Page 59 of Reaper
Her expression hardens immediately, all business again. "I know. Every hour we're here puts Susan and the shelter at risk. Volkov's still hunting us."
"So what's our play? We can't just walk up to his front door and ask nicely for him to stop being a murdering piece of shit."
She leans back in her chair, studying me. "We need three things if we're going to take him down. Muscle, weapons, and access."
"Access?"
"To his operation. His safe houses, his money, his people. We need to know where he is and how to get to him without walking into a trap."
I nod, my mind already working through the possibilities. "The muscle and weapons part... I might have a solution."
"Yeah?"
"Tank." The name comes out reluctant, heavy with complications I don't want to explain.
"Your baker friend who kept you handcuffed?"
"He's more than a baker. He's my brother in the MC, and he and the club have connections. If he and a few of my brothers came down here, fuck, we could take the fight to Volkov, maybe.”
“So stop hesitating. Call your friend and get him down here.”
I hesitate. Lose myself for a moment in a Danish and my cup of coffee. “There’s a problem.”
“What?”
“The club’s got resources. They’ve also got rules. A code. One you do not fuck around with… And the way I left things withthem, disappearing down here to die… Well, Tank might just decide to track me down and make that happen himself.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Adriana
“So, the choice is to call one guy who might want to kill us, for help against another guy who definitely wants to kill us?” I pause; he nods. “Sometimes I wonder why the hell I tied myself up with you…”
My words trail off, and despite my best efforts, my cheeks color; he sees it — his pupils widen, just a touch, as does his smile — and he knows why, too.
Fuck me, catching feelings for a man like Reaper.
But these fucking pastries… I take up another, a Danish that oozes strawberry and cream cheese perfection, pop it into my mouth, and suddenly find this whole unpalatable situation a lot tastier.
And those eyes and the heart that I see behind them.
Fuck, I make terrible decisions.
Then I take another bite —these fucking pastries.
“Call him,” I say. “Even if he comes after you, I’ll have your back.”
I don’t know why I added that last part, but it feels right. And wrong. I tell myself it’s just to ensure I have more breakfasts like this in my life. No one’s made me breakfast before, not since I was little, and there’s something both comforting and disconcerting about having someone take care of me. I want it; I want Reaper, and it scares me how right that feels.
Reaper pulls out his phone, and I watch his jaw tighten as he scrolls through his contacts. When he finds Tank's number, he hesitates for just a second before hitting call.
"Tank." His voice carries the careful tone of a man walking into a minefield. "It's Reaper. I know I fucked up, and I — "
Even from across the kitchen, I can hear the explosion of rage that cuts him off. Tank's voice blasts through the speaker, a torrent of profanity that would make a sailor blush. Words like "motherfucking," "piece of shit," and "dead to me" filter through the tirade, along with some creative combinations I've never heard before.
Reaper just takes it, his knuckles white as he grips the phone. When Tank finally pauses for breath, Reaper jumps in.
"I deserve all of that," he says quietly. "I know I do. But I need help with Ruslan Volkov and the Russian mob in Sacramento."
