Ghost (Iron Reapers MC #10)

Chapter 1

ONE

COLE “GHOST” MERCER

Church always gets loud before Mason calls it to order.

Boots scrape across the concrete floor, chairs drag around the long scarred table, and somebody inevitably cracks open a beer even though the meeting technically hasn’t started yet.

The Iron Reapers don’t do polished or formal, and nobody here pretends otherwise.

The room smells like oil, leather, and the stale bite of whiskey soaked into wood that’s been around longer than half the men sitting at the table.

I lean back in my chair against the wall where I can see everyone without turning my head.

My arms are folded across my chest, one boot hooked under the rung of the chair.

I don’t talk much in meetings, and nobody expects me to.

That suits me just fine. You learn early that the quiet guy sees more than the one making noise.

Rev is halfway through telling some story about a fight that broke out at Perdition last weekend.

His hands move while he talks, like he’s still halfway in the moment.

“I’m telling you,” he says, pointing a finger across the table at Switch.

“That guy thought he was about to win. He had this look on his face like he’d already decided how the story was going to end. ”

Switch snorts and leans back in his chair. “Let me guess. Then Dagger grabbed him.”

Rev grins. “Not just grabbed him. Dagger picked the guy up by the collar and walked him straight out the door like he weighed nothing. I swear to God, his boots never touched the ground.”

A couple of the guys laugh. Someone mutters something about Dagger having zero patience for idiots.

Across the room, Dagger is leaning against the edge of the table with a knife in his hand, flipping it open and closed with a steady rhythm.

Click. Click. Click. The sound blends into the background noise of the room, and nobody tells him to stop.

Dagger has earned the right to do whatever the hell he wants during church. He’s our vice president.

Mason finally steps forward and rests his hands on the table.

The room settles down almost immediately.

Conversations trail off and chairs shift as everyone turns their attention toward him.

Mason doesn’t have to raise his voice or pound on the table to get control of a room.

He’s the kind of man people listen to because they know exactly what he’s capable of.

“We’ve got a situation brewing in Harlan,” he says calmly.

A few guys shift in their chairs. Harlan sits close enough to Reaper territory that anything happening there tends to become our business sooner or later.

It’s a small town with a couple bars and a steady stream of truckers coming through on the highway.

Nothing fancy, but places like that can attract the wrong kind of attention if someone thinks nobody is watching.

Dagger pushes off the table and folds his arms across his chest. His eyes move around the room before settling on Mason for a second.

“There’s a bar in Harlan called The Rust Nail,” he says. “The owner’s name is Wayne. He’s been running that place longer than most of you have been riding.”

Rev leans back in his chair. “So why are we talking about him?”

Dagger glances toward Mason again before answering. “Because Mason and I go way back with that place.”

Switch raises an eyebrow. “That where you two met?”

A few guys shift in their seats, already sensing there’s a story there.

Mason exhales slowly and shakes his head. “Yeah. That’s where we met.”

Dagger snorts quietly. “Met isn’t exactly the word I’d use.”

Rev grins. “Oh, this should be good.”

Dagger looks around the table. “Mason walked into The Rust Nail one night a long time ago and decided he didn’t like my face.”

Mason shrugs. “You looked like you needed it.”

That earns a few chuckles from around the room.

Dagger continues like the memory doesn’t bother him in the slightest. “So he picked a fight with me.”

Switch leans forward. “And how did that work out for him?”

Dagger glances at Mason. “I kicked his ass.”

The room breaks into low laughter.

Mason just shakes his head slightly. “That part’s not wrong.”

Dagger continues calmly. “Afterward, I figured anybody dumb enough to start a fight like that and stubborn enough to keep getting up deserved a better place to point that attitude.”

Rev smirks. “So you recruited him.”

“Dragged him to the clubhouse,” Dagger says. “Told the old president we had a new prospect.”

Mason looks around the room. “Best bad decision I ever made.”

The laughter fades and the mood shifts back to business.

Dagger’s expression hardens again. “Wayne was there that night. He never called the cops. Never asked questions. Just cleaned up the broken glass and told us to take the fight outside next time.”

Mason nods once. “That bar’s part of club history,” he says. “Which means if somebody thinks they’re going to start leaning on Wayne for protection money, they’re going to learn real quick that they picked the wrong place.” His eyes move across the table until they land on me. “Ghost.”

I meet his gaze.

“I want you to ride out there tonight. Sit in for a while and see who’s showing up.”

Dagger adds, “Find out who they are.”

Mason finishes the thought calmly. “And take care of it.”

I nod once. “I’ll handle it.”

Mason watches me for another second before nodding back. “That’s what I figured.”

The meeting moves on after that. Mason covers a few other things involving shipments and territory chatter, and he shuts down an argument between two prospects before it gets out of hand. I stop paying attention not long after that. My part in the conversation is already finished.

By the time church ends, the sky outside is already dark.

The ride to Harlan takes about forty minutes.

The highway is mostly empty at this hour, and the steady vibration of the bike beneath me makes the miles pass quickly.

I don’t rush. Jobs like this aren’t about speed.

They’re about patience. You show up, you sit quietly, and you watch long enough for people to forget you’re there. That’s when they start making mistakes.

The Rust Nail isn’t hard to find. The place sits just off the main road on the edge of town, an old brick building with a neon beer sign buzzing in the window. The parking lot is half full with pickup trucks and a couple sedans that look like they’ve seen better days.

I park under a flickering streetlight and kill the engine, the truck settling into silence around me.

My fingers stay wrapped loosely around the steering wheel for a second longer than they need to, my shoulders easing back against the seat while I listen to the quiet outside.

The night air hums with crickets somewhere in the grass beyond the gravel lot, and every now and then the distant rush of a car passing along the highway drifts faintly through the darkness.

Quiet place.

Small towns always settle early, especially during the week. Most people are already home by now, eating dinner or sitting on their couches watching whatever’s on television. The only places still open this late are the ones meant for people who aren’t ready to go home yet.

I push the door open and step out, the gravel crunching under my boots as I make my way toward the bar.

The moment I step inside, the noise rolls over me.

Music hums through a set of worn speakers mounted near the ceiling, the bass vibrating faintly through the floor while voices rise and overlap across the room.

Somewhere near the back wall a set of pool balls crack together, followed by a couple low cheers from whoever just made a shot.

The air smells like fried food and beer, the kind of scent that clings to wood and never quite leaves no matter how often the place gets cleaned.

Working-class bar.

Places like this tend to look rough around the edges, but they run on simple rules. People show up after work, drink a few beers, maybe play a game of pool before heading home. Nobody asks too many questions, and nobody causes trouble unless they’re looking for it.

Most of the people inside look local.

Farmers still wearing dusty boots sit around a table near the windows, their hats tossed beside half-empty pitchers of beer.

Two truckers lean against the far end of the bar watching a muted baseball game flicker across the television above them.

Nobody pays much attention when I walk through the door.

Just the way I like it.

Being noticed usually means someone wants something. I’d rather take a seat, watch the room, and figure out who’s who before anyone decides to involve me in their problems.

My shoulders stay loose while I move deeper into the bar, but my eyes start working automatically.

Front door behind me.

Bathrooms down the hallway.

Kitchen door swinging open and shut as someone carries out a tray of food.

Two exits.

That’s always the first thing you look for. Habit sticks with you after enough years of dealing with situations that go sideways faster than people expect.

My gaze drifts toward the bar.

And lands on the girl behind it.

My chest tightens before I can stop it.

The reaction hits hard enough that it makes me scowl slightly, my grip tightening around the back of the chair I’m about to pull out.

Didn’t see that coming.

Attraction isn’t something that usually sneaks up on me. It’s even rarer for it to hit this fast. One second I’m scanning the room like I always do, and the next my attention locks onto the bartender like somebody flipped a switch in my brain.

She’s small.