Part 7 – The Vicious Crossfire
The leaked video kept me up for three nights straight.
“Accidents happen.”
The words replayed in my skull like a bad song, twisting, gnawing, pulling me toward places I hadn’t been in decades. Back to the nights when violence was our language, when fists and chains spoke louder than lawyers.
But this wasn’t 1985. We were older, slower, and carrying more scars than pride. Monarch knew it. They weren’t just betting on our wallets breaking. They were betting on our patience snapping.
And they were doing everything they could to snap it.
Smear Campaign
The smear hit full blast Monday morning.
The Las Vegas Chronicle ran a front-page story: “Motorcycle Club at Center of Fraud Probe: Are Bikers Exploiting Insurance Loopholes?”
The article dragged our names through mud. Old bar fights from twenty years ago. Parking tickets. Even Doc’s foreclosure, painted as “suspicious financial maneuvering.”
Then the TV anchors piled on.
“These men claim to be victims,” one commentator sneered, “but records show a history of criminal behavior. Is this lawsuit really about justice—or just another payday?”
Maria slammed the newspaper on her desk. “They’re digging into everything. This is character assassination, pure and simple.”
Bear threw his hands up. “Well, it’s working! My boss called this morning—said I’m toxic for business. I’m out of work.”
Doc’s voice trembled. “My neighbors left a note on my door. Said I was making the whole block look bad. I’ve lived there forty years.”
Hammer shook his head. “They’re not just ruining us in court. They’re erasing us from our own damn lives.”
Tyler’s Encore
As if on cue, Tyler uploaded his own masterpiece.
A high-budget video with dramatic music and slow-motion shots of him polishing his BMW.
Overlay text: “Some people fake victimhood. I protect what I love. That’s why I trust Monarch Mutual.”
Then, as if mocking us directly, he opened a gallon of neon blue paint and pretended to pour it over his car. At the last second, he stopped, winked, and tossed the can aside.
“Because real responsibility,” he said into the camera, “is knowing your insurance has you covered.”
The video hit ten million views in two days.
Sponsors lined up again. He announced a tour: “The Ty Gang Responsibility Roadshow—Powered by Monarch Mutual.”
They weren’t just defending him. They were weaponizing him.
Families Under Fire
It didn’t stop with us.
Bear’s daughter got anonymous texts at college: “Your dad’s a fraud.” She stopped calling him.
Hammer’s landlord served him a notice: “Find new insurance or find a new place.” Monarch had quietly pulled his renter’s coverage.
Even my grandkids weren’t safe. A stranger at their school whispered, “Your grandpa’s a crook.” My daughter called me in tears, asking if it was true.
I lied. I told her not to worry. But inside, I was breaking.
Insurance wasn’t just numbers on paper anymore. It was leverage, a weapon that could be aimed at the people you loved most.
The Near Miss
The real scare came one night after a late meeting with Maria.
Bear and I rode home down Highway 95. Dark desert all around, the stars sharp as knives overhead.
That’s when the SUV appeared. Black, tinted windows, no plates.
It pulled alongside Bear, swerving closer, closer—until the side mirror clipped his handlebar. His bike wobbled, tires screeching.
I roared up, pushing him upright, the roar of my Harley drowning out his curse. The SUV swerved again, then sped off into the night.
Bear pulled over, panting, helmet shaking in his hands. “That wasn’t no accident.”
I looked at the empty highway, rage boiling in my chest. “No. It wasn’t.”
Maria’s Fury
When we told Maria, she went pale.
“This is intimidation. Classic corporate tactic. But if we report it, they’ll spin it as paranoia. Without proof, it’s our word against theirs.”
Bear slammed his fist on the table. “So what, we just wait until they kill one of us?”
“No,” Maria said. Her voice was low, dangerous. “We push harder. They’re trying to scare you off because they know you’re close. That leak—those premiums—Monarch will do anything to bury it. That means we’ve got leverage.”
Her eyes met mine. “We go public. We release the leak.”
The Decision
The room went dead quiet.
“Release it?” Doc asked. “They’ll come for us harder.”
“Exactly,” Maria said. “But once the public sees that boardroom video, it won’t just be about you. It’ll be about corporate corruption, about an insurance giant admitting they’re willing to ruin lives—and worse—to protect profits.”
Bear shook his head. “They’ll bury us. Literally.”
I stared at the folder on the table. The weight of my wife’s photo in my pocket.
She’d wanted me to fight with truth, not fists.
“Do it,” I said.
Maria exhaled. “Alright. But once this goes live, there’s no going back.”
The Firestorm
The video dropped at midnight.
We posted it on every platform—YouTube, Twitter, Facebook. “Leaked Footage: Monarch Mutual Execs Threaten Victims.”
Within hours, it was everywhere. Cable news picked it up. Talk shows debated it. Hashtags trended: #MonarchExposed, #InsuranceFraud, #TyGangTruth.
For the first time, the tide shifted. Commenters turned on Tyler.
“Wait, Monarch pays his premiums?”
“So he’s not responsible at all?”
“Dude’s a puppet.”
Tyler went live in a panic. “That video’s fake! Deepfake! Come on, Ty Gang, you know I’d never—”
But his eyes betrayed him. The confidence was gone. The mask was slipping.
The Counterpunch
Monarch didn’t flinch.
The very next day, they filed a new motion: a $50 million countersuit against the Desert Eagles for “defamation, harassment, and interference with business contracts.”
It was theater, but it was effective. The news ran headlines: “Bikers Face $50 Million Lawsuit.”
Reporters camped outside our homes. Creditors called nonstop. My mailbox filled with hate letters.
Bear showed up at my house drunk, waving a notice. “They froze my bank account again! My kid’s tuition’s gone. Everything’s gone!”
He collapsed onto my porch, sobbing like a man twice his age.
I pulled him into a chair, my own chest hollow. “They want us broken, Bear. That’s the goal.”
The Betrayal
The worst blow didn’t come from Monarch.
It came from inside.
Jordan—the cameraman, Tyler’s longtime friend—posted a video. His face pale, voice shaking.
“I can’t stay quiet anymore. Tyler’s not who you think he is. Monarch paid for everything—his cars, his condo, even some of his stunts. The paint on those bikes? Monarch knew. They told him to do it. They wanted controversy to promote their ‘responsibility campaign.’”
The internet exploded.
But before the video hit a million views, it vanished. Deleted. Jordan’s accounts wiped clean. His phone disconnected.
He was gone.
Vanished.
The Warning
That night, I found a note taped to my front door.
No envelope. Just a single sheet of paper, typed.
“Stop now, Wayne. Or the next accident won’t be a warning.”
I stood there on my porch, the desert wind whipping the paper in my hands. My wife’s photo pressed against my chest in my wallet, heavy as stone.
For the first time, I wondered if she’d forgive me for what I was about to do.
Because this fight wasn’t about money anymore.
It was about survival.
And sometimes, survival meant breaking promises.
Part 8 – The Dark Settlement Offer
The note on my door still felt warm in my hands when the phone rang.
Blocked number. Same low, calm voice as before.
“Mr. Patterson,” it said, “we gave you fair warning. Now it’s time to be practical. Meet us tomorrow night. Caesar’s Palace, suite 2304. Midnight. Come alone.”
Click.
No argument. No chance to refuse. Just a summons.
The Gathering
I didn’t go alone.
Bear insisted on waiting in the parking garage with Hammer. Doc sat two floors down in the casino, eyes on the elevators. Maria wasn’t happy, but she understood. If Monarch wanted a private chat, fine—but we weren’t stupid.
I rode the elevator up, my vest creaking against the leather of the chair rail. My wife’s photo was in my wallet, and my heart thumped like war drums.
The suite door opened before I knocked.
Inside sat three men in suits. The VP I’d confronted at the town hall, another corporate shark with slicked-back hair, and a third man I didn’t recognize—tall, pale, eyes like stone. He didn’t introduce himself.
The VP smiled thinly. “Mr. Patterson. Thank you for joining us.”
I didn’t sit. “Get to it.”
The Offer
They slid a folder across the table.
Inside: a settlement agreement.
Ten million dollars.
Split however we wanted among the club. Gag order. Lawsuit dismissed. No class action.
My throat tightened. “Ten million?”
The slick-haired one leaned forward. “Yes, Mr. Patterson. Enough to repair your bikes, your homes, your dignity. Enough to ensure your grandchildren never struggle. All you have to do is sign.”
“And if I don’t?”
The pale man finally spoke. His voice was low, flat, without accent. “Then accidents happen.”
Silence.
I stared at him. “Is that a threat?”
“Of course not,” the VP said smoothly. “It’s a reminder. Motorcycles are dangerous machines. Life is unpredictable. Why gamble with it when you can walk away wealthy?”
The Temptation
For one insane moment, I thought about it.
Ten million. Split seven ways, that’s over a million apiece. Doc could save his house. Bear could send his daughter back to school. Hammer could rebuild his shop.
I could retire in peace, maybe even buy a new Harley.
My wife’s voice whispered in my head: “Promise me you’ll use this bike to help people, not hurt them.”
If I signed, I could help my brothers. If I refused, I might bury them.
The pen sat heavy in my hand.
The Interruption
Then my phone buzzed.
A text. From an unknown number.
“Heard you’re at Caesar’s. Don’t sign anything. Check your email.”
I excused myself, stepping into the bathroom. Opened my email.
A video file waited.
It was Jordan—the cameraman who vanished. His face was bruised, his voice hoarse.
“They took me,” he whispered. “Monarch’s people. They wanted me to recant my video, say it was fake. When I refused… this is what happened.” He lifted his shirt, revealing bruises across his ribs.
He leaned close to the camera. “Don’t take their deal. If you sign, you bury every family they’ve screwed. Please. Don’t let my silence be for nothing.”
The video cut out.
My chest burned. My hands shook. Jordan was still alive—but barely. And Monarch was behind it.
The Confrontation
I walked back into the suite. The VP raised an eyebrow. “Well?”
I slid the folder back across the table. “Shove it.”
The pale man’s eyes narrowed. “You’re making a mistake.”
“No,” I said. “You are. You thought this was about money. It’s not. It’s about truth. And the truth will bury you.”
I turned and walked out. My pulse hammered in my ears, but my legs didn’t falter.
Bear and Hammer were waiting in the garage, engines rumbling. Doc texted: “Saw you leave. You okay?”
I wasn’t okay. But I was resolved.
The Fallout
The next morning, Monarch unleashed hell.
A full-page ad in the Chronicle: “Bikers Reject Justice, Pursue Extortion.”
A news report accusing us of connections to organized crime. Grainy photos of us at funerals edited to look like gang meetings.
And the biggest blow: Monarch froze our crowdfunding account. Over a million dollars—locked.
The platform issued a statement: “Due to allegations of fraudulent activity, we have temporarily suspended the fundraiser pending review.”
Maria nearly tore her hair out. “This is war. They’re not just fighting you—they’re burning every bridge you try to cross.”
Doc sat slumped in his chair. “I can’t take this anymore, Wayne. Mary’s house is gone. My pension’s gone. I’ve got nothing left to fight with.”
Bear slammed his fist on the table. “Then fight with rage! We can’t roll over now.”
I stayed silent. Because for the first time, I wasn’t sure who was right.
Tyler’s Triumph
Tyler seized the moment.
He went live outside Monarch’s headquarters, wearing a tailored suit, a Monarch Mutual pin on his lapel.
“See, Ty Gang? This is what responsibility looks like. Monarch offered those bikers a fair deal. Ten million dollars! But they turned it down because they don’t care about justice. They care about drama. They’re leeches sucking the system dry.”
Reporters ate it up. Sponsors praised him. Monarch doubled down on their golden boy.
And the public… the public wavered.
Comments split:
- “The bikers are heroes. Don’t give up.”
- “Ten million wasn’t enough? Greedy frauds.”
We were bleeding support.
The Breaking Point
That night, Bear showed up at my house drunk again. His eyes were wild, his breath thick with whiskey.
“You should’ve signed, Wayne. Ten million. We’d be free.”
“You think they’d let us walk free?” I shot back. “They’d own us. Own our silence. And then they’d crush everyone else.”
He grabbed my vest collar. “I don’t care about everyone else! I care about my daughter! She’s out there starving while you play martyr.”
I shoved him off. His fists clenched. For a second, I thought he’d swing.
Instead, he broke down, sobbing into his hands.
I put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll find another way, Bear. I swear it.”
But even as I said it, doubt gnawed at me.
The Rally of Shadows
Two nights later, bikers from other clubs showed up at Eddie’s Diner. Not just local crews—riders from Arizona, California, even Texas.
“We saw the leak,” one of them said. “We’ve all been burned by insurance companies. Monarch’s not the only one. But they’re the biggest. You’re taking them on for all of us.”
Dozens of riders nodded. Leather vests, road-worn faces, scars etched into skin.
“You’re not alone,” another said. “We’ve got your back.”
For the first time in weeks, hope flickered.
The Blood Oath
That night, as we rode out into the desert with our new allies, headlights cutting through the darkness, my phone buzzed again.
Another video.
This time, it wasn’t Jordan.
It was my granddaughter.
She sat in a dim room, tears streaking her face. A masked man’s voice behind the camera said, “Wayne Patterson. Last chance. Sign the settlement, or she pays the price.”
The video cut to black.
My vision blurred. My hands shook on the handlebars.
“Wayne?” Bear shouted over the roar of the engines.
I didn’t answer.
Because in that moment, the line between justice and vengeance blurred.
And I knew Part 9 wouldn’t just be a trial.
It would be a war.
