Razor (A Reaper #9)

Chapter 1

RAZOR

My throat is dry, my limbs weak, and my heart heavy, but I made it.

Many would take two days to do this journey; I did it in half that time because I only stopped for fuel and the restroom. Food somehow doesn’t feature right now.

I couldn’t eat if I tried, and there’s a good reason for that.

Sunday is missing.

And it’s all my fault.

If I hadn’t been such an ass and kept feelings to myself, she would be safe at the compound. Her sass wrenching a brief response from me despite all my efforts to give her none.

I was a fool. A stubborn asshole who believed she would be better off without me. It turns out that’s not the case.

She’s missing and hasn’t been heard of for four straight days.

The motel looks like I feel—shit. The name in lights on the roadside sign flickers, and not intentionally. The sign is hanging on one side, and the place should be condemned, not recommended. But it will do for one night, and the shower better be working, otherwise I’m liable to lose my shit.

I crack my knuckles and straighten up, my familiar leather jacket stored in the back of the van along with my trusty Harley. I’m not here as a biker—not yet, anyway. I’m here to find my woman.

My eyes narrow as they scan the perimeter. Noting the rusty vehicles pulled up in the spaces before the motel rooms. A scream, followed by jeers, diverts my attention, and a passing car jams on the brakes, its tires squealing in the dusky light.

There’s a bar across the street, and I’m tempted to head there first, but I must keep a clear head for what’s about to happen. My mission is simple. Find Sunday and bring her home—whatever it takes.

My feet drag toward the doors, and as I shove my way inside, a guy slowly raises his eyes as he puffs on a cigar, the air toxic with smoke, the vibe a bad one.

His expression shifts from bored to anxious in the blink of a raised eye, and his lips quiver as he attempts to speak.

“You after a room?”

I slam a fifty on the counter, and his eyes light up with greed.

“I want your best one, preferably unused today.”

I’m aware this place rents by the hour, but beggars can’t choose, and I curse the urgency of this sudden road trip.

“Sure.”

He scrambles for the key hanging behind him on a huge wooden cross, sweat beading on his lip, his hands shaking.

I’m fully aware I’m an intimidating sight; not many mess with me, and from the anxious gleam in his eye, he’s one of them.

The fifty is gone before the key is handed over, and he points to a block beside the reception.

“Room ten. First floor on the far end.”

I nod, turning, conversation over, and he says hopefully, “If you need company, I can arrange it—for a fee, of course.”

I half-turn, and his words quicken. “Anything, just ask. Alcohol, drugs, whores, an invitation to the local casino, you name it, I’m your man.”

I say nothing and turn, heaving my shoulder against the smeared glass door, my only wish is for a cold shower and hopefully a clean bed.

Food can wait until morning; it can all wait until morning because when I’ve slept this road lag off, I’m finding my girl.

* * *

Morning comes with a scream, the sound of glass breaking, and sirens. A gunshot followed by raised voices; another day in hell.

I’ve been around long enough to realize this shit will never get cleaned up, and imagining Sunday involved in any of it makes my blood run cold.

My legs swing to the side of the bed, and I crack my shoulders, stretching my arms above my head and behind my back. I’m bleary-eyed because a good night’s sleep is impossible in places like this, and yet it did what it needed to.

I’m ready to start asking awkward questions.

My stomach growls in protest, and with an angry frown, I resign myself to a short walk across the street to the diner. It’s as good a place as any to begin my search, and I try to ignore the heaviness in my heart as I head for the shower.

*

Francine’s diner is like the motel. Well past its prime, but as long as they serve coffee and breakfast, it will do.

I walk the distance across the street and note the bikes pulled up in the parking lot.

There are four of them, and I’m interested in viewing the patch on the rider’s jackets.

It would make my life a lot easier if they are the club on my list, and as I head through the door, my gaze searches for the men.

They are in the corner, too busy shoveling food to take account of their surroundings, and as a weary-eyed server approaches, I note the anxiety in her expression.

“You want a table for one?”

She grabs a plastic menu and makes for the opposite direction from the bikers.

“Ma’am.”

She stops, and I point to the table beside theirs.

“I would prefer to sit over there if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Trouble.”

She sighs. “Honey, the trouble would come if you were anywhere near that crowd. Take my advice and head to the opposite end and hope they don’t notice you.”

“I’m good.”

I don’t wait for permission and head with purpose to the table beside theirs. As I approach, two of them facing me raise their eyes, their silverware hovering in mid-air as they assess the stranger.

“Morning.”

I nod my head, noting the club name on their jackets. Satan’s Fury. Perfect.

One of them lowers his silverware and nods to the guys opposite, who turn, their interest obvious as they search my expression.

“You’re not from around here.”

I sense the mood darken, and it appears the server has urgent business in the kitchen because she is nowhere to be seen.

“You got that right.”

I take a seat in my booth facing them, my expression blank, controlled, hard.

“Word of advice: leave.”

The nearest one says, his eyes narrowing, his warning intended to send me running.

“I have business in town. I’ll leave when that’s taken care of.”

“Business?”

They share a guarded look, and I sigh inside. Fucking bikers.

I search for the server and groan. “It appears my custom is not required.”

“Dorothy has seen this all before.”

The first biker sneers, “Strangers come here and don’t understand our ways. They ask questions and receive an answer they didn’t want.”

He leans forward, his gaze deadly. “So, if your business is asking questions, I will save you the trouble and advise you not to ask.”

This time, I lean forward and relish the moment of panic in the one nearest to me because it’s pretty damn obvious I’m the measure of them, and my tone is gruff as I hiss, “I will ask all the fucking questions I want, and I will ask them of one man only.”

They stand, forming a circle around me, and their expressions are intimidating as the first biker hisses, “What man?”

“Your president, Sultan.”

“What the fuck!”

They crowd closer, an obvious move designed to overpower should they need to, and one of the men who has remained silent until now lowers his voice.

“Sultan doesn’t accept visitors and never answers questions, so fuck off back down the hole you came from before you end up there, permanently.”

“Is that how you speak to a visiting brother? I’m guessing Sultan will be pissed when he realizes his men are dumb shits.”

As they move, I’m faster and reaching out, I grasp the nearest biker’s wrist and pull him down headfirst on the table, slamming his head on the edge, releasing him as he falls.

It doesn’t take long for the second to try his luck, and as I sweep his legs from under the table, I grasp his hair and slam his face on the edge.

The others waste no time and pull their guns, and as I grasp the pepper pot, I wrench off the top and blind one with the spice, reaching for his gun and turning it on his friend instead. This time I move, and as I stand, I tower above them.

As I take my blade from my sheath, I hold it to the first biker’s throat.

“Tell Sultan I’ll be around when I’ve finished up here. Tell him Ryder King sent me.”

The fear that statement brings is almost comical, and as they scramble away from me, apologies come thick and fast.

“I’m sorry, man, we never knew. You should have said.”

“Not very observant either.” I roll my eyes, the tattoo on my arm like a fucking name tag in plain sight.

“Spinney’s junction behind Pike’s bar.”

Their words are rushed as they back away, blood pouring from the cracks in their noses.

“I’ll be there.”

As they leave, I call out, “Have you forgotten something?”

They stop as if frozen, and I point to their food. “I doubt that’s free. I’m guessing a couple of hundred should cover it.”

As they scramble for the cash, they slam it on the counter as they pass, and if I weren’t having such a fucking bad life right now, I would almost be amused. Almost.