Peace never lasts long. In our line of work, heavy cash flow always attracts bottom-feeding vultures. 

As the custom chop shop grew, the stacks of bills bruised the territorial ego of the Vipers. 

Word on the street was they were bleeding cash, and our shop's fat margins had them seeing red. 

They sent “representatives” twice, demanding a cut of the action. Both times, I threw them out of the garage without a second thought. 

"Boss, those Viper scumbags have been calling us lately,” Fat Tank muttered one afternoon, wiping a grease-stained wrench with his filthy hands.

"Let ‘em," I said not even looking up as I kept tuning the carburetor in my hands. “If they cross the line. I don't mind making them bleed." 

But I underestimated just how ruthless a desperate street gang could be. 

A few evenings later, I was driving my beat-up pickup alone down a deserted stretch of country road, the bed loaded with rare engine blocks hauled back from out of state. 

Without warning, two blacked-out SUVs tore out of crossroads, boxing me in and forcing me dead onto the gravel shoulder. 

Four thugs piled out wielding baseball bats and lead pipes. The driver's side window shattered insanely. 

"Out of the truck! You're coming with us!” the lead Viper snarled, shoving the barrel of a glock right in my face.

I didn't panic. 

Brawling with four armed heavyweights inside a cramped cab was pure suicide. Sometimes, you have to walk straight into the wolf's den to see who’s pulling the strings. 

Expressionless, I stepped out, letting them yank a black hood over my head. 

They hauled me to a place that reeked of rust and rotting drywall- an abandoned warehouse right on the county line. 

"Call your Prez,” a raspy voice echoed through the cavernous space. "Tell Daryl if he wants his old lady to keep breathing he signs total control of the Chop shop over to the Vipers." 

I couldn't help but laugh out loud. “Are you out of your fucking minds? Daryl doesn't negotiate with a gun to his head. You just signed your own death warrants." 

"Shut up!" The leader backhanded me hard across the jaw. 

I tasted copper. Licking my split lip, I started silently counting down in my head. 

Don't keep me waiting, big guy. 

In less than twenty minutes, a deafening thunder rolled outside the warehouse. It wasn't a storm; it was the synchronized, guttural roar of fifty heavy V-twin engines. 

The Iron Riders MC was out in full force.

Crash! The corrugated metal doors were ripped off their rusted hinges by a heavy-duty tow chain.

Daryl sat astride his Harley, dead center in the glaring headlights. He was palming a Remington 870 pump-action shotgun in one hand, his eyes colder than the Reaper himself.

"Get your fucking hands off my old lady." Daryl didn't shout, but the sheer, overwhelming promise of violence in his voice dropped the temperature in the room to freezing.

The Viper leader panicked, jamming the Glock hard against my temple. "Step the fuck back! One more inch and I blow her brains out!"

Daryl didn't even tap the brakes. He swung off the bike and advanced with slow, lethal strides. The shotgun racked with a bone-chilling sound- -clack- clack.

"Try it.," Daryl stared him down, absolutely zero warmth in his pitch-black eyes. "But I promise you, the second your finger twitches on that trigger, I will turn you into pink mist before the bullet even leaves the chamber."

In that split second, as the Viper hesitated and instinctively recoiled, I made my move.

I snapped my head back, delivering a vicious headbutt straight to the bridge of his nose. Cartilage crunched. The man shrieked, his grip on the gun going slack.

I spun, taking his legs out from under him with a sweeping kick that slammed him onto the concrete.

As he hit the deck, the steel-reinforced heel of my riding boot came down hard on his wrist, kicking the Glock out of reach.

Clean, brutal, and flawlessly executed. 

Before the other three could even process what happened, Tank and the rest of the brotherhood stormed the warehouse, violently taking down the remaining Vipers and pinning them to the floor.

Daryl dropped the shotgun, clearing the distance between us in two huge strides. He yanked me into his arms, pressing me tightly against the rigid Kevlar of his tactical vest. His arms clamped around me tight enough to bruise my ribs, his chest heaving.

"You good?" his whisper was dangerously raw.

"What do you think?" I patted his broad back. "Just a scratch. But we're not letting this slide."

I turned, glaring icily at the leader writhing on the ground.

"Go back and tell your boss I'll be paying him a personal visit tomorrow. And I'm bringing my favorite heavy-duty wrench."

The next day, Daryl and I spearheaded a convoy of fifty heavy cruisers straight into the heart of Viper territory, smashing their main chop shop to ruins.
Ever since that day, no one dared to eye our turf again.

Since that incident, Daryl's nerves had been coiled tight as a spring. Now, I couldn't even run to the parts depot without either him or two fully armed patched members shadowing me.

"I don't need bodyguards, Daryl. I dropped their toughest guy single- handedly yesterday." I leaned against his desk, giving him a hard eye roll.

"I know." Daryl didn't look up from the paperwork in his hands, but a rare, unapologetic smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "But my heart stopped for ten whole seconds yesterday. So you're taking the escort, Sam.”

“If only to keep me from having a damn heat attack.”