No One Owns Me

Chapter 2 — The Kings Don’t Run

The first thing I learn about the Kings MC is that they don’t panic.

The second thing I learn is that apparently, neither do I.

Gunfire tears through the office again—sharp, deafening cracks that make the walls shudder. For one horrible heartbeat, my lungs lock up and my vision blurs.

Then survival slams back into place.

I press myself flat to the floor as a bullet punches clean through the plaster above my head. Dust and grit shower down into my hair, sticking to my cold sweat. Mel huddles behind the desk, arms curled tight over her head, but she doesn’t make a sound. Drake stands braced in the doorway, shotgun levelled, his face so still it’s like he’s carved from stone. The other men fan out around the room, taking cover, returning fire in short, controlled bursts.

No screaming. No blind scrambling. Just sharp signals and steady aim. They’ve done this a hundred times before. That calm—that muscle-memory violence—scares me more than the guns outside ever could.

Duncan’s hand closes around my wrist. “Stay down.”

I yank free hard enough to scrape skin. “Stop ordering me around.”

His eyes flash, bright with fear and frustration. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”

“I’ve done a pretty damn good job of that for eleven years without your help.”

The words are out before I can bite them back. I see the hurt flash across his face, deep and raw, and for half a second guilt tugs at my chest. Then another bullet slams into the filing cabinet beside us, and guilt can wait.

Drake glances over his shoulder. “How many out there?”

I crawl forward until I can peek through the jagged gap in the window frame. Three black SUVs sit idling in the dust, doors swinging open as men pour out—all dark suits, all weapons drawn, all moving with cold, practised purpose.

“Too many,” I say, my voice tight. “Lorenzo doesn’t send small teams.”

Nate shifts beside Drake, squinting through the broken glass. “This isn’t a random hit.”

“No.” Every eye turns to me. I swallow hard. “It’s personal.”

Drake’s gaze sharpens. “Who exactly is this Lorenzo?”

“My stepfather.”

Duncan’s jaw locks so tight I can see the muscle jump. “He found you.”

“Looks like.”

“You said you stole from him,” Drake presses.

“One hundred thousand dollars.”

Nate lets out a low, sharp whistle. “Holy hell.”

I shrug, even though my hands are still shaking. “Don’t worry. I spent most of it.”

Drake blinks, genuinely thrown. “On what?”

“Not getting killed.”

Before anyone can reply, another volley tears through the window. Glass explodes inward, glittering like hail across the floor. Drake roars: “MOVE—NOW!”

We surge to our feet. I lunge for my backpack, but Duncan catches my arm again. “Leave it. We can get you another bag.”

“No.” I yank free, clutching the strap tight. “My medication’s in there. I don’t leave without it.”

He lets go instantly, no more argument. “Fine. Go.”

I heft the pack onto my shoulders—heavy, familiar, the only constant I’ve had in a year—and we bolt for the main workshop.

The space stretches huge around us, lined with rows of bikes: matte black, polished chrome, deep crimson, every one built for speed and power. The air reeks of gasoline, hot oil, and rubber. Drake jabs a finger toward the roll-up doors at the far end. “Back exit—move!”

The Kings flow ahead like water, fast and coordinated, like they’ve run this exact drill a dozen times. I keep pace, then skid to a halt as I glance at the bikes.

Drake stops, glancing back. “What is it?”

“You’ve got more than a dozen rides here.”

One corner of his mouth tugs up, even as bullets thud into the wall beside us. “You ride?”

I match his smirk. “Do I look like someone who can’t?”

He tosses me a set of keys; I catch them one-handed. “Pick something fast.”

Duncan’s eyes go wide. “She’s seventeen!”

“Then she’s old enough to know what she can handle,” Drake calls over his shoulder.

“Not during a firefight!” Duncan snaps, stepping toward me.

I meet his gaze, steady as I can be. “You worry too much.”

“I’ve spent eleven years wondering if you were dead or alive,” he says, quiet but fierce. “I think I’ve earned the right to worry.”

It knocks the breath right out of me. I stare at him, my throat tight, and for a second I can’t find the words. Then I turn toward the bikes, glance back, and say, soft enough only he can hear: “Dad.”

He freezes, like I’ve just pulled the rug out from under him.

“Trust me,” I say.

Something in his shoulders relaxes. The fear doesn’t vanish, but it softens, settles into something steady. He nods. “Always.”

I turn away before he can see how much that one word means to me, and stop before a sleek black Dyna, its frame low and light, perfect for weaving through tight spaces. I run my hand over the handlebars—cool, worn, exactly like I remember.

Nate jogs over, raising an eyebrow. “You actually know how to work one of these?”

I look him dead in the eye. “No.”

He exhales, relieved, and reaches for the keys—until I twist the ignition. The engine roars to life, deep and throbbing, shaking the ground beneath my boots.

His mouth falls open. “You little—”

“Kidding,” I yell over the rumble.

“Insane,” he mutters, shaking his head as he climbs onto his own ride.

Drake throws the gate switch. The roll-up door groans upward, bright afternoon sunlight flooding in. “GO!”

We surge out together, engines screaming in unison, tyres spitting gravel. For a heartbeat there’s nothing but wind and speed and the roar of twelve bikes, and for the first time in a year, fear isn’t the loudest thing in my head. For the first time, I feel like I’m flying, not running.

Then Nate’s voice crackles over a shared comms line: “Two bogies on our tail—left and right!”

I glance back. Two SUVs tear after us, closing fast. I lean low over the tank, throttle wide open, and cut hard left down a narrow residential street. The lead SUV tries to mirror me, to box me in—until I hit the brakes so hard the back tyre skids, and it blasts past, unable to stop. I twist the throttle again and shoot past its rear bumper before the driver can even spin the wheel.

“Amateurs,” I mutter, as I dive into an alley barely wide enough for the bike. The SUV tries to follow, clips a parked pickup with a screech of tearing metal, and spins to a halt.

I grin, then round the corner—straight into the path of a third SUV.

My stomach drops through the floor. I slam the brakes. The bike skids sideways, tilting hard, and I jump clear before it slams into the grille. I hit the tarmac shoulder-first, pain flaring white-hot, and roll twice before coming to a stop.

For a second I can’t breathe. Then I hear it: “CASEY!”

Duncan.

I push myself up, gritting my teeth against the fire in my shoulder. “I’m fine!” I yell, even as my arm hangs useless at my side. I’m not fine. But I’m breathing. That counts.

The SUV door swings open. A man steps out, gun raised, levelled straight at my chest. Time slows: I see his finger tightening on the trigger, the cold glint of the barrel, the dead look in his eyes.

Then a single shot cracks the air.

He crumples.

I stare. Duncan stands twenty feet away, gun in his hand, his face ashen. He lowers the weapon slowly. “Are you hurt?”

I look from the man on the ground to him. “You shot him.”

“I wasn’t going to let him shoot you.”

“I had it,” I say, even though I know I didn’t.

He steps closer, offering his good hand. “I know. But you don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

I hesitate for only a second before I take it. His grip is firm, warm, careful not to jostle my bad shoulder. He pulls me upright steady.

“Thanks,” I say quietly.

He blinks, like he didn’t expect it. “You’re welcome.”

Drake pulls up beside us, cutting his engine. “Status?”

“All good,” Nate calls, rolling to a halt.

Ward drops his kickstand, yanks off his helmet, and smirks as he glances between the wrecked bike and the dented SUV. “Well now. Sunshine, you really don’t do things by halves, do you?”

I glare. “I told you not to call me that.”

He holds up both hands in mock surrender. “Fair. But I’m starting to think you’re my kind of trouble.”

Duncan steps between us, protective as a guard dog. “Back off.”

“Easy,” Ward says, grinning wider. “I like her. That’s all.”

“I’m not a kid to be fought over,” I snap.

Duncan looks at me, and his voice softens. “I know you’re not. But you’re still my daughter.”

Before I can reply, Drake’s phone buzzes. He answers, listens, and his expression hardens. When he hangs up, he looks at us grimly.

“Six more vehicles. Headed straight for the clubhouse.”

Nate swears. “Six? That’s a whole crew.”

Drake nods. “They’re not sending a message. They’re here to finish this.”

Everyone looks at me. I stare down the road, my mind racing. “If we go back, they’ll follow us straight there. If we run, they’ll keep chasing until they catch us.”

Drake studies me. “So what’s the play?”

I walk over to the wrecked SUV, yank the door open, and start searching. Inside: spare weapons, burner phones, stacks of files, and two passports. I flip one open, and my blood runs cold.

“That’s Rinaldi,” I say, tossing it to Drake. “Lorenzo’s right hand. If he’s here, Lorenzo isn’t far behind.”

I grab the phone from the dash and toss it to Nate. “Can you trace this?”

He looks almost offended. “Try me.”

In seconds he pulls up a map, a red dot blinking steadily just west of town. “Got it. Signal’s active—locked to this location.”

I lean in. I know that spot. An old meatpacking warehouse, abandoned for years, surrounded by empty fields.

“That’s where he’s waiting,” I say.

Duncan shakes his head immediately. “No. Absolutely not. We stay clear.”

“We don’t have to go in,” I say. “We just have to make him think we’re running scared.”

I turn to the rest of them. “He expects me to hide. To run. So we give him exactly what he wants—then turn it right back around.”

I lay out the plan fast: lock down the clubhouse, make sure his scouts see me run inside, then slip out through the old storm drain I spotted on my way into town—the one that runs under the highway and comes out within sight of the warehouse.

Ward raises an eyebrow. “You noticed a hidden drainage tunnel on your way into town?”

“I notice everything,” I say.

Drake nods slowly, a fierce grin spreading across his face. “We lure them in. Trap them. Then we hit them where they least expect it.”

I hold up the stolen phone, already typed out and ready. “And to make sure Lorenzo comes personally?”

I hit send. Three words light up the screen: COME GET ME.

Duncan’s face falls. “Casey—”

“He’s not going to send more men after that,” I say. “He’ll want to see it himself. To make sure I’m dead.”

I glance toward the empty fields beyond the road, and for the first time in a year, I don’t feel like prey.

“He still owes me,” I say quietly. “And I always collect what I’m owed.”

Nate barks out a laugh. “You really are gonna rob him again.”

“Only fair,” I shrug. “He made it personal first.”

Drake claps me on the shoulder—gentle, careful of my injury. “Then let’s give the devil exactly what he’s asking for.”

The rumble of engines grows louder, closing fast. We move fast: doors barred, weapons readied, lights killed. The clubhouse falls silent, waiting. I stand in the middle of the hall, my shoulder throbbing, my heart hammering—but my hands don’t shake.

A voice booms through a megaphone from outside: “CASEY GRANT! COME OUT NOW, AND WE END THIS QUICKLY!”

Duncan steps close. “You don’t have to do this.”

I look at him, at the fear and pride warring in his eyes. “If I keep running, he’ll never stop. He’ll burn every town, every safe house, every person who ever helped me, until he finds me. I have to end it here.”

I grip my knife tight. “I’m done hiding.”

The front doors blow inward.

“NOW!” Drake roars.

Gunfire erupts. I sprint for the back corridor, Duncan right at my heels. A man spots me and raises his rifle—I throw my knife, and it slams hard into his hand, sending the weapon clattering to the floor. I don’t stop to watch him fall.

Ward falls in beside me, grinning like a maniac. “Show-off.”

“You’re welcome!”

We reach the hidden hatch, and I haul it open to reveal the dark steps leading down. Duncan grabs my hand, his grip solid and sure. “Stay close.”

I pause at the top of the stairs, glance back at the chaos, then at him. “Welcome to my world, Dad.”

For a second, the noise fades. Then he squeezes my hand, and we step together into the dark.

Behind us, Lorenzo’s men think they’ve cornered their prey. They have no idea.

For the first time in my life, I’m not running away.

I’m hunting back.