9. Blade
Chapter 9
Blade
"This motherfucker is getting bolder," Ghost says, his voice deadly calm despite the fury burning in his eyes. "Last week, another girl was snatched from just outside the local high school. Only sixteen years old."
I lean forward in my chair, my forearms resting on the scarred wooden surface as the rest of the chapel falls silent.
The club has been working on gathering intel on Ivan Kovalev, a Russian slime ball who, until a short time ago, we thought was nothing more than a small time loanshark.
It was when Ghost brought Angel here, claiming her as his old lady, that we learned Kovalev had graduated to human trafficking. Angel’s former foster parents were trying to sell her to him to cover their gambling debts.
The club staged a raid on one of his shipments, hoping to shut his operation down, but the raid went awry leading us to suspect there’s a rat somewhere in our club.
"Cipher," Ghost nods toward our tech expert, "tell 'em what you found."
Cipher is former military intelligence, discharged after hacking into classified Pentagon files—not because he had bad intentions, but because his brain doesn't recognize normal boundaries when it comes to information. He stands.
"Kovalev's operation is expanding," Cipher explains, pointing to different locations on the map. “It appears they've taken over three more businesses along the waterfront. The Golden Touch massage parlor, the new nightclub—Velvet, and that storage facility by the pier."
My jaw clenches as I study the map. One of those locations is less than two miles from our compound. Too close. Too fucking close.
"Girls come in through the storage facility," Cipher continues, tapping a red pin. "Get 'processed'—which means drugged, beaten into submission if necessary, and photographed for their clientele catalog." The disgust in his voice is palpable. "Then they're distributed to the massage parlor, the nightclub's VIP rooms, or shipped further inland."
Around the table, my brothers' faces harden. We're not angels—Shadow Reapers run guns, control protection rackets, and dabble in other activities that would earn us serious prison time. But women and children are off-limits. Always have been, always will be.
"How's he moving them?" Hawk asks, running a hand through his mohawk.
"He's got someone on the inside, has to be.” Saint’s usually jovial face is grim. "Cops, border patrol, maybe both."
My mind drifts briefly to Sophie. I check my watch, calculating how long I've been away from her. Too long. The thought of her just rooms away while we discuss this dark shit creates an uncomfortable friction in my chest.
I don't want this ugliness touching her. She's seen enough darkness.
"Blade." Ghost's voice snaps me back to the present. His knowing look says he's caught me checking the time. "You with us?"
"Yeah." I refocus. This shit with Kovalev needs handling, and as VP, it's my responsibility to be all in. "I say we target the storage facility. Catch them in the act."
Saint scoffs, leaning back in his chair until it creaks. “And if someone in the local department is in Kovalev's pocket?”
I spread my hands on the table. “If we can find out which cops are dirty, we can buy them right out from under that fucker.”
Maybe we can solve our Kovalev problem without bringing a bloody war to our doorstep.
Ghost nods, considering the strategy. “That would be best. Kovalev's got firepower we haven't seen before. Military-grade shit. Armor-piercing rounds, night vision, the works."
"So do we," I counter, thinking of the new shipment of weapons in our secure warehouse.
The debate continues for another thirty minutes, brothers weighing in with ideas, concerns, and intelligence they've gathered from their various sources. We don't reach a final decision—Ghost wants more surveillance before we move—but we establish a rotation schedule for watching the facilities.
My leg bounces under the table, impatience growing with each passing minute. This meeting needs to end so I can get back to Sophie.
"Next order of business," Ghost says, shifting the meeting forward with a look that tells me he's reading my restlessness. "Blade's honored guest."
All eyes turn to me, and I straighten in my chair. I should have known this was coming.
"Not a guest ," I correct firmly, my voice dropping to a growl. "My old lady."
A murmur ripples around the table. I'm not known for attachments. In all my years with the Reapers, I've never claimed a woman as mine. Never wanted to. Never found one worth the hassle.
"That was quick," Saint remarks with a knowing smirk. "She's been here, what, a day?" His lips quirk into one of his annoying grins. "Must be some magic puss?—"
I'm half out of my seat before Ghost's sharp "Enough!" stops me. My fingers itch for my knife, but I force them flat on the table instead.
Saint holds up his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes dance with amusement. He knows exactly which buttons to push. Always has. It's why he's good at his job.
"It's a legitimate question," Saint adds, more seriously. "You've never claimed an old lady before. Now suddenly you're bringing in this chick none of us know, and we're supposed to protect her with our lives? Club deserves to know a little about her.
It's a fair point, which is the only reason he's still breathing.
"Tell us about her," Ghost says, bringing the discussion back on track.
I settle back in my chair, my jaw still tight. "Sophie Bennett. Nineteen. Orphaned at seven when her parents died in a car crash. Custody went to her maternal aunt, Margaret Whitmore."
"The charity lady?" Hawk interrupts, looking puzzled. "The one who helped Angel set up the fundraiser for foster kids? The Children's Welfare Foundation chairwoman?"
"Yeah, that Margaret Whitmore." I feel my molars grinding together. "The same bitch who's been beating, starving, and treating Sophie like a goddamn slave for twelve years." My voice drops low, dangerous. "The same bitch who gave Sophie those bruises that are all over her body right now."
The atmosphere in the chapel shifts as I describe what I've learned from Sophie—the attic bedroom without heat, the withheld meals, the endless chores, the calculated cruelty. I tell them about how Sophie told me she sleeps in her car when her aunt kicks her out. I tell them about the dog, Max, who Sophie loves, and how her aunt would lock him in a crate without food or water to punish Sophie.
"She's got bruised ribs from a baseball bat," I finish, struggling to keep my voice level. “You all saw the black eye, split lip, finger marks around her throat. And you know what she was most worried about when I found her? The fucking dog."
"Jesus Christ," Hawk mutters, looking genuinely disturbed. "And this woman runs children's charities? She's at every high-society event in Wraithport. The mayor gave her a fucking humanitarian award last year."
"Perfect cover," Cipher notes clinically, typing rapidly on his laptop. "Who'd suspect someone so publicly philanthropic? Classic psychopath behavior—creating a public persona that's the opposite of their true nature."
Cipher looks up at me. “I found a few more things of interest.” I knew he had information for me, information he didn’t want to divulge in front of Sophie. “I dug deeper than the public records. I hacked into medical files that showed a pattern—broken wrist at thirteen when she, ‘fell down stairs.’ Concussion at fourteen, ‘walked into door.’ Three ER visits in the past two years alone, each one carefully explained away.”
Although none of it surprises me, I’m incensed. “I want everything on Margaret Whitmore," I tell Cipher, leaning toward him. "Bank records, property deeds, anything you can find. I want to know where her money comes from, where it goes—everything.” I tap the table for emphasis.
Cipher nods, fingers already flying across his keyboard. "I'll have preliminary findings by tomorrow."
"You sure about this, brother?" Ghost asks me quietly while the others discuss the situation among themselves. His dark eyes search mine. "Taking on an old lady is serious business. Especially one with her kind of baggage. Once you claim her to the club, there's no easy way to unclaim her."
I meet his gaze steadily. "Never been more sure of anything."
And it's true. Since the moment I saw Sophie in that alley, feeding strays, something locked into place inside me. A missing piece finding its place.
Ghost studies me for a long moment, then nods once. "Then we stand with you."
"Appreciate it," I say, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly. Ghost's backing means everything will be smoother with the brothers.
"Alright," Ghost says louder, addressing the full table again. "Sophie Bennett is under club protection as Blade's old lady. Any questions?"
"Yeah," Saint chimes in, but his tone is serious now. "If her aunt comes looking—and she probably will—what's our play? She's got connections. Money. Influence."
"We handle it," I say simply. "Like we handle everything else."
No one speaks up after that. The implications are clear.
"Good," Ghost says. “Church dismissed. Officers remain.”
The chapel empties until only five of us remain—Ghost as President, me as VP, Saint as Sergeant at Arms, Hawk as Road Captain, and Cipher as Intelligence Officer. Once the door closes, the real shit begins.
"Any progress on finding our rat?" Ghost asks, his voice dropping to a near whisper despite the soundproofed walls.
I shake my head, the frustration of this ongoing problem grating on me. "Nothing concrete."
Saint scratches his head. "Could be a prospect hoping to earn outside cash. Could be one of the hang-arounds. Walls have ears."
"That's why we're speaking quieter than a mouse pissing on cotton," Ghost says dryly. "Found something interesting, though." He nods to Saint.
Saint leans forward. "Remember Krystal? Club whore Ghost kicked out last month for stealing?"
We all nod. Krystal had been around for years, popular with the brothers until she disrespected Angel, pissing Ghost the hell off.
"She's been spotted with Kovalev. And not just as another piece of ass. Word is she's his main squeeze now. Got herself a fancy apartment downtown, new car, designer clothes."
"Convenient timing," I observe, drumming my fingers on the armrest. "Gets kicked out of our club, immediately lands on her feet with that sleaze ball.”
"Too convenient," Ghost agrees. "Question is, was she already working for him when she was here, or did she somehow get her hands on secret club info and go running to him with it?”
“It’s possible she knows too much," Hawk points out. "Club routines, security weaknesses, personal details about brothers. Who likes to drink until they blackout, who can't keep their mouth shut around a pretty face."
The implications hang heavy in the air. If Krystal was feeding information to Kovalev, does that mean we’ve eliminated the rat?
"I'll look into her," Cipher offers. "Check her phone records, social media, see if there was contact before she got booted."
"We need to tighten security," I say, straightening in my chair. "Change access codes, rotate guard shifts unpredictably. New protocols for who can enter which areas of the compound."
"Already on it," Ghost confirms. "And I've got prospects doing sweeps for bugs twice daily."
The urgent pounding on the chapel door interrupts our discussion.
Ghost's eyes narrow. "Enter," he calls, tension evident in his posture.
Rash, one of our prospects, bursts in, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool temperature. His eyes find me immediately.
"Blade!" he pants, chest heaving like he sprinted across the compound. "Cops at the gate. They're asking for Sophie."
I'm on my feet before he finishes speaking, chair crashing backward to the floor. Heat roars through my veins, a primal response to threat. "What do they want?"
"Don't know details," Rash says quickly, taking a step back from the fury he must see in my face. "But they've got papers. Look official. Mentioned something about a complaint filed by Margaret Whitmore."
"Fuck," Ghost mutters, standing as well. “That old bitch works fast."
My fists clench so tight my knuckles crack. The taste of metal floods my mouth—I've bitten the inside of my cheek without realizing it. "She's not getting her back." It's not a statement; it's a vow carved in stone.
"Calm down," Ghost says evenly, stepping between me and the door. "Sophie's over eighteen. Cops can't force her to go anywhere."
"Unless they've got a warrant for her arrest," Hawk points out. "Margaret could've filed false charges. Theft, assault, something to force Sophie back under her control."
The thought of Sophie in handcuffs, terrified and alone in a police station, sends a surge of fury through me so intense my vision blurs at the edges. My hand automatically drops to the knife strapped to my thigh—a movement so instinctive I don't realize I've done it until I feel the leather of the sheath under my fingers.
"Let's find out what they want," Ghost says, heading for the door. "Blade, keep it together. Last thing we need is you assaulting police officers."