Page 1 of Reaper's Justice
Chapter 1 - Reaper
I slide onto a barstool at the back corner of this unnamed bar, keeping my back to the wall and my eyes on the room. This place appeared out of nowhere a few weeks ago, and something about it stinks worse than week-old roadkill.
Word on the street says it's a front for something darker. My gut agrees.
The bartender, bald with prison tats, walks up to me.
"Whiskey. Neat," I tell him, not bothering with pleasantries.
He glances at my cut, the black leather vest with the Outlaw Order MC patch prominent on the back, before nodding and turning away. They know who I am. Everyone in Pine Haven does.
Reaper. President of the Outlaw Order. The man mothers warn their daughters about.
I scan the room while pretending to check my phone. Mostly men. Few women, and those present have the hollow-eyed look of being owned rather than being customers. My jaw tightens. If the rumors about trafficking are true, blood's going to spill tonight.
The bartender returns with my drink. "Twenty dollars."
Overpriced. I slide him a twenty without comment, watching as he pockets it without ringing it up. Definitely a front.
"Place is busy for a Tuesday," I comment, voice casual while my eyes remain sharp.
"Private event later."
"Yeah? What kind of event?"
He smirks. "Not for you."
I take a slow sip of whiskey, letting the burn travel down my throat. My phone vibrates with a text from Ghost, my VP.
*In position. Back entrance covered. Blade's watching the parking lot.*
Good. My brothers are ready if shit goes sideways. And in my experience, shit always goes sideways.
The door near the back opens, and three men in expensive suits enter, escorted to a private room. More arrive over the next thirty minutes. All male. All with the entitled swagger of men with too much money and too little conscience.
My phone buzzes again. Emma. My daughter. My heart rate picks up as I check the message.
*Hey. Just wanted to let you know I aced my forensics midterm. Top of the class.*
Pride floods my chest, though I know I deserve none of it. Emma's success is her own, achieved despite me, not because of me. I type back with thumbs too large for the screen.
*That's my girl. Never doubted you for a second.*
I stare at the message, wanting to say more. Wanting to tell her I miss her. That I'm sorry for all she's seen. That the blood on my hands was never meant to touch her life. Instead, I hit send and pocket the phone.
The lights dim suddenly, and a heavyset man in a tailored suit takes position at the front of the room. The remaining regular patrons are ushered out by security, but they ignore me. Either they don't see me as a threat, or they're too stupid to recognize danger when it's sitting right in front of them.
"Gentlemen," the suit announces, "please make your way to the special event room. Tonight's merchandise is particularly... fresh."
Merchandise. My blood turns to ice, then quickly boils. I drain my whiskey, leaving the glass on the bar, and follow the last of the men through the door. No one stops me. My size and the menace I naturally project sometimes have their advantages.
The room beyond is arranged like an auction house. Chairs face a small stage with a podium. I take a seat in the back row, texting Ghost under the table.
*Human auction confirmed. Stand by.*
The response is immediate: *Say the word.*
The lights dim further, and the same suit takes the podium.
