Page 29 of Claimed By The Club
The gate slides open, and we mount our vehicles. Viper straddles his Harley, motioning for me to climb on. I prefer riding solo, but this time we need to move quickly. I hop on behind him, stowing my weapon in a hidden holster. As the engines roar, dust plumes in the air. My heart rate spikes with that familiar rush of battle readiness.
We roll onto the main highway, the wind battering my face. I grip the seat, scanning the horizon for any sign of trouble. My mind flicks to Sierra, left behind in the clubhouse. She’s safe, presumably working on the bar’s marketing strategy or sorting finances. That knowledge keeps me calmer than I should admit. Part of me can’t stop replaying the way her eyes looked yesterday, brimming with gratitude when I stepped in to protect her.
After ten minutes of highway travel, we veer onto a deserted stretch of cracked pavement lined with scrub brush and tumbleweeds. Old Creek Road meanders through rocky terrain, an ideal spot for shady deals. The next bend reveals a worn-out barn leaning precariously, roof half-caved in. Axel’s truck pulls ahead, the prospect scanning the surroundings with binoculars. I squint against the sun, searching for any glint of metal or movement.
Suddenly, Viper curses under his breath. A cluster of shapes materializes near the barn—motorcycles, silhouettes in the hazy distance. My pulse ramps up. The Reapers are definitely here. We slow, parking the bikes behind a cluster of boulders for partial cover. The truck eases off the road, dust swirling as the engine cuts.
We gather behind the rocks, firearms at the ready. Frost crawls forward to observe through a pair of binoculars. “Fourbikes, six men total,” he mutters. “One of them is rummaging in the barn. Could be stashing guns or contraband.”
Axel’s jaw sets. “We take them now?”
Frost’s eyes flick between me and Viper. “We approach quietly, see if we can gauge their purpose. If they’re just passing through, we might scare them off with minimal force. If they’re planning something bigger, we shut it down.”
Viper grins, though there’s no humor in it. “I’m ready.”
We split into pairs. Viper and I circle around the barn’s flank, creeping behind scraggly bushes and a dried-up trough. My heart thuds, adrenaline surging with each step. The Reapers’ voices drift across the stillness, muffled but aggressive. I can’t make out their words, but the tone suggests they’re on edge. Perfect. Maybe they sense we’re near.
Viper taps my shoulder, pointing. Two Reapers stand guard near a rickety side entrance. One is tall and broad-shouldered, sporting a shaved head. The other has a wiry frame and a patch that marks him as a mid-level enforcer. We tuck ourselves behind a rusted tractor, waiting for the right moment.
I glance around to confirm Frost’s position, but he’s obscured by the barn’s corner. That means it’s on Viper and me to handle these two. Viper raises a brow, silently asking if I’m ready. I respond with a single nod. We move in unison, covering the short distance like ghosts at dawn.
The big Reaper sees us first. His eyes widen, and he reaches for his weapon. I lunge, grabbing his arm before he can unholster. We tumble against the barn’s wall, the impact jarring my shoulder. Viper engages the second Reaper, a sharp punch connecting with the man’s jaw. The crack echoes in the dusty air.
The big guy snarls, swinging me around. I brace a foot against the wall and pivot, using my momentum to drive my elbow into his gut. He wheezes, momentarily winded. Without hesitation, I sweep his legs, sending him sprawling. A wave ofsavage satisfaction grips me as I press my knee to his chest, pinning him. He’s a big man, but I know exactly where to apply force.
Viper dispatches the other Reaper with a well-placed strike. Then he pulls out zip ties, swiftly binding the man’s hands. I do the same to my opponent, ignoring his wheezed threats. Adrenaline floods my veins, fueling an icy calm. This is what I excel at—neutralizing danger before it escalates.
A muffled shout from inside the barn indicates Frost and Axel have engaged the others. My pulse hammers. “Stay with these two,” I instruct Viper, pressing the Reaper’s shoulder until he groans. “I’ll back up Frost.”
Viper nods, hauling his captive upright. The battered side entrance stands ajar, and I slip inside. Dust motes float in the golden sunlight streaming through broken slats. The barn smells like old hay and grease. I move carefully, scanning for movement. Distant scuffling draws me deeper.
Rounding a stack of crates, I spot two more Reapers cornered by Frost and Axel. One tries to lunge with a switchblade, but Frost disarms him in a fluid motion, twisting the man’s arm until the knife clatters to the floor. Axel levels a gun at the second Reaper, forcing him to freeze. The tension in the air hums.
I hear footsteps behind me. Whirling around, I come face-to-face with another Reaper, presumably the sixth man. He wields a short crowbar. The expression on his face is pure menace. Without warning, he swings for my head. I dodge just in time, pain shooting through my shoulder as I twist away. The sound of metal clanging against the crate reverberates in the enclosed space.
He sneers, winding up for another strike. I see an opening and slam my forearm against his wrist, forcing the crowbar free. He staggers, cursing, but recovers fast. We trade blows, fistsconnecting with dull thuds. My jaw aches from a glancing hit, but I grit my teeth, driving my knee into his midsection.
He gasps, stumbling back. Before he can recover, I hook a punch across his temple, sending him to the dirty floor. My breathing heaves. My knuckles sting, likely split open again. The Reaper lies there, groaning, eyes unfocused. With swift efficiency, I snatch zip ties from my belt and secure his wrists.
A quick glance shows Frost and Axel have subdued their targets. Four Reapers, plus the two outside, all neutralized. My body hums with leftover aggression, an edge that takes time to fade after a fight. This might be considered a victory—no gunfire, no major injuries, a handful of thugs captured. Still, I can’t shake the nagging feeling that it’s too easy. The real threat is probably out there, planning something bigger.
Frost meets my gaze, nodding in acknowledgment. A rare flicker of approval dances in his cool eyes. “Nice work,” he says, voice level. “Let’s get them out of here before anyone else arrives.”
We gather the captives, dragging them outside to the dusty yard. Viper escorts his two, while Axel and Frost handle the others. I take the last one, the crowbar-wielding man who’s half-limping. We line them up near their bikes, searching for any contraband. Sure enough, we find a small cache of weapons hidden in saddlebags—pistols, knives, maybe a box or two of ammo.
One of the Reapers spits on the ground, glaring. “Renegade Cross ain’t got no jurisdiction here,” he snarls.
Frost’s expression remains icy. “Clearwater Springs is our territory. You want to bring guns around, you answer to us.” He looks ready to continue, but Axel nudges him, reminding him we don’t want a prolonged scene. The local sheriff might show up if we linger.
While Frost and Axel debate our next move, I scan the horizon, adrenaline still pulsing through my veins. The Reapers glare at us with varying degrees of defiance. None of them appear frightened, which tells me they have reinforcements somewhere. This is a taste of the conflict to come.
A rumble of motors draws my attention to the road. The pickup is still parked behind a stand of shrubs, but I see no other vehicles. My chest tightens briefly. Sierra’s image appears in my thoughts—her wide brown eyes, the fear on her face when that Reaper cornered her at Dolly’s. A protective surge twists in my gut. This skirmish is only a warning. If they get a real chance to target her, things could end badly.
We decide to let them walk, minus their weapons. Tying them up or dragging them back to the clubhouse could escalate hostilities. We smash a couple of the guns underfoot, making our point. Viper looks half-tempted to do more, but we’re not here to draw blood. Not yet. The Reapers curse us, but we untie them eventually, dumping their confiscated contraband in a pile behind the barn.
Frost stands before the men, posture rigid. “Tell your boss to keep clear of our territory. We catch you again, it won’t be this civil.” A steely finality underscores his words. The Reapers glower, probably memorizing our faces. This isn’t over, but we’ve bought ourselves a brief advantage.
Once they shuffle off, we gather by our bikes, silent in the aftermath. My fists still ache from the fight, and a bead of sweat trickles down my neck. The desert sun beams overhead, scorching the ground beneath us. Frost exchanges a look with me and Viper.
