes next.

Marrow is done. Without Crane there's no leadership, no structure. The remaining members will scatter, find other clubs, disappear.

The war that defined our lives is over.

But I can't feel relief yet. Can only think about getting back to Isla.

The ride feels twice as long as it did coming out. Every mile stretches. My body is on autopilot, following Clint, leaning into curves, but my mind is already at the clubhouse imagining her waiting.

Around eleven we pull into the clubhouse lot and the women are outside. All of them. Sydney, Natalie, Anna, Katherine, Carina, Sienna, Francis. And Isla.