Chapter One

Reaper

Whenever I've imagined my death, I never envisioned it would happen on the floor of a dirty warehouse at the hands of some nobodies. Death is an odd thing to think about with as much frequency as I do, but after dealing in death for a decade as a hitman before becoming an enforcer for a motorcycle club, it's impossible not to wonder what my own will be like.

What I pictured was an entirely different scenario.

I always imagined I would be riding my bike down a road on a stormy night, and some highly skilled rival hitman would try to take me out, causing me to crash my bike. I would die in a blaze of glory and gunfire, like a scene from an action movie. An ending befitting a villain such as myself.

Really, I've considered just about every possibility except . . . this.

I'm called Reaper for reason, Goddamnit. I earned the name sending men worse than me straight to hell with a single shot from my gun. I deserve a better ending than this.

Bloody and beaten, struggling to stay conscious as I hide in an abandoned warehouse. It wouldn't be quite so humiliating if not for the idiots responsible for my condition. That I let these buffoons catch me off guard is just disgraceful. If I somehow make it out of here, I'll never hear the end of it from Knight. It's pathetic for a man like me to die huddled behind a stack of rotting crates, utterly defenseless. The thought of my brothers finding me this way is the only thing that forces me to sit up and take stock of my surroundings, despite the burning sensation in my left arm. No, I fucking refuse to die this way.

"You saw him go down, right? Do you think he is dead?"

The pain in my head has dark spots blurring my vision, and I know I am close to losing consciousness again. My stomach lurches, and I have to force myself not to be sick.

I hadn't been prepared to find anyone inside when I came to check out the warehouse. It's an old building that the Broken Chains MC—our former rivals—had used to store weapons for their gun running business. But my club, the Steel Order MC, recently overtook and disbanded the Broken Chains after we'd learned they had branched out into human trafficking. The handful of members who'd managed to escape our wrath had fled . . . or so we'd thought.

We got a tip that someone was seen going in and out of this warehouse, and Priest, our club president, sent me to check it out. Normally, that'd be Shadow's job, but he was busy tonight doing recon somewhere else. Stupidly, I'd figured it was probably just some homeless person looking for shelter from the recent storms. I assumed they'd moved on by now. I was wrong.

I'd barely crossed through the entrance when I was hit on the head from behind. I'd been knocked clean out. Fortunately, the idiots hiding inside hadn't bothered to tie me up, but they had searched me and stolen my gun and knife. When I'd come to, I'd seen two men arguing near the door. There was just enough light coming in from outside that I could see the patches on their cuts, proclaiming them members of the Broken Chains MC.

I'd managed to drag myself behind some machinery to hide, but I couldn't get out of the warehouse without being seen. They were between me and the only door not boarded up. When they realized I was gone, one of them came looking and shot at me, hitting my arm as I was forced to move deeper into the warehouse. The bullet only grazed the meat of my bicep, but it still hurts like a bitch, and it's bleeding profusely. Now both assholes are searching for me. I can hear them approaching in the darkness. They're not being nearly as quiet as they should be.

My vision swims, but the thought of passing out only for these bastards to finish me off has my teeth clenching hard. I press a hand over my wound both to slow the bleeding and to jolt myself awake.

"You shot him. I bet he's dead, but we need to be careful. Steel Order can't find out we're still in the city."

"What do think the boss will do when we bring him the body of a Steel Order member?"

Boss?But we took care of all the Broken Chains' officers, and their president is still rotting away in a prison cell.

"Probably make us club enforcers. He's got to fill the ranks after all, since those bastards took out so many of our top guys. There's hardly anyone left."

Shit. Sounds like the members we hadn't been able to track down have regrouped. They seriously think they have a shot at rebuilding their club?

They're talking loudly, and unfortunately for them, it makes figuring out their positions easy. They're also moving slowly and using the flashlights on their phones to search for me. Stupid mistake. Unlike them, my eyes have adapted to the darkness, and I know how to move quietly. In seconds, I'm able to work my way around behind them.

Fucking amateurs! No way am I going to let these guys take me out.

I sneak up behind the bigger of the two men—the one I'd seen with my weapons tucked in his waistband—and before he knows what's happening, I've stolen my gun out of the back of his jeans and fired two shots. Each bullet lands true, and both men drop to the floor with twin expressions of surprise in their lifeless eyes.

I don't bother checking on them; it's obvious they won't be causing me any more trouble. I'm too busy clutching my head anyway. The loud bangs of the gunshots were like blows to my head. Holding my head with one hand and my stomach with the other, I double over. It's all I can do to remain standing and not lose my dinner all over the warehouse floor. I realize my fingers are wet and recall the wound in my arm as I finally straighten and stagger toward the door.

I'm certain I am going to pass out and collapse any second, but I fight to hold on to consciousness. I am in enemy territory, and I need to get out now. These guys said they weren't working alone. How long until someone comes looking for them?

Perhaps I never should have come in the first place. Not alone anyway. I was foolish to believe the few remaining men of the Broken Chains fled without a fight.

I stumble out of the warehouse and into the night, rushing over to my bike. I straddle it, looking around to make sure I am truly alone before starting the engine. I hiss out in pain as I pull away from the warehouse, black spots dancing around my eyes, but I need to get the fuck out of here.

The cool air helps clear my head as I tear down the road, but it's all I can do to keep the bike steady. The road is empty this late in the night, which I should count as a blessing as I have a low risk of running into a car and getting in an accident, but on the other hand, my blurred vision makes it harder to navigate in the dark.

Blood drips down my arm in the sleeve of my leather jacket and wets my palm, making my grip slip, and I realize that I cannot ride further than this without crashing. I stop the bike in the middle of the road, looking around to make sense of where I am, and I realize with surprise that I have ridden further than I thought. I wasn't paying attention to the direction I was going, focused only on putting distance between me and the warehouse, and I've ended up outside a subdivision with charming little family homes in neat rows.

I couldn't look more out of place if I tried. Of all the fucking places to end up . . .

"Fuck!" I hiss again, looking around the neighborhood at the little picket fences and yards scattered with children's toys and bicycles. I need a place to hide, but all of the houses look occupied. I won't risk breaking into a house with kids inside. I cut the engine to my bike and use my feet to roll down the street. My Harley is loud, and the last thing I need is a nosy neighbor calling in a noise complaint.

A frustrated snarl climbs up my throat, and I am about to give up all hope when I notice one of the homes with all its lights out and no sign of kids' toys in the yard. It's a few houses from where I am, and I cautiously move toward it. The house is totally dark with no signs of life inside.

With what little strength I can summon, I roll my bike up the driveway and maneuver it to the side of the house. There's a privacy fence around the yard, and I cautiously peek over it, checking for any indication that kids or a dog might be inside the house. There is none, so I quietly open the gate and roll my bike through it, closing it again behind me. There's a door to the garage, and luck must finally be on my side because it opens easily. Sliding my gun from my waistband, I check the safety and slip it into my jacket pocket. Entering a house armed is a risk, but it'd be far worse not to be prepared.

I'll only be here for a few hours at most. I just need somewhere safe to hide and call Priest to send help, then I'll bandage my wound and take something for the pain while I wait for a ride. I stumble around in the dark garage until my hand finds a doorknob, breathing out a sigh when I realize it's also not locked. After slowly opening the door, I pause to listen to make sure that no pets are waiting on the other side to jump me before walking in.

I clutch my arm as I stagger into the house, struggling to stay as quiet as I should. A thin layer of sweat builds on my forehead as I stumble my way through the small kitchen, but I know I must hold on. I cannot afford to lose consciousness in a stranger's house.

I search the single-story structure quickly, making certain it is actually empty. In the master bathroom, I come upon a first-aid kit that looks brand new and fully stocked. Perhaps I should question why this kit seems more advanced and well-equipped compared to the basic ones carried in supermarkets, but I barely give it a thought.

I grab the bandage tape, antiseptic wipes, and sterile pads, dropping them on the bathroom counter. I find some pain relief meds and swallow them dry before slowly stripping my jacket off. My black shirt is soaked with blood, and I hiss as I peel it off my body; black spots bloom behind my eyes as pain almost sends me dropping to the ground.

The wound is deeper than I'd realized. Still, I'm grateful not to have to dig out a bullet by myself. I've had my share of gunshot wounds before; it's impossible to avoid them forever in my line of work. But each time, the intense pain takes me by surprise. At least the throbbing of my head distracts me from the pain in my arm a little bit.

I grit my teeth as I grab a washcloth from the counter and wipe away as much of the blood as I can. Then I use the antiseptic wipes to clean the wound. My vision goes spotty, and I sway on my feet. I'm forced to sit down and brace myself against the tub. Just as I reach for the sterile pad still on the bathroom counter, I'm hit with a wave of nausea, and everything goes dark.

I flicker in and out of consciousness. At one point, I think I see an angel dressed in blue, and I reach for her, but I can't lift my arm.

I think I must be dead, but it makes no sense. After the life I have lived, there is only hellfire waiting for me.

Sometime later, I hear a soft voice and feel gentle hands caress my body. Then there's pain, and I hear my old man's voice. That's when I know I truly am in the pits of hell. My father made me who I am. He taught me how to shoot when I was ten, and any sign of weakness was met with a blow to the head. He got shot on a job, doing something far worse than I ever have. That's how I know he'll be the first to greet me in hell.

Like father, like son, I suppose.

My past plays out in my head as I feel myself slip away. My old man's ugly mug is the last thing I picture, and I realize that death isn't as peaceful as I'd always imagined it would be. The ghosts of my past haunt me here too.