Dying Biker President Rallies His 70-Year-Old Crew For One Last, Desperate Ride
Chapter 1: The Six-Month Clock
The fluorescent lights of the oncology ward hummed a flat, indifferent note. It was a sound Arthur “Prez” Donovan was beginning to hate. It was the sound of sterility, of bleached floors and bleached hopes. He sat on the examination table, the paper crinkling beneath his worn jeans. His leather kutte—the vest bearing the “Iron Patriots” MC patch—was folded neatly on the chair beside him. He felt naked without it.
Dr. Evans entered, not with a clipboard, but with just his hands in the pockets of his white coat. That was the first bad sign. Doctors with good news always carried clipboards, like shields of data.
“Arthur,” he began, his voice practiced in the art of gentle-but-firm bad news.
“Just give it to me straight, doc,” Arthur rasped. The cough that followed was deep and rattling, a familiar demon in his chest.
Dr. Evans sighed, pulling up the X-ray on the light board. The image was stark. His lungs, which had once inhaled the open road from Sturgis to Daytona, were now clouded with malignant shadows.
“The adenocarcinoma has metastasized, Arthur. It’s in the lymph nodes and, as of this week, the liver.”
Arthur stared at the image. It looked like a map of a hostile country. “So, what’s the play?”
“At this stage… we’re looking at palliative care. We can make you comfortable. Manage the pain.”
“Time,” Arthur said, his voice quiet. “How much time?”
“Without aggressive (and frankly, debilitating) chemo… six months. Maybe.”
Six months. The words hung in the air, heavier than the lead apron they used for the X-rays. Arthur thought of his late wife, Sarah. He’d buried her twenty years ago, the victim of a senseless drunk driver. Then he thought of his son, Mark—Lily’s father—lost to the very club violence Arthur had sworn to control. The club had been his life, but it had cost him his son. Now, all he had left was Lily.
Lily. His granddaughter. She was nineteen, a sophomore at the community college, studying to be a nurse. She was bright, all the parts of Sarah and Mark that were good and clean, untouched by the grease and blood of his world. He’d been using the club’s “clean” money—proceeds from the bike shop and their security contracts—to pay for her tuition. He was trying to launder his legacy, to give her a life he never had.
His only goal, the one single prayer he muttered into the darkness each night, was to see her graduate. To see her walk across that stage, get that diploma, and be free of him, of the Iron Patriots, of the entire damn legacy.
Six months. Her graduation was in eight.
He was a man who had stared down rival gangs, corrupt cops, and a VC ambush in Vietnam. But he had just been beaten by a clock.
“Thank you, doc,” he said, pulling his vest back on. The familiar weight of the leather was a small comfort. He stood, his knees popping, a 70-year-old relic.
“Arthur, we should schedule…”
“I’ll call the front desk,” Arthur lied.
He walked out into the bright afternoon sun, the world suddenly too loud, too colorful. He fumbled for his phone, his hands shaking not from fear, but from a profound, burning anger. He had to call her. He just needed to hear her voice.
He hit her name in his contacts. It rang. Once. Twice. Straight to voicemail.
“Hey, this is Lily! Leave a message, or just text me, Grandpa!”
Her cheerful voice, a recording, felt like a punch to his gut. That was… wrong. She never missed his calls. She knew he hated texting. A knot of cold dread began to form, colder than the doctor’s prognosis.
He was about to try again when his phone buzzed. “No Caller ID.”
He thumbed the screen. “Yeah.”
The voice on the other end was smooth, polished, and utterly devoid of emotion. It sounded like a tech-support call from hell. “Mr. Arthur Donovan?”
“Who is this?”
“My name is irrelevant. I’m calling to discuss a recent acquisition. We are currently holding your granddaughter, Lily.”
The world stopped. The hum of the traffic, the chatter of people, the pain in his chest—it all vanished, replaced by a roaring silence.
“You’re lying,” he whispered.
“Community College, parking lot B. She was getting into her blue ’09 Civic. My associates intercepted her. She was… cooperative, eventually.” The man, “Slice,” as he would come to be known, sounded bored. “Let’s be clear. This is a business transaction. You, as President of the Iron Patriots, control certain… territories. I want them. My organization is pushing a new product, and your properties are ideal for distribution.”
“I’ll kill you.” The words were gravel and broken glass.
“No, you won’t,” Slice said, sighing. “You will listen. You will sign over all club properties and territories to a holding company I’ve prepared. You will do it by midnight tomorrow. If you do, your granddaughter will be returned, unharmed. If you call the police… if you tell anyone… she will simply… disappear. Do you understand the terms, Mr. Donovan?”
“I… yes.”
“Good. I’ll be in touch with the transfer details.” The line clicked dead.
For a full minute, Arthur stood by his 1976 Shovelhead, his knuckles white on the handlebars. He was dying. They had taken the one thing he was dying for.
His first instinct, the old instinct, was to call his Sergeant-at-Arms, to rally the club. But the “club” was a shadow. The young members were just that—young, restless, more interested in posting pictures of their bikes on Instagram than the old codes. They wouldn’t know how to handle this. This wasn’t a bar fight. This was cold, corporate evil.
He threw his leg over the bike, the motion agonizing on his hip. He kicked it once. The engine sputtered. He kicked it again, roaring his frustration into the effort. The V-twin engine exploded to life, a thunderous echo of his own rage.
He drove, not to the clubhouse, but to the one place he had sworn he’d never go for help: the downtown police precinct.
He strode in, his vest earning stares of contempt from the officers at the front desk. “I need to report a kidnapping. My granddaughter.”
He was led to a small, gray room. Ten minutes later, a man in a rumpled suit walked in. Detective Miller. Miller had a long, bitter history with the Patriots.
Arthur laid it all out. The call. The threats. Lily.
Miller leaned back, steepling his fingers. He let out a long, slow sigh. “A ‘Mr. Slice,’ you say? No number? No location? Just… a demand for your ‘territory’?”
“That’s what I said,” Arthur snapped, his patience evaporating.
“Look, ‘Prez,'” Miller said, leaning forward, his voice dripping with condescension. “I’ve been on this desk for twenty years. I’ve seen how you people operate. You ‘bikers’ are always in some kind of turf war. This ‘Slice’ is probably from the Scorpions or the Vipers, right? You stepped on his toes, he stepped on yours. This is a club problem.”
“This is my granddaughter!” Arthur roared, slamming his fist on the metal table. The motion sent a spear of pain through his chest, and he collapsed into a coughing fit, tasting the metallic tang of blood.
Miller just watched, his expression unchanged. “My advice? Go handle your business. Settle your accounts. You bikers play these games, don’t come crying to us when you lose. Your mess, Donovan. You clean it up.”
Arthur stared at him. The law, the entire “straight” world he’d given Lily to, had just turned its back on him. He was a 70-year-old dying man. His club was a memory. His granddaughter was gone. And he was, utterly, alone.
He stood up, the chair scraping loudly. He walked to the door and paused. “When this is over,” he said, not turning around, “you’re going to read about what happens. And I want you to remember this conversation.”
He walked out of the precinct, the “No Caller ID” on his phone a burning sigil. He was alone.
No. Not entirely.
He got on his bike and pointed it east, toward the scrapyard. He had to go see the ghosts.
Chapter 2: The Ghosts of the Patriots
The ride to Marcus “Wrench” O’Malley’s garage was a journey through a graveyard of memories. Arthur’s Harley, a ’76 Shovelhead he’d named “Sarah’s Ghost,” rumbled beneath him, every vibration a fresh assault on his aching joints and failing lungs. He passed the old diner where the club used to meet for breakfast, now a sterile-looking juice bar. He passed the corner where his son, Mark, had been gunned down in a territorial dispute fifteen years ago. The guilt was a physical weight, heavier than the cancer.
He pulled into Wrench’s “Resto-Cycle,” a massive, corrugated-tin garage that smelled of oil, rust, and regret. Marcus had been his Road Captain, the best mechanic the Patriots ever had. He was also Mark’s godfather. When Mark died, something in Marcus broke. He didn’t just quit the club; he disavowed it, blaming Arthur’s leadership, his ambition, for the boy’s death.
Arthur cut the engine, the sudden silence deafening. He walked in, the bell over the door tinkling weakly.
Wrench was under a ’51 Panhead, his skinny, grease-stained arms working a ratchet. He was 68, all bone and sinew, with a face like a dried-apple doll. He didn’t look up.
“Shop’s closed, old man,” Wrench grunted, his voice muffled.
“It’s me, Marcus.”
The sound of the ratchet stopped. Slowly, Wrench slid out on his creeper. He sat up, wiping his hands on a red rag. His eyes, magnified by thick glasses, were cold.
“Arthur. You got a lot of nerve coming here.”
“I know. I… I’m not here for me. And I’m not here for the club.”
“Good. ‘Cause the club is dead. You killed it the day Mark went into the ground.”
The words hit Arthur like a physical blow. He leaned against a workbench, a cough shaking him. “You’re right,” he managed to say. “I probably did.”
Wrench’s frosty expression softened, just a fraction. He saw Arthur’s pallor, the sheen of sweat on his gray skin. “You look like hell, Prez.”
“Got the papers to prove it,” Arthur said, tapping his chest. “Cancer. Six months.”
Wrench just stared, the rag frozen in his hand. “Well… damn.”
“That’s not why I’m here. Marcus… they took Lily.”
The rag dropped. “What?”
“Kidnapped. An hour ago. A new crew, calls their leader ‘Slice.’ They want the territory. They’ll kill her if I don’t sign it over.”
“Did you call the cops?”
“I did.” Arthur’s laugh was a bitter bark. “Detective Miller. He said it was ‘club business.’ Told me to clean up my own mess.”
Wrench stood up, his knees cracking. He walked over to a grimy coffee pot and poured two mugs of black sludge, handing one to Arthur. “So, why come to me? I’m out. Remember?”
“I’m not asking for the Road Captain,” Arthur said, his voice low. “I’m asking for Mark’s godfather. I’m asking for the man who taught her how to ride a bicycle.” He took a shaky sip of the coffee. “She’s all I’ve got left, man. She’s the only good thing… the only part of us that’s clean.”
Marcus looked away, his eyes tracing the lines of the Panhead. “They’ll be young. Armed. We’re… we’re old, Art.”
“I know. That’s why I’m not looking for a war. I’m looking for a rescue.”
Marcus was silent for a long time, the only sound the drip-drip-drip of the faulty coffeemaker. Finally, he nodded once. “Grizz and Padre? You seen ’em?”
“You’re my first stop.”
“Padre’s at the mission down on 12th Street, still trying to save souls,” Wrench said. “As for Grizz… he’s at the Green Pastures Retirement Home. They finally put him away.”
“All right,” Arthur said, a spark of life returning. “You… you’ll get the bikes? The old ones?”
Wrench looked at the Shovelhead Arthur had ridden in on. “This old thing? She’s a relic. But I’ve got two more in the back, under tarps. They’ll need work.” He looked Arthur square in the eye. “Don’t die on me before we get this done, old man.”
The Holy Light Mission was a small, cinderblock building tucked between a pawn shop and a liquor store. Arthur and Wrench pulled up, their bikes rumbling. Inside, Samuel “Padre” Jones was at a podium, preaching to a flock of about a dozen men and women, all with the haunted eyes of the street.
Padre had been the club’s Chaplain, a man who could quote scripture one minute and crack a skull the next. He’d been a mean, desperate alcoholic until he “found God” after a near-fatal overdose ten years ago. Now he was sober, clean, and 71 years old.
They waited in the back, two leather-clad sinners in a house of the repentant. When Padre finished, he saw them. His broad, dark face registered shock, then a deep, weary sadness.
“Brothers,” he said, walking over. “It has been a long time.”
“Padre,” Arthur said, holding out his hand.
“It’s just Samuel now.” He took Arthur’s hand, his grip still strong. “What brings you two prodigal sons to my door?”
They told him. They told him about Lily, about Slice, about the cops.
Padre’s face hardened. “And you come here, to me? A man of peace? You think I’ll pick up a gun for you, Arthur?”
“No,” Arthur said, meeting his gaze. “I’m not asking you to spill blood, Sam. I’m asking you to save a child. I need your mind. I need your heart. The Lord’s work, isn’t it?”
Padre looked at the small cross on the wall, then back at Arthur. “This Slice… he’s the one bringing that new poison to the streets? The one killing kids before they even turn eighteen?”
“That’s the one,” Wrench said.
“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,” Padre murmured. “But sometimes… He delegates.” He sighed, a sound that seemed to come from the soles of his feet. “I will help. I will not carry a weapon. But I will help.”
Green Pastures Retirement Home was their final stop. It smelled of boiled cabbage and disinfectant. They found Thomas “Grizz” Petrov in the dayroom, parked in a wheelchair in front of a blaring television. The Price is Right was on.
Grizz had been the club’s Enforcer. A man mountain who, in his prime, could end a fight just by walking into a room. Now, at 73, arthritis and two bad hips had reduced him to this.
“Hey, Grizz,” Arthur said softly.
Grizz didn’t look away from the TV. “That Showcase Showdown is a rip-off. They overbid.”
“Grizz. It’s Arthur. And Wrench. And Padre.”
The big man slowly turned his head. His eyes, watery and pale, focused. A flicker of recognition. “Prez? Wrench? Padre? … What is this, a funeral? Am I dead?”
“Not yet, you stubborn ox,” Wrench grunted. “We’re breaking you out.”
Arthur knelt by the wheelchair, ignoring the sharp pain in his knees. “Grizz. We need you. We’re on a run.”
“A run?” Grizz scoffed. “Look at me, Art. I can’t even take a leak standing up. I’m done.”
“They have Lily,” Arthur said, his voice cracking.
Grizz’s entire demeanor changed. The fog in his eyes cleared, replaced by the old, cold fire. “Who?”
“New crew. They took her. We’re getting her back.”
Grizz looked at his three old friends. The sick President. The bitter Mechanic. The peaceful Preacher. “The hell we are,” he said. He gripped the arms of his wheelchair. “Wrench. In the closet. My old kutte is in there. And push me to the service elevator. I ain’t leaving through the front.”
An hour later, four old men stood in the back room of Wrench’s garage. The old clubhouse had been seized by the city years ago. This was their new, unofficial headquarters.
Three bikes sat waiting: Arthur’s Shovelhead, Wrench’s restored Panhead, and an old Electra Glide that Padre would ride, with Grizz sitting in the sidecar Wrench had just frantically bolted on.
They were a collection of bad backs, wheezing lungs, and old scars.
“One last ride,” Arthur said, coughing into his hand.
“One last ride,” Wrench agreed. “Now, how in the hell are we supposed to find this ‘Slice’?”
“That,” Grizz said, pulling a very old, very small flip-phone from his vest, “is where I come in. The world may have changed, Prez. But the rats in the sewers are all the same. I just need to find the right king rat.”
Chapter 3: The Old Way
The back room of Wrench’s garage became a war room. It was a far cry from the polished, digital command centers of their new-age rivals. Their only tech was Grizz’s ancient flip-phone, a laminated map of the city tacked to a corkboard, and Wrench’s coffeepot, which gurgled furiously as it produced pot after pot of black, acidic fuel.
“Alright, Grizz,” Arthur said, pacing. The movement helped, though each step sent a jolt of pain up his spine. “Who are you calling?”
“You don’t run intel for a club for forty years without leaving a few breadcrumbs,” Grizz said, punching in a number with a thick, arthritic thumb. “People owe me favors. People who are so far off the grid, they don’t even have computers.”
He put the phone to his ear. “Yeah, it’s me… No, I’m not dead… Stop laughing, Shirley, I need something… Yeah, your grandkids, they’re beautiful… Listen, there’s a new crew in town. Calls himself ‘Slice.’ Pushing that new synthetic junk. You hear anything?”
He listened, his face impassive. Shirley, as Arthur recalled, was Shirley “Slots” Finnegan, a woman who once ran the biggest illegal numbers game on the East Coast. She’d retired, but she still had an ear to the ground.
“A warehouse,” Grizz repeated. “By the old rail yards… The old textile mill? Got it… Yeah, I’ll tell him you said hi.” He hung up.
“Well?” Wrench demanded, polishing a wrench.
“She says the word is Slice’s crew took over the abandoned K-T Textile Mill off 9th and River. They’re moving product in and out at night. Place is a fortress. Young guys, AR-15s, body armor. Not like the old days.”
Arthur looked at the map. The mill. He knew it. It was a brick-and-steel maze, isolated, with only two access points. “A fortress,” he mused.
“We can’t go in guns blazing,” Wrench said, stating the obvious. “We’re four old men. One of us is in a wheelchair. They’d mow us down before we got through the gate.”
“We won’t go in guns blazing,” Arthur said. “We’ll be smarter. This isn’t a war. It’s a snatch-and-grab. We go in, we get Lily, we get out.”
“And how do we get past the army of goons?” Wrench shot back.
All eyes turned to Padre. He was sitting on a stool, head bowed.
“Samuel?” Arthur asked.
Padre looked up, his eyes clear. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, Arthur. And He knows I’ve spent the last five years feeding the homeless in that exact neighborhood. I know that area better than Slice does.”
He stood and walked to the map. “The mill is here,” he said, tapping the red brick symbol. “But right here,” he tapped a smaller building next to it, “is the old Halcyon Chemical supply depot. It’s been defunct for years. But it’s not empty.”
“What’s in it?” Grizz asked.
“Agricultural chemicals. Specifically, about two hundred bags of ammonium nitrate fertilizer. And next to that, a shed full of pesticides, herbicides… things that are very, very flammable. And make a whole lot of very, very thick, very, very black smoke.”
A slow smile spread across Wrench’s face. “A diversion.”
“A righteous fire,” Padre corrected. “A blaze that will demand attention. Those young guards? They’ll be drawn to it like moths. They’ll panic. They’ll think the whole block is going up. And more importantly, it will draw every fire truck and police car in the city.”
Arthur saw it. “The fire draws the guards out the front…”
“While we go in the back,” Wrench finished. “The old loading dock. I can cut the power. They’ll be blind.”
“And the police,” Grizz added, “will be too busy with the fire to stop us from leaving. And when they finally do get inside, they’ll find Slice and his whole operation.”
“It’s a good plan,” Arthur said. He turned to Padre. “You sure you can do this, Sam? It’s a high-stakes play.”
Padre looked at his hands, calloused from work, not violence. “I once set fire to my own apartment in a drunken stupor, Arthur. I think I can manage a chemical shed for a righteous cause. I won’t use a gun. I won’t hurt a soul. But I will absolutely create a distraction.”
“Good,” Arthur said. “Wrench, can you get the bikes quiet?”
“Quiet? They’re Harleys,” Wrench snorted. “But I can muffle the pipes enough to get us close. The real problem is you, Prez. You look like you’re about to keel over.”
Arthur had been leaning heavily on the workbench, the room spinning slightly. He was burning through his “six months” in a single day. The pain in his chest was a constant, hot pressure. “I’ve got a rescue to perform,” he rasped, popping two more painkillers he’d been prescribed. “I’ll be fine. I’ll last the night.”
“You’d better,” Wrench said, his voice softer than his words. “That girl is waiting for you.”
“Okay,” Arthur said, taking a deep, rattling breath. He looked at his crew. The Old Guard. They were rusty. They were broken. But they were here.
“Here’s the plan. We ride at 2 AM. Padre, you’re on fire duty. Wrench, you’re on the power. Grizz and I… we go in for Lily. We meet back at the bikes, and we scatter. No heroics. No settling old scores. We get the girl, and we vanish. Understood?”
Three old men nodded.
“Then let’s go show these new-school punks how the old-timers get it done.”
Wrench handed each of them a heavy, old-school .45 automatic. “Just in case,” he said.
Padre shook his head. “I told you, Marcus…”
“You don’t have to use it, Sam,” Wrench said, pushing it into his hand. “But this ain’t your Sunday sermon. And I’d rather you had it and didn’t need it, than… you know.”
Padre looked at the gun, then tucked it into the waistband of his jeans, under his jacket. “May God forgive me,” he whispered.
“He’ll understand,” Arthur said. “He knows we’re saving one of his angels.”
Chapter 4: Fire and Smoke
The industrial district at 2 AM was a concrete canyon, silent and dead. The only sound was the low, muffled thrum-thrum-thrum of three heavily modified motorcycles. Wrench had worked magic, stuffing the exhaust pipes with steel wool and baffles. They weren’t silent, but they no longer sounded like the roar of God. They sounded like angry ghosts.
Arthur rode in the lead, the cold night air a razor in his lungs. Every breath was a struggle. Behind him, Wrench rode his Panhead. And in the rear, Padre piloted the Electra Glide, the sidecar containing the imposing, blanket-covered form of Grizz.
They parked a block away from the K-T Textile Mill, in the shadow of a derelict overpass. The mill itself was dark, save for a single, harsh floodlight over a chain-link gate at the front. Two young guards, wrapped in tactical gear, stood there, smoking.
“Okay,” Arthur whispered, his voice a dry rasp. “Just like we planned. Padre?”
Padre nodded. He was carrying a five-gallon gas can. “I’ll go around the back alley. The shed is on the north side. You’ll see the smoke before you hear the flames. Give me ten minutes.” He clapped Arthur on the shoulder. “Godspeed, brother.” And with that, the 71-year-old preacher disappeared into the darkness.
“Now we wait,” Grizz grumbled from the sidecar.
The waiting was the hardest part. The seconds stretched into minutes. Arthur’s heart hammered a desperate rhythm against his ribs, a rhythm he knew was dangerously unsteady. He fought the urge to cough.
Then, it happened.
A low whoomph echoed through the buildings. A faint orange glow appeared, painting the clouds. Then came the smoke. It was… impressive. Thick, oily, and black, it poured into the sky, already blotting out the streetlights.
“Righteous fire, indeed,” Wrench muttered, impressed.
At the front gate of the mill, the two guards saw it. “Holy—! The whole block’s on fire!” one shouted. The gate clanged open, and four more men ran out of the warehouse, all armed, all looking at the blaze.
“They’re distracted,” Arthur said. “Wrench, now.”
Wrench was already moving, his bolt-cutters in hand. He limped to the high-voltage box on a nearby telephone pole. With a grunt and a blinding blue flash, the entire block was plunged into absolute darkness. The floodlight at the mill gate died. The guards shouted in confusion.
“That’s our cue,” Arthur said. He helped Grizz out of the sidecar. The big man was leaning on Arthur, but he had a tire iron in one hand and his .45 in the other.
“Let’s go get your girl,” Grizz said.
They moved across the street, two old men in the shadows, while Wrench stayed with the bikes, his own gun drawn, watching their backs.
They reached the rear loading dock. The electronic lock was dead, thanks to Wrench. Arthur put his shoulder to the heavy steel door and pushed. It groaned open.
They were inside. The warehouse was vast, dark, and filled with the acrid, chemical smell of fentanyl production. Pallets of precursors and pill presses stood like silent, monstrous statues. The only light was the red-orange glow from the fire outside, filtering through the high, dirty windows. The only sound was the whoop-whoop-whoop of distant, approaching sirens.
“This way,” Arthur wheezed, moving toward the offices. His breath was coming in short, wet gasps. He couldn’t go much further.
“Keep it together, Prez,” Grizz growled, pushing him forward. “Don’t you dare check out on me now.”
They heard a sound. A small, terrified whimper from a locked office door.
“Lily!” Arthur cried.
He threw his frail weight against the door. It held. “Grizz.”
The big man stepped back, raised his foot, and kicked the doorjamb. The wood splintered, the lock burst.
She was there. Tied to a steel office chair, her face pale and stained with tears. “Grandpa?” she whispered, her voice raw.
“I’m here, baby,” Arthur choked, fumbling with the ropes. He pulled out a pocket knife and sawed through the zip-ties. “I’m here.”
She clung to him, sobbing. “I was so scared. I thought…”
“I know. I know. We’re getting you out,” he said, pulling her to her feet. He was half-carrying her, half-leaning on her. “Grizz, we’re good.”
They stumbled back out into the main warehouse. The sirens were deafening now, no longer distant. Red and blue lights flashed through the windows, creating a hellish disco.
“They’re at the front,” Grizz said. “The cops and the fire department. They’re all at the fire. We can still make it to the bikes.”
They were almost at the loading dock. Almost free.
A high-powered beam of a flashlight hit them, blinding them.
“Leaving so soon, Mr. Donovan?”
The voice was cold, polished, and standing right in front of the exit. It was Slice. He hadn’t been drawn out by the fire. He was wearing a tailored suit, and he was holding a sleek, black semi-automatic pistol, held steady in his hand. He was flanked by two guards who hadn’t run outside.
“You’ve caused me a significant amount of trouble, old man,” Slice said, his voice calm. “You’ve ruined a multi-million dollar operation. And you… you involved the police.”
“It’s over, kid,” Arthur panted, pushing Lily behind him. “The cops are here. You’re done.”
“You’re right,” Slice agreed, a small, terrifying smile on his face. “It is over. But a good businessman always liquidates his assets.”
He raised the pistol, aiming it not at Arthur, but at Lily.
Chapter 5: The President’s Price
Time stopped. Arthur saw everything. The muzzle of the gun. The cold, dead eyes of Slice. The terrified, tear-streaked face of his granddaughter. The flashing red lights that painted the warehouse in blood.
“She’s the only thing keeping you alive,” Slice had said. “And now… she’s not.”
“No,” Arthur gasped.
He had nothing left. His lungs were full of fire and blood. His six-month clock had run down to six seconds. He wasn’t a President. He wasn’t a veteran. He was just a grandfather.
He shoved Lily. He shoved her with the last ounce of strength in his body, a desperate, frantic push that sent her sprawling to the concrete, out of the line of fire.
“Run!” he screamed, the word tearing his throat. “Go to Wrench! RUN!”
And then he lunged.
It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t graceful. It was the desperate, all-or-nothing lunge of a 200-pound dying man who had nothing left to lose.
Slice’s gun fired twice. Pop. Pop.
The bullets felt like kicks from a mule. They hit Arthur center-mass, lifting him off his feet. But his momentum was already committed. He didn’t even feel the pain. He crashed into Slice, his head connecting with the drug dealer’s jaw. The two men went down, a tangle of old leather and new-money-suit, smashing into a steel shelving unit filled with bags of white powder.
Lily screamed, a raw sound of pure animal terror. “Grandpa!”
Grizz, who had been moving with surprising speed, fired his old .45. The sound was a cannonade in the enclosed space, deafening compared to Slice’s pistol. One of the remaining guards crumpled.
The loading dock door flew open. It was Wrench and Padre, their faces masks of fury. They had heard the shots.
“Get her! Get her out!” Grizz roared, leveling his gun at the second guard, who was raising his rifle.
Padre, the man of peace, saw Lily on the ground, saw Arthur unmoving, and did something he hadn’t done in a decade. He grabbed the .45 from his waistband, pointed it at the ceiling, and fired three rounds. BANG! BANG! BANG!
“The wrath of God is upon you!” he bellowed.
The remaining guard, caught between Grizz, the noise, and the rapidly approaching shout of police officers, dropped his weapon and ran.
Wrench didn’t hesitate. He scooped up Lily, who was still screaming for her grandfather. “We gotta go, Art! C’mon!”
But Arthur wasn’t getting up. He was on the floor, his blood pooling on the concrete next to the white powder. He had cushioned Slice, who was stirring, his head having hit the concrete.
“Prez!” Grizz yelled, crawling toward him.
Arthur looked at him. His eyes were… peaceful. He tasted blood. He heard the thud-thud-thud of police boots at the front of the warehouse. He heard Lily crying his name.
“Get… her… home… Grizz,” Arthur whispered.
“No, Art, don’t you do this!” Grizz said, tears streaming down his face, cutting paths through the grime.
“It’s… okay,” Arthur wheezed. He thought of Sarah. He thought of Mark. “My… girl…”
He closed his eyes. The pain was gone. The coughing was gone. He was on his ’76 Shovelhead, riding a long, open road, and Sarah was on the back, her arms wrapped tight around him. He was at peace.
“ARTHUR!”
Police swarmed the room, guns out. “Freeze! Get on the ground!”
“He’s the one! Slice!” Grizz roared, pointing at the dazed, bloodied drug dealer. “And my friend… my brother… he’s dying.”
But Arthur Donovan was already gone.
The Epilogue
It was eight months later. Not six.
The sun was bright over the community college green. A speaker was droning on about “facing the future” and “the challenges of tomorrow.”
In the front row, Lily Donovan, in her cap and gown, clutched her nursing diploma.
A few seats away, three men sat. They looked profoundly, wonderfully out of place.
Wrench, Padre, and Grizz (in his wheelchair) were all wearing crisp, new collared shirts. But over them, they wore their old, clean, “Iron Patriots” vests. They had drawn stares, but no one had dared say a word.
The police had arrested Slice and his entire organization, thanks to the “anonymous” tip and the warehouse full of evidence. Detective Miller had been forced to issue a public retraction and commend the “deceased citizen, Arthur Donovan” for his role.
The Old Guard had done what Arthur couldn’t. They’d used the last of the club’s “clean” money to pay off the lawyers and ensure Lily’s tuition was covered. They’d attended every one of Grizz’s physical therapy sessions. They’d sat in the back of Padre’s church, every single Sunday.
As the ceremony ended, Lily walked over to them, her eyes shining.
“He would have been so proud,” she whispered, hugging Padre first.
“He is, child,” Padre said, his voice thick.
“He was the toughest man I ever knew,” she said, hugging Wrench, who patted her back awkwardly, his eyes suspiciously red.
Finally, she knelt by Grizz’s wheelchair. He was holding a small, framed photo. It was a picture of Arthur from 1969, young, cocky, in his Vietnam uniform.
“He made us promise,” Grizz said, his voice a low rumble. “A long time ago. We protect our own. And you, Lily… you’re our own.”
Lily looked at the three old men, her grandfather’s ghosts. They weren’t bikers. They weren’t outlaws. They were just… family.
“Thank you,” she said, taking Grizz’s hand. “For bringing me home.”
Wrench cleared his throat. “C’mon. We’re taking you for lunch. Grizz here is tired of stale bread.”
As the four of them moved across the green—a young woman in a cap and gown, and her three 70-year-old guardians—they were the strangest, and most beautiful, family on the field. The last ride of the Old Guard was over. But their new watch had just begun.
