Chapter 3

As the militia dragged our semi-conscious bodies toward the back of a windowless van, a new sound cut through the air. It started as a low rumble and grew into a deafening roar that vibrated through the concrete floor.

Motorcycles. Dozens of them.

The Iron Totems MC.

They didn't slow for the police barricades. They smashed right through them, a wave of chrome and black leather, their engines screaming defiance. The police scrambled, but it was clear the bikers weren't there for them.

They swarmed the cannery, pouring in through every opening. It wasn't a chaotic brawl; it was a swift, brutal, and organized takedown. The corporate militia, so confident moments before, were overwhelmed in seconds. These weren't just bikers; they were warriors.

The first face I saw clearly through my haze of pain was his. "Wrecking Ball" Rufus Lester, President of the Iron Totems. But I never called him that. To me, he was just Rufus.

He knelt beside me, his huge hands surprisingly gentle as he surveyed the damage. The nail in my hand, the butchered tattoo on my shoulder, the spike in my foot. A muscle in his jaw clenched, and his eyes, usually full of rough humor, were filled with a cold, terrifying fury.

"We're here, Jo," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He carefully wrapped his arms around me, cradling me against his chest as if I were made of glass. "We're finally here."

Across the room, his second-in-command, "Ghost" Caleb Owen, was doing the same for Gabrielle. He ripped the spike from her foot with a single, powerful pull, ignoring her cry of pain because he knew it had to be done. He gently cradled her head, his face a storm of rage and sorrow. He was just Caleb to Gabrielle, the boy she' d grown up with.

They had founded the Iron Totems to protect what was left of our heritage, our people. They were the unofficial guardians of our traditions, a family bound by more than blood.

Back at the Iron Totems' fortified clubhouse, the world slowly came back into focus. The smell of antiseptic replaced the stench of the cannery. My hand and foot were bandaged, my shoulder cleaned and dressed. Gabrielle was in a bed next to me, pale but conscious.

Rufus sat by my side, holding a cup of warm broth to my lips.

"The 'rival corporation'..." I started, my voice weak.

"Doesn't exist," Rufus finished for me. He looked at Caleb, who was watching over Gabrielle. "We created it. A front. We hired that militia, fed them the story, and pointed them at you."

I stared at him, confused. "Why?"

"Because we knew they would never let you go," Caleb said, his voice low and intense. "Andrew and Brian. They owned you, controlled you. We've been watching for years, seeing how they used you, isolated you. We knew you'd never leave them. Not unless you were forced to see the truth."

Rufus's grip on my hand tightened. "And you had to choose to leave on your own. By 'surrendering' to the militia, you made that choice. You broke their hold over you. We had to make it real, Jo. We had to let them hurt you, so you would finally see them for the monsters they are. It was the hardest thing I've ever done."

My mind reeled, trying to process it. They had orchestrated the entire nightmare. They had allowed us to be tortured. But they had done it to save us. To expose the rot that had been poisoning our lives for years.

Meanwhile, back at the state capitol, the story was breaking. A young, independent journalist, one who hadn't been bought by Andrew's family, had been at the cannery. She hadn't just stayed behind the police tape. She had gotten close. She had recorded everything.

And she had something else. A secret recording from another source. It showed Molly Johns, not being captured, but calmly walking into the cannery, talking to the militia leader, a willing participant in the whole charade.

The public, who had seen Andrew and Brian's panic for Molly and their cold dismissal of us, were now seeing the unedited truth. The heroic rescue was a sham. The victims were the villains, and the villains were the victims. The tide of public opinion was turning, and it was turning into a tsunami.