Running From My Abusive Husband, Claimed By A Biker

Chapter Eight

Ryder’s POV

I stood in the doorway, watching Emma scramble off the couch, her eyes wide with that familiar, skittish panic.

I’m not a soft man. I don't do comforting words, and I sure as hell don't do gentle reassurance. But looking at her—pale, shaking, looking like she expected her bastard husband to walk through the front door any second—I grunted, leaning my shoulder against the frame.

"You're in the Vipers' compound, Emma," I said, my voice flat, rough, and devoid of any warmth. "Nobody comes onto my land to drag someone out. Not the law, and certainly not some politician in a suit. You're safe here. Get that through your head."

She stared at me, her lips slightly parted, her breath catching in her throat. She didn't answer. She just searched my face, as if trying to figure out if my word was something she could actually rely on.

Before she could say a word, heavy boots echoed down the hallway. Jax appeared behind me, not bothering to step into the room. He leaned in close, lowering his voice so only I could hear. "We got a situation down at the docks," Jax muttered in my ear. "The shipment from the border... the hawks intercepted the transport. Took the entire load off the trucks, killed two of our drivers, and torched the rigs."

Something cold and lethal snapped inside my chest.

The air in the room shifted instantly. The quiet tension turned into raw, suffocating pressure. I stood up straight, my entire posture going rigid, a dark, murderous weight settling over me like a shroud.

Emma flinched, stepping back a pace as she felt the change in the atmosphere. She didn't know what Jax had said, but she could read the violence rolling off me in waves.

"Jax," I growled, my voice deadly quiet. "Station Tank and two patched members at the front door. Nobody leaves this house, and nobody comes in without my direct order. If anyone suspicious so much as breathes near the gate, put a bullet in them."

"Got it, Prez," Jax said, turning on his heel.

I cut my eyes back to Emma. I didn't bother offering an explanation—it was club business, and besides, I could already see how frightened she was by the sudden bloodlust in my eyes. "Stay in this room," I spoke calmly. "I've got business to handle."

Without waiting for a response, I turned and strode out toward the garage, the heavy wooden floorboards groaning under my boots.

Five hundred grand worth of product, gone. Two of my brothers, dead in the dirt. The Iron Hawks thought they could step on our territory, hit our revenue line, and walk away clean. They were about to learn what happens when you poke a sleeping beast.

When I hit the gravel yard, Blaze and four other members were already waiting by their bikes, their faces grim, checking their sidearms and loading heavy gear into the chase trucks.

"Where are we heading, Prez?" Blaze asked, his jaw set tight as he racked the slide on his weapon.

"Iron Hawks," I said, stepping over the Harley. The engine roared to life under me, thick and heavy in the night air. I glanced at Blaze, resting my hands on the grips. "They crossed the line when they put our brothers in the dirt. Leave the diplomatic s**t at home—we’re wiping them off the map."

I cracked the throttle, gravel spraying behind my rear tire as I led the pack out into the gathering darkness.

"They're staged at the old timber mill past the county line!" Blaze shouted over the thunder of his pipes, pulling his bike up alongside mine. "Word is their VP, Axel, is running the chop operation tonight!"

"He won't make it to morning!" I growled, cutting the throttle hard as we hit the dirt turnoff leading deep into the timber yards.

We turned off our headlights a quarter-mile away, letting our heavy bikes coast through the dark in total silence. The old mill stood tall ahead of us under the moonlight. Inside the main garage, lights flickered over the clanking sound of metal tools and loud, arrogant laughter.

They were already unloading the crates and breaking down our product, getting ready to sell our own stash like it was theirs.

I swung off my Harley before the kickstand even hit the dirt, drawing the heavy custom 1911 from my side. Tank and Blaze moved in like shadows on either flank, weapons raised, faces turned to stone.

"Take the back doors," I ordered in a low, lethal whisper to Tank. "Either they hand over the supply, or nobody leaves this perimeter alive."

Tank gave a single, brutal nod and melted into the dark brush toward the rear loading docks.

I stepped up to the rusted steel side door of the mill. Inside, five men wearing Hawk cuts were surrounding our stolen crates, laughing over open beers. Axel stood in the center, a crowbar in hand, prying open one of the sealed cases.

I kicked the steel door off its hinges with a deafening crash, raising my sidearm straight for the center of the room. "Iron Hawks," I growled, the cold barrel locking onto Axel's chest. "Time's up."

Axel’s eyes went wide, his hand freezing on the crowbar. Before the other three hawk members could even reach for their sidearms, the mill went loud.

Muzzle flashes strode through the shadows as Tank and Blaze burst through the rear exits, cutting off every escape route. The firefight was short, brutal, and decisive—lasting less than twenty seconds. Shell casings clattered across the concrete, leaving the survivers bleeding out or pinned to the dirt.

Axel spat a mouthful of blood onto the dust, glaring up at me as I stepped forward and pressed the warm, smoking barrel of my custom 1911 directly under his jaw.

"You got five seconds, Axel," I growled, my voice deadly quiet. "Who gave you the transport route and our schedule?"

Axel choked out a raspy, painful laugh, his eyes wild with fear and adrenaline. "We got a tip-off, Ryder... someone inside the supply chain sold you out! They wanted us to take the drop and pin it on a ghost crew!"

"Who?" I jammed the steel deeper into his throat.

"I don't know his name!" Axel panicked, his bravado instantly shattering under the threat of a bullet. "Just a middleman from the docks! He said you guys were soft, said you wouldn't notice fifty keys gone until it was already distributed! That’s all I know, I swear to God!"

My jaw set tight. An internal leak in our supply chain meant we had a rat somewhere further up the line, but tonight, the immediate message needed to be sent in blood. "Put a bullet in him and burn the warehouse," I ordered coldly, pulling my gun back as I turned on my heel. "We take our product and head back."

Tank didn't hesitate. A single suppressed shot echoed through the hollow mill behind me as I pushed open the heavy steel doors into the night.

~

It was past three in the morning when our loud bikes rolled through the heavy rain outside the compound.

My knuckles were bruised, my face was covered in dirt and dried blood, and my leather vest smelled like blood, and burned gunpowder. We got our crates back, destroyed the Hawks' base, and took back control of the area. But the dark, murderous rage buzzing in my blood hadn't fully settled.

I swung off my Harley in the gravel yard and handed the keys off to Tank. "Put the bikes in the bay. Tell the night watch to stay sharp."

"Got it, Prez," Tank grunted, hauling the gear inside.

I pushed open the heavy front doors of the clubhouse, my muddy boots echoing against the floorboards. The main room was dim and quiet, the rest of the guys asleep or on guard shifts. I headed straight down the dark hallway toward the back room where I’d ordered Emma to lock herself in.