Page 1 of Reaper

Chapter One

The engine roared like a wild animal beneath Reaper, the custom Harley tearing down the asphalt under a bruised sky.

Adrenaline sharpened his senses, tuning out the distant rumble of thunder and the sharp scent of impending rain. He had one focus: outrun the pack of Blood Fangs at his back. His mouth curved into a grim smile as he glanced at the cracked mirror. Four of them. Close, but not close enough.

“Come on, you bastards,” he muttered under his breath.“You want a piece of me? You’ll have to do better than that.”

He gunned the throttle, the bike responding with a surge of raw power.

Trees blurred into streaks of green and brown as he swerved onto a winding back road, his tires spitting gravel and dust.

The Blood Fangs followed, their engines howling in pursuit. The lead rider—a stocky man with a face like a bulldog and a patched leather cut that marked him as the Blood Fangs’ enforcer—motioned to his crew.

They fanned out, trying to box Reaper in. Smart. But not smart enough.

Reaper’s mind worked as fast as his bike. He clocked the terrain ahead: a sharp curve, a steep drop to the left, and a narrow shoulder on the right. He had seconds to act.

Bulldog surged ahead, trying to force Reaper off the road. The bastard leaned his bike dangerously close, the scrape of metal on metal screaming as their handlebars kissed.

“Back off, asshole!” Reaper snarled, kicking out with his boot.

His steel toe connected with Bulldog’s knee, and the man barked a curse, his bike wobbling dangerously.

The Blood Fangs’ leader regained control, but it gave Reaper the opening he needed. He cut to the inside of the curve, his bike skimming the edge of the shoulder as gravel spat out behind him.

The sharp turn didn’t just thin the pack—it spread them out.

The rider in the rear, a wiry guy with a spider tattoo crawling up his neck, misjudged his speed and skidded out, his bike spinning into the ditch.

“Down to three,” Reaper muttered.

But the Blood Fangs weren’t done yet. Bulldog shouted something to the others, and the two remaining riders fell into formation, tightening the gap.

Reaper felt the weight of their determination. This wasn’t just a chase, it was an ambush.

He reached into his jacket, fingers closing around the cold grip of his Glock. The rumble of engines and the rush of wind masked the sound of him cocking the gun.

The rider on his right pulled up, a chain swinging from his gloved hand. He whipped it toward Reaper’s front wheel, but Reaper swerved, the chain snapping against empty air.

Without hesitation, Reaper raised the Glock and fired. The shot cracked through the air, and the rider jerked, his bike veering wildly before slamming into a tree.

“Two,” Reaper said, the word a growl of satisfaction.

But Bulldog was relentless. He and the last rider closed the gap, their bikes flanking Reaper like wolves cornering prey.

The narrow road widened ahead, spilling into a stretch of abandoned industrial lots. Perfect.

Reaper hit the brakes hard, his back tire screeching as he spun his bike into a controlled skid. The maneuver sent Bulldog and his lackey shooting past him. Before they could react, Reaper whipped his bike around and opened fire again.

The second-to-last rider caught the bullet in his shoulder, slumping forward as his bike wobbled out of control.

Bulldog, seeing his numbers dwindle, roared in fury, and turned back to face Reaper. The two bikes circled each other like predators in a steel and asphalt arena. Rain began to fall, the drops hissing as they hit hot metal.

“You’re dead, you fucking bastard,” Bulldog spat, pulling a sawed-off shotgun from his saddlebag.

Reaper smirked, his Glock still steady in his hand.

“You’ve been saying that for years, Bulldog. Still waiting for you to make good on it,” Reaper retorts.

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