I built the Riders of Thunder from five bikers to a 300-strong brotherhood over 40 years. Then they kicked me out overnight—and stole my 1947 Knucklehead, the bike I built with my late wife and rode to her funeral. “It’s club property now,” Viper said, the man I once called brother.

I rode home, but they were already taking it. My son-in-law stood helpless. I almost drew my gun—but revenge could wait. I needed a smarter plan.

That night, I called Digger, one of the original five. “You in?” I asked.

“Always,” he growled.

Turns out Viper was dirty—running drugs, siphoning money, selling us out. Worst part? He stashed my Knucklehead at his private cabin to sell to a collector.

One week later, seven old-school Riders rolled out—originals like Matchstick and Tank, men who knew what loyalty meant.

We found the cabin, two prospects guarding it. They froze when they saw us. “I’m just here for what’s mine,” I said.

They stepped aside.

Inside, under a tarp, she waited—Marie’s bike. Our legacy. I rolled her out into the sunlight, heart pounding.

Brotherhood betrayed me—but blood, oil, and memory? That still belonged to me.