More shots. Closer. We moved toward them while Rico carried the boy back outside. That’s when we heard it—a woman’s voice, pleading.
“Please! They’re just babies! Please!”
The shooter was young, maybe 19. Later we’d learn he was a former student, expelled years ago. He had an AR-15 and enough ammunition to kill everyone in that school.
He was raising the rifle toward Mrs. Patterson when Spider came through the window like his nickname suggested. No hesitation. Three hundred pounds of biker hitting a skinny kid with a gun. The rifle went flying.
I kicked it away while Tom zip-tied the shooter’s hands with the ties we use for securing gear on bikes. The whole thing took maybe ten seconds.
“Clear!” I shouted. “Shooter down! We need medics!”
Mrs. Patterson collapsed, her strength finally giving out. The closet door opened, and fourteen seven-year-olds peered out, their eyes wide with terror.
“It’s okay,” Tom said gently, his massive frame somehow not scary but protective. “We’re here to help. Let’s get you outside to your parents.”
That’s when the second wave of police arrived.
They came in hot, weapons drawn, screaming commands. They saw bikers in leather vests, some with blood on them from helping wounded, and made assumptions.
