Page 6 of Ruger's Rage
"Watch yourself, nephew," Striker warns, but I can see the first flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
He's realizing this isn't just a family dispute I've aired—it's an overdue challenge to his leadership.
"I move to vote on stripping Striker's patch for violation of club code," I say formally.
"Second," Bloodhound says immediately.
Striker laughs, but it's hollow. "You think you can take my patch? I built this club. I made all of you."
"And you've been destroying it piece by piece," I counter. "The deals with the Grim Vultures that line your pockets while our brothers take risks. The shipments that go missing. The alliances you've broken on a whim." I lean forward. "We've looked the other way because you're our President. But there's a line, and you crossed it when you put your hands on her."
His facade cracks just enough to reveal the rage beneath. "You ungrateful little shit. I made you. I picked you up when your father died and gave you a future."
"And I'm grateful," I tell him honestly. "But that doesn't excuse what you've done."
"Vote," calls Ounce, bringing us back to procedure.
Striker's eyes scan the table, looking for allies, calculating his chances. I can see him weighing his options—to fight this vote or to try another tactic.
"All in favor of stripping the President's patch for violation of club code, raise your hand," I say.
Bloodhound's hand goes up first, followed quickly by Ounce and Maddox. Then, one by one, every hand around the table rises except for two—Striker's oldest friends who sit with their arms stubbornly crossed.
The vote is clear.
"It's done," I announce, meeting Striker's gaze across the table.
For a moment, he just stares at me, disbelief warring with fury in his eyes.
Then his hand moves—not to his cut to remove his patches as tradition demands, but to his waistband where I know he carries a 9mm.
"You want my patch?" he snarls. "Come and take it."
Everything happens in slow motion after that.
The gun appears in his hand, pointing not at me but at Ellie.
I lunge across the table as the shot rings out, a burning pain tearing through my shoulder as I tackle him to the ground.
We crash into the floor, his gun skittering away as Bloodhound moves to kick it out of reach.
But Striker fights like a cornered animal, landing a punch to my wounded shoulder that makes my vision blur with pain.
He's older but still strong, fueled by decades of violence and the desperation of a man who's lost everything in a single night.
We trade blows, rolling across the chapel floor while the rest of the club forms a circle around us, honoring the unspoken rule that leadership challenges are settled man to man.
I feel something warm and wet running down my arm—blood from the bullet graze—but the pain only fuels my rage.
Every blow I land is for Ellie, for the years she suffered in silence, for my own blindness in not seeing what was happening right under my nose.
"I should have finished her tonight," Striker spits as we grapple. "Put her in the ground where she belongs."
His words unlock something primal in me. With a roar that barely sounds human, I slam him to the ground, my hands finding his throat. I squeeze, watching his eyes bulge, his face turning red as he struggles for air.
"Ryan, stop!"
Ellie's voice breaks through the haze of violence.
