Page 1 of Reaper

Chapter 1: Reaper

The first time I dug a grave, my dick got so hard I thought I’d lost my fucking mind. What kind of psycho gets off on killing someone? Well, apparently me. Killing a man, even one who deserves it, makes me want to run out and prove that I’m still human, that I’m still alive. So, whenever I kill a pervert – after I bury him – I go out and find a woman who’s down to fuck. It’s my process. I’d love to be able to lie and say I don’t like it, but that would be complete bullshit. I love killing people who deserve it. I get off on it. If that makes me a freak, then so be it.

I plunge the shovel into the ground and scoop another pile of earth up. Dropping the dirt to one side, I repeat the process, humming while I work. Deep in the forest, I don’t have to worry about witnesses. It’s almost midnight. The nearest campground is three miles away. If any hikers pass through this area tomorrow, they won’t notice the disturbed forest floor. I’m damn good at covering my dump sites. They could walkright over it and never see a thing out of place.

As I heave another load onto the pile, I fantasize about what kind of woman I want tonight. Blonde? Brunette? Short hair? Long? Thick body with a big booty? Or maybe a petite woman for variety? I tend to pick the curvy type. There’s more bounce, and curvy girls are soft in all the right places. Mm-mm. Yeah, definitely one with hips and a big ass.

Fortunately, plenty of women are happy to screw bikers like me for fun. I’ll be able to find a willing woman in almost any bar I walk into. It’s my superpower … or maybe it’s all the hours I spend in the gym at the clubhouse. I learned early on that the more I worked out, the more women would throw themselves at me. It’s a win-win. Being ripped makes it easy to drop bodies into graves, and it makes fucking for sport an effortless adventure.

After I make it clear that all I want is a quick fuck, biker babes are usually down for the same thing. We get naked and fuck, and that’s that. No strings. No bullshit. Clingy chicks make me go limp, so I avoid them. I don’t have time for their crap. I’ve got shit to do. Places to be. More people to kill. The women I bang for fun have no idea they’re fucking a killer. I only tell them what they need to know, my name, so they know what to scream when I make them come.

Jumping into the grave, I check its depth. I’m six-foot-three, so as long as I’m eye levelwith the ground, then it’s deep enough. It checks out, so I hoist myself up and over the edge. I hold the shovel in one hand while I kick Jackson Fletcher into his final resting spot. The satisfying crack of my motorcycle boot against his already shattered ribs puts a smile on my face. He can’t feel it, but I can.

I get to work, shoveling dirt over the corpse. With any luck, Fletcher’s in Hell now, where he belongs. I’m not sure what to think about Heaven or Hell, but I hope Hell exists. Some people deserve to end up there.

Fletcher should have been locked up years ago, but the cops couldn’t convince any of his victims to talk. Earlier today, I had him singing like a bird. It only took an hour with me and my specialtoolsbefore he started whining and sniveling and begging for his life. He confessed to a multitude of sins while pleading with me to turn him over to the police. He swore he’d tell them everything he’d told me, but that was bullshit, and we both knew it. Deep down, he probably realized he wasn’t leaving the clubhouse’s basement alive, but men like him cling to every last thread of hope. It’s pathetic.

As soon as I finish filling in the hole, I stamp down the earth with my boots. I grab a huge rotting branch and lay it across the grave. I rip open a black garbage bag of rotting leaves I collected earlier and scatter them around the area. I move a couple of large rocks into place tohelp the area blend into its surroundings.

Satisfied with my work, I hoist the shovel over my shoulder and hike back to where I parked my bike. It’s a little over a mile away, but I run ten miles a day, so this is nothing. I stay in shape because I never know when I’ll be digging again. There’s always one more asshole on the club’s radar, and I’m ready for it.

My motorcycle club, Underground Vengeance, gets rid of the people the justice system can’t catch. The cops move too slow. They fail far too many people. That’s where we come in. Killing’s just one piece of the puzzle. There’s a lot more to it, but it’s complicated.

It’s been ten years since my first kill on behalf of the club. I can’t even count how many pedophiles and perverts I’ve buried since then. Dozens, maybe. But I remember every one of them. Their victim’s faces haunt my nightmares, but at least I’ve made sure those depraved people ended up where they belong. That’s what we do in Underground Vengeance, and it will never change. It’s who we are.

Sliding the shovel into a sling on the side of my bike, I kickstart the engine. There’s nothing I can do about the noise. Hikers will hear it if they’re within a few miles, but I’ll be long gone before anyone climbs out of their sleeping bags to investigate.

Roaring down the mountain, I run through a list of bars I could stop at. The obvious choiceis to go to the bar my club owns, but I’ve been hunting there too much. I’m running out of fresh options, so I need to venture out. There’s a couple of good spots near the edge of town. If I offer to give a woman a ride back to the clubhouse on my bike, she will almost always accept it. Chicks who love dick also tend to love bikers and booze. It’s one hell of a combo.

The roar of my bike’s engine is a living thing against the stillness of the mountain road, echoing off the pines that line the twisting asphalt like sentinels. I lean into the curve, reveling in the way the wind tugs at my leather jacket. The scent of pine and freedom fills my lungs.

Then it happens—a black SUV barrels whips around the bend, riding the bumper of a small red sedan. The aggressive beast on wheels is like a shadow, looming large and menacing. I watch in stunned horror as it nudges the smaller car mercilessly, once, twice, a deadly dance that can only end one way.

The sedan veers sharply, tire squealing against the pavement right before it crashes through the guardrail. For a suspended moment, the world goes silent as the car disappears over the edge, and then the sickening crunch of metal fills the air.

Rage boils in my veins, hot and vicious. My first instinct is to scream for vengeance—to chase that bastard in the SUV, so I can serve himsome street justice. But the echo of the crash below claws at me, pulling me toward the ravine. Someone could be alive down there, hurt or even dying. Every second I hesitate is a second they don’t have.

“Damn it,” I curse, throttling down and skidding to a halt at the roadside, gravel spitting beneath my tires.

My mind is a war zone—anger versus duty, the need for retribution warring with the code I live by. Loyalty, family, and protecting those who can’t protect themselves. That code means more than any personal vendetta.

I kick the stand down. The metallic thud helps to ground me in the present. Gritting my teeth, I rip my helmet off and toss it onto the seat. There’s no choice, not really. I can’t leave someone to die alone when I might be their last chance.

The growl of the escaping SUV fades into the distance, swallowed by the trees. I let it go. I’ll hunt the bastard later. Right now, I’ve got a life to save.

With long strides, I make my way down the steep incline. Loose rocks and dirt slide beneath my boots. My hands fist at my sides. My jaw’s set hard. Whoever’s down there in that twisted wreck isn’t alone anymore. I’m here to help them. If they’re still alive.

The crumpled steel carcass of the car groans as I approach. My boots crunch on shards of glassand twisted metal, every step echoing through the mountain’s eerie quiet. The stench of gasoline and scorched rubber burns my nostrils, but it’s the sound of a child’s cries that tightens my chest. I’m glad I didn’t go after the SUV. This kid needs me.

When I reach the sedan, I lean into the space where a door once hung.

“Hey, buddy,” I call out softly, peering into the mangled interior.

A small boy, no more than six or seven, is strapped in the backseat. Tears and dirt streak his face. He clutches a teddy bear like it’s the only thing he’s got left in this world. His sobs hitch in the cool air.

“You’re gonna be okay. I’ve got you,” I murmur.

As he looks up, his huge hazel eyes meet mine. For a moment, the chaos of the crash fades into the background. It’s just me and him, caught in this fractured moment of time. His eyes are so familiar, but I swear I’ve never seen this kid before.

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