Page 1 of Reaper

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REAPER

The Nevada desert bleeds crimson under the setting sun as I lead our convoy across empty highways.Nineteen bikes fall into formation behind me, their engines a familiar symphony I conduct with subtle hand signals.Two years as Road Captain of the Jagged Saints means knowing every inch of asphalt between here and Georgia, every potential threat, every escape route.

My burner buzzes against my chest.Tank's name flashes on the screen, but I let it go to voicemail.Whatever club drama Ranch is stirring up with his new teacher wife can wait.Out here, I only have one job, and that's getting our crew home safe.

A glance in my mirrors shows Trigger drifting too far right again.Kid's got potential, but he rides like he's still trying to prove something.I tap my helmet twice, our signal to tighten formation.He falls back in line immediately.At least he takes direction well.

The radio in my helmet crackles."Boss, we got company." Doc's voice carries that edge I've learned to read like warning bells."Three bikes, coming up fast on our six."

I check my mirrors again. Sure enough, three dark shapes cut through the desert haze, eating up asphalt like they own it.No patches visible at this distance, but their approach screams trouble.

"Hold formation," I order through the comm system."Doc, drop back. Timer, take point with me.Let's see what these assholes want."

The response is immediate. Our convoy shifts like a living thing, nineteen bikes moving in perfect sync.Two years of drills paying off when it counts.Pride swells in my chest, quickly replaced by focus as the approaching bikes draw closer.

Their engines grow louder, aggressive pipes announcing their presence like a challenge.Through my mirror, I catch flashes of leather cuts bearing familiar patches--River Kings.Fuck. Three months of peace with those bastards just went up in smoke.

"Looking for trouble?" Timer pulls even with my right flank, his gravelly voice calm despite the tension humming through our formation.

"Always are." I flex my fingers on the throttle, mind already mapping escape routes.We're forty miles from the nearest town, exposed on this stretch of highway with nothing but sand and scrub brush for cover."Doc, you got eyes on any more?"

"Negative. Just the three. But they're carrying."

Of course, they are. River Kings never did fight fair."Alright, listen up. If this goes sideways, scatter and regroup at checkpoint Charlie.Priority is getting our cargo through."

The cargo in question, three duffel bags of cash from our latest gun sale, rides secure in the middle of our pack.losing it would hurt, but losing brothers would be worse.Ranch trusts meto make these calls, to put lives before profit.It's why he made me Road Captain despite my tendency to question his riskier plays.

The Kings pull alongside now, matching our speed.Their leader, a mountain of a man I recognize as Big Mike, gives me a nod that's more threat than greeting.His eyes catch on our patches, lingering on the VP rocker newly added to Tank's cut.

I return the nod, keeping my expression neutral.Club politics are a dance of calculated moves and measured responses.One wrong step could start a war neither of us wants.

Big Mike guns his engine, pulling ahead until he's even with my front wheel.Classic intimidation tactic. I hold my line, refusing to be crowded out of my lane.

His voice carries over the wind."Long way from home, Saints."

"Just passing through." I keep my tone easy, relaxed, like I'm not counting the ways this could go bad."No trouble needed."

"Funny thing about trouble." He flashes a menacing grin full of teeth."It has a way of finding folks who don't know their place."

Before I can respond, new engines join the symphony.A dozen bikes appear on the horizon ahead, their chrome and leather catching the dying sun.Devil's Wings patches. Right on schedule.

Relief floods my system, quickly followed by a different kind of tension as I spot a familiar silhouette among the approaching riders.Even after five years, I'd know that riding style anywhere.The way she leans into curves like she's dancing with her bike, fluid, fearless and fucking gorgeous.

Sandy Mitchell.The one who got away.The one who walked out when I wouldn't give up the life she claimed would get me killed.

Big Mike must recognize the patches too because he backs off with a final warning look.The Kings peel away, disappearing into the desert like the snakes they are.But I barely notice, too focused on the approaching convoy and the woman who once broke my heart.

She pulls up alongside, and five years disappear like smoke.Same sleek black hair whipping free of her helmet.Same confident tilt to her chin.Same ability to make my chest tight just by existing.But the patches on her cut are new--Treasurer, not just a club princess playing at belonging anymore.

"Well, well." Her smile holds an edge as she kills her engine."If it isn't the boy who never grew up."

That stings, even now. It was the last thing she said before walking away.I need a man, Reaper. Not someone who treats life like it's all a game.

"Sandy." I keep my voice neutral, ignoring Tank's sharp look through the comms.He probably remembers picking up the pieces after she left."Didn't expect to see you here."

"Life's full of surprises." She swings off her bike with the same fluid grace that used to captivate me.Still does, if I'm honest. "I go by Rebel now.Earned my new name same time as my patches."

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