“He Took the Bullet for a Child… One Hour Later, 100 Harley Riders Circled the Hospital”
The shot rang out.
A sharp, metallic crack that split the quiet of the morning in half. It happened so fast that Sam Holt barely had time to register the danger. He was standing on the sidewalk, holding his coffee, taking in the early morning air. A typical, lazy Saturday, until that single moment.
Across the street, a man stood—his eyes locked onto something small, something fragile. Sam followed the man’s gaze. A little girl, no older than six, stood by the bakery window, clutching a bright pink balloon. Her mother had just ducked inside to grab something. Sam noticed the way the man’s hands twitched beneath his jacket. The flash of metal as he reached for something.
That was when it happened.
Before Sam’s brain could catch up with his instincts, his body had already moved. The coffee cup slipped from his hand, falling to the pavement, splashing across the ground. He didn’t feel the pain when he took the bullet—didn’t even hear the sound of it ripping through his flesh. All he could hear was the high-pitched ringing in his ears as his body collapsed to the ground. He felt warmth spreading from his side, blood soaking into the concrete.
The girl’s balloon drifted up into the air, floating innocently. Sam didn’t know how, but he knew in that moment he had saved her.
Her wide, frightened eyes locked onto his. She didn’t speak, but there was terror in her gaze—terror that mirrored what Sam himself felt. He tried to whisper, though his voice was weak.
“You’re okay?”
The words felt foreign coming out of his mouth. He barely even knew if he could hear himself. His fingers pressed against the wound in his side, trying to stop the bleeding, but the blood kept flowing. He felt it, hot and sticky, soaking his clothes. But there was something else—something in that moment that kept him focused. The little girl was safe.
Sirens wailed in the distance, but they seemed miles away. The world around him was growing darker, the edges of his vision blurring. The last thing he saw before the darkness took over was the girl’s mother, screaming for help.
Sam awoke in a sterile, white room. His head pounded, and his body felt like it had been hit by a truck. But the pain was bearable, not overwhelming—yet. The steady beep of a heart monitor next to his bed was a constant reminder that he was still alive, but barely.
He blinked, trying to clear the fog from his mind. Where was he? Why did it feel like someone had ripped his insides out?
His fingers instinctively touched his side. The wound was dressed, but there was still an ache deep within him. He could feel the stitches pulling at his skin, a constant reminder of the bullet that had found its way into him.
The room was quiet, too quiet. The only sound was the soft hum of the machines. Sam closed his eyes, his mind drifting back to that moment on the sidewalk. The shot. The pain. The girl.
He should have d**d. But he hadn’t.
A figure stepped into the room, breaking his thoughts. Sam’s eyes flickered up to see a man standing in the doorway. His face was obscured by shadows, his body tall and broad, dressed in black leather. Sam’s pulse quickened, a sense of recognition creeping into his bones. He knew this man—he had to.
The man didn’t speak immediately. He just stood there, observing Sam. His gaze was calculating, as though he were sizing him up. Sam tried to speak, but his voice was a hoarse whisper.
“Who… are you?” Sam asked, his words slurring together.
The man took a step forward, his boots clicking on the sterile tile. “Does it matter?”
Sam furrowed his brow, confusion swirling in his mind. There was something off about the man. The way he moved—predatory, purposeful. This wasn’t a stranger. Not really. Sam’s gut told him he’d seen this man before, but he couldn’t place him.
“What do you want?” Sam’s voice was stronger now, though still laced with pain.
The man smirked. “I want you to stay alive, Holt. You’re going to need all the strength you can get.”
Sam frowned, still trying to make sense of the situation. “Why? What happened? What’s going on?”
But the man didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped back, disappearing into the shadows, leaving Sam alone with his thoughts.
The door clicked shut behind him, and Sam was left with more questions than answers.
It had been hours. Sam had drifted in and out of consciousness, the pain in his side a constant reminder of what had happened. But he wasn’t alone. A nurse came in to check on him, her face pale and drawn.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Holt?” she asked, though the question felt more like a formality than concern.
Sam didn’t respond immediately. He was still trying to piece together what had happened. He remembered the bullet. The girl. But there was something else—something strange about the man who had visited him.
The nurse seemed distracted, glancing nervously at the window. Sam followed her gaze, and that’s when he heard it—the unmistakable roar of engines.
It started as a low rumble, almost imperceptible, but it grew louder with each passing second. It was the sound of Harley-Davidsons, a hundred or more, revving their engines in perfect harmony. Sam’s heart skipped a beat.
“They’re here,” the nurse whispered under her breath.
Sam stiffened. He knew exactly who “they” were. His brothers.
Hell’s Angels.
His thoughts raced. How had they found him so quickly? It had only been hours since he’d been shot. News didn’t travel that fast—unless it had been deliberate. Someone had made sure they knew. And someone had made sure they were coming for him.
The nurse looked at him, her face a mixture of fear and concern. “You don’t know what’s coming, do you?”
Sam tried to sit up, but the pain in his side made it difficult. “I don’t care what they’re doing. I just need to know what happened. Why was I shot? Why was the girl the target?”
The nurse looked away, clearly uncomfortable. But before she could answer, the door to the room slammed open.
A tall figure stepped inside. Sam didn’t need to ask who it was. He recognized the man immediately.
“Briggs,” Sam rasped, his voice barely audible. “What’s going on?”
Briggs didn’t answer right away. Instead, he crossed the room in a few long strides and pulled up a chair, sitting down next to Sam’s bed.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” Briggs said, his tone as cool as ever. “The kid’s safe. But you’re not out of the woods yet. You need to understand something. What happened today wasn’t random. You were never supposed to d*e, Holt. It was a message.”
Sam blinked. A message?
“A message?” he repeated.
Briggs nodded, his expression grim. “They don’t want you dead, Sam. They want you to see what’s coming. And they know you won’t just roll over.”
Sam’s confusion deepened. “Who’s behind this?”
But Briggs only shook his head. “Not yet. You’ll find out soon enough. But it’s bigger than you think. It’s bigger than all of us. And when the time comes, you’ll have to decide which side you’re on.”
Before Sam could ask any more questions, Briggs stood up and walked toward the door.
“The Angels are outside. They’re ready. But you’re not going anywhere just yet, Holt. Not until we’re sure you’re ready.”
Sam’s mind raced as the door closed behind Briggs, leaving him alone once again.
The rumble of engines outside grew louder, but Sam didn’t feel comforted. Instead, he felt an unsettling sense of dread. Something was wrong. Something was coming—and it wasn’t just about him. It was about something much bigger.
A voice crackled through the intercom, the voice of a man Sam had never heard before.
“Holt. You don’t know who you’re dealing with. Get out of the hospital. Now.”
Sam froze. The voice was cold, calculated. It wasn’t one of his brothers.
And then, the lights flickered.
The room went dark. Completely, utterly dark.
He heard a loud crash. Footsteps. A shadow moved across the room.
And then everything went black.
