Chapter 8 - THE RIDE OF A LIFETIME
The diner erupted into a different kind of chaos.
Federal agents poured through the shattered doors, weapons drawn, shouting orders. They took one look at Dex holding Blackwell mid-air and swarmed the corrupt businessman, slapping heavy federal cuffs on his wrists.
But Marcus wasn't looking at Blackwell anymore. He dropped to his knees beside Emily, his rough hands hovering over her as she curled inward, gasping through a brutal contraction.
"Ambulance!" Marcus roared at the closest FBI agent. "Get a medic in here now!"
"Dispatch says twenty minutes," the agent yelled back over the noise. "The road from the hospital is blocked by heavy machinery. Some bulldozers stalled out on the two-lane."
Blackwell’s bulldozers. The final, cruel joke of a man who tried to destroy her life.
"I can't... I can't wait twenty minutes," Emily sobbed, gripping Donna's hand so hard her knuckles turned white. "It hurts. It's too early. He’s only seven months."
"He's coming anyway," Donna said, her voice shaking with panic as she checked Emily. "Em, you're bleeding. We have to get you to the hospital now, or you're both going to die here."
Marcus didn't hesitate. He stood up, turning to his club. "Dex, clear the booths. Prospect, get the truck. We’re moving her."
"Truck won't fit past the bulldozers on the shoulder," Dex said grimly, looking out the window at the narrow mountain pass. "Only a bike can weave through that."
Marcus looked at his motorcycle parked outside—a heavy, customized Harley-Davidson Road Glide. It was built for power, not for carrying a woman in active labor. He looked at Emily, pale, sweating, terrified.
"Emily, look at me," Marcus commanded, his voice an anchor in the storm.
She opened her eyes, finding his dark, steady gaze.
"My brother died because men like him," Marcus pointed a thumb at Blackwell, who was being dragged out to a cruiser, "cared more about money than blood. Your husband died making sure my family didn't have to bury another son. I am not letting his son die in a ruined diner. Do you trust me?"
Emily felt another contraction rip through her. She nodded frantically. "Yes."
"Dex! Get my leathers. We need to strap her to me."
Within seconds, the bikers were moving with military precision. They lifted Emily gently, carrying her out of the diner into the cool mountain air. Marcus threw his heavy leather jacket over her shivering shoulders. Dex used thick nylon tie-downs—usually meant for securing gear—to literally strap Emily to Marcus's back as he sat on the bike, ensuring she wouldn't slip off even if she passed out from the pain.
"Hold on to me," Marcus told her over his shoulder. "Bury your face in my cut. Do not let go."
Emily wrapped her arms around Marcus’s waist, her swollen belly pressed against his back.
The Harley roared to life, a deafening, beautiful sound. The other five Angels mounted their bikes. They weren't just riding; they were forming a phalanx.
"Let's ride!" Marcus shouted over the engines.
They tore out of the parking lot, hitting Route 11 at sixty miles an hour.
Emily closed her eyes, burying her face in the leather of Marcus's vest. It smelled like oil, tobacco, and wind. The pain was blinding, a continuous wave of fire in her stomach, but the rumble of the engine beneath her felt like a heartbeat.
Ahead, the road bottlenecked. Three massive yellow bulldozers sat abandoned, blocking both lanes of the mountain pass.
Marcus didn't slow down. He downshifted, the engine screaming as he aimed the bike for the narrow, treacherous strip of gravel between the heavy machinery and the sheer drop-off of the mountain edge.
“Hold tight!” he roared.
Emily squeezed her eyes shut. The bike tilted dangerously. She felt the scrape of metal on metal as the Harley’s exhaust pipe kissed the bulldozer’s tread, but Marcus’s hands on the handlebars were iron. They burst through the gap, the tires catching the asphalt again, the rest of the club falling in line directly behind them.
Ten minutes later, the screech of tires echoed through the quiet emergency drop-off at Cedar Ridge Memorial Hospital.
Nurses rushed out with a gurney. Marcus unclipped the nylon straps, his massive arms lifting Emily off the bike as gently as if she were made of glass. He laid her on the stretcher.
"Ryan," Emily gasped, delirious with pain, her hand reaching out into empty air.
Marcus caught her hand. He pulled the silver Zippo lighter from his pocket and pressed it firmly into her palm.
May you like
"He's here, Emily," Marcus said, his voice thick with emotion. "He’s right here. Now go."
As the doors to the emergency room swung open, swallowing Emily into a world of bright lights and frantic medical shouts, Marcus stood by his bike, blood on his hands, waiting for the cry of a child.
