Hunter’s Game (Blind Jacks MC #4)

Chapter 1

Eight years of military service had taught Hunter that plans rarely survive first contact with the enemy. Being the Blind Jacks’ Road Captain had taught him that the most dangerous enemies are the ones you never see coming.

The clubhouse’s familiar scents of leather, motor oil, and gunpowder grounded him as King laid out a mission that would either make his career or get him killed. Probably both.

King, a muscular man with dark hair and intense eyes that missed nothing was Hunter’s closest ally. At barely forty, the Blind Jacks’ sergeant-at-arms carried himself with the quiet authority of someone who commanded respect through action rather than intimidation. His face held the sharp angles and watchful expression of a man who’d learned to survive by staying three steps ahead of his enemies.

“Remember, this isn’t just about the drugs anymore.”

King’s voice filled the concrete-walled chapel as he spread surveillance photos across the reaper-carved table. Each image told a story of carefully orchestrated criminality.

“International art theft, high-end forgeries, antiquities trafficking—they’re moving millions through digital channels we can’t trace. We need hard evidence.”

Hunter studied the photos with the kind of attention to detail that had kept him alive through three tours in Afghanistan and countless undercover operations since. The Devil’s Mark MC clubhouse dominated most shots—a fortress masquerading as a biker bar on the wrong side of county lines. To untrained eyes, it looked like any other outlaw clubhouse. But Hunter saw the truth in the details.

Reinforced steel doors disguised as standard commercial entries. Security cameras positioned to leave no blind spots while appearing random to casual observers. Windows that offered perfect fields of fire while seeming decorative. This wasn’t just a clubhouse. It was a military-grade operations center.

“Six museums hit in the last eight months.”

King tapped a series of photos showing crime scenes.

“Each one a professional job. No evidence, no witnesses, just priceless artifacts vanishing and perfect forgeries left in their place. Then this started showing up in private collections.

“Curator at the Institute of Ancient History has been documenting the thefts,”

King continued, sliding over another file.

“Dr. Katherine Chen. She’s been tracking patterns, building a timeline of artifacts that reappear in private hands.”

Hunter studied the curator’s photo, noting her cold professional smile. Something about her features tugged at the edge of his mind, but he dismissed it to focus on more pressing details.

He slid forward a photo of an ancient dagger, its Damascus steel blade gleaming with distinctive patterns.

“This piece was stolen from the Metropolitan Museum three months ago. Last week, our contact spotted it on display in the Devil’s Mark clubhouse. Except...”

“Except it’s not really on display,”

Hunter finished, seeing the pattern.

“It’s being shown to potential buyers.”

“Exactly.”

King pulled out another photo, this one showing a well-dressed man entering the clubhouse.

“Viktor Romano. Ex-military intelligence, now a ‘legitimate businessman’ with interesting connections to the international art world. Shows up every Tuesday like clockwork, meets with Merrick Mitchell for exactly one hour, then leaves with a briefcase that’s never the same one he brought in.”

Hunter studied Romano’s image, professional assessment mixing with the instincts that had kept him alive in far worse places than an MC clubhouse.

Romano was lean and patrician, with silver-streaked dark hair and the kind of manicured appearance that screamed old money.

But Hunter recognized the predator’s watchfulness in those cold gray eyes, the careful way he held himself—always ready, always assessing.

The way Romano’s bespoke suit was carefully tailored to hide a shoulder holster.

How his casual stance masked perfect situational awareness.

The slight bulge at his ankle that suggested a backup weapon…

This was no ordinary art dealer.

“What’s our in?”

He already knew he wouldn’t like the answer. The best covers were always the ones closest to truth.

“They need a mechanic.”

King’s smile held no humor.

“Someone who can modify bikes for special cargo. Someone with military experience who knows how to be discreet. Someone who won’t ask questions when those modifications aren’t exactly street legal.”

“And won’t raise eyebrows when checking out their security systems.”

Hunter saw the full play now. His background in military intelligence made him perfect for this—maybe too perfect.

“Timeline?”

“Three months.”

King spread out more photos showing shipping manifests and security details.

“Romano’s planning something big. Multiple shipments converging, heavy security being moved into position. Whatever they’re setting up, it’s happening soon. We need someone inside before then.”

“The Devil’s Mark isn’t exactly known for welcoming new members.”

Hunter remembered the last time they’d tried to infiltrate the rival MC. They’d lost two good men.

“Especially not lately.”

“That’s why you’re going in with a solid backstory.”

King pulled out a thick file.

“Jake Hunter, ex-Army mechanic. Did time in Leavenworth for assault, dishonorable discharge. Last few years spent building a reputation for discretion and skilled work. The kind of guy who can handle special modifications without asking uncomfortable questions.”

Hunter absorbed this, noting how closely the cover matched his own history.

The best lies always contained truth at their core.

His military service, his skills with engines and electronics, even his tendency toward violence—all real, just twisted slightly to serve their purposes.

“They’ll check,”

he warned.

“ Merrick Mitchell doesn’t trust easily.”

“Let them.”

King seemed unconcerned.

“The background will hold up. Jake Hunter exists in all the right databases with all the right documentation. As far as anyone can tell, he’s a skilled mechanic with a questionable past and a talent for keeping secrets.”

Simple. Clean. No complications.

That plan lasted exactly three seconds after walking into the Devil’s Mark clubhouse the next evening.

Just long enough to spot her behind the bar—the complication he never saw coming.

She moved with lethal grace, all toned curves and sharp edges, but it was her hands that caught his attention first.

Eden Mitchell was stunning in a way that went beyond conventional beauty—olive skin, high cheekbones, and dark hair cut in a severe bob that emphasized her striking green eyes.

But it was the way she carried herself that really caught his attention—the controlled power in her movements, like a jungle cat conserving energy until the perfect moment to strike.

Quick, precise movements as she worked something that looked suspiciously like a signal interceptor beneath the bar, masked by the motions of mixing drinks.

The device’s soft blue glow reflected in her eyes as she glanced up, catching him watching.

Their gazes locked across the smoky room.

Recognition flared—predator spotting predator through the haze of cigarettes and ulterior motives.

Hunter fought back a smile as he approached the bar, letting his stride convey easy confidence while his mind cataloged details that screamed federal agent to anyone who knew what to look for.

The careful positioning that gave her sightlines to all entrance points.

The slight bulge of a concealed weapon at her ankle.

The way she scanned the room with quick, professional glances that spoke of extensive training

DEA, he decided, watching her handle multiple conversations while her fingers danced across hidden tech.

The way she moved screamed federal training, but there was an edge to her that suggested personal stakes.

Something darker than just professional duty.

“See something you like?”

Her voice carried clearly over Metallica’s bass line as she smoothly palmed the interceptor out of sight. Up close, he caught more details: the faint scar along her jaw that suggested intimate knowledge of violence, the calluses on her trigger finger that spoke of regular range time, the way she maintained perfect awareness of everyone in the room while appearing completely focused on him.

“Just wondering what a woman like you is doing in a place like this.”

He settled at the bar, angling for a view of her hidden screen while making it look like simple male appreciation.

Hunter was aware of how he looked to her—six-foot-two of hard muscle and visible scars, with the kind of face that had been broken and reset too many times to be called handsome. The tattoos covering his forearms told stories of military service and brotherhood, visible beneath rolled sleeves as he leaned casually against the bar. He caught the quick, professional assessment in her eyes as she cataloged every detail—from his short-cropped dark hair to the slight limp from an old combat injury he usually managed to hide.

The glimpse he caught of the screen she tried to hold just out of view showed lines of code tracking wireless signals. Definitely not standard bartender equipment.

“A woman like me?”

She leaned forward, giving him a view that tested his self-control while her fingers danced across what he now realized was a disguised keyboard.

“And what kind of woman would that be?”

“The dangerous kind.”

The words came out rougher than intended as he watched her hands move with lightning precision, cutting through digital security as smoothly as she poured drinks.

Memory flashed—another bar, another undercover operation that had gone sideways when he’d underestimated a beautiful woman with hidden motives. The scars from that particular lesson in trust had healed, but the memory remained sharp as razor wire.

A smile curved her lips, sharp as broken glass.

“You have no idea.”

“Whiskey, neat,”

he said, not missing how her screen flashed with an intercepted signal as Romano—their suspected connection to the international art theft ring—walked in.

“Unless you’ve got something stronger.”

“Careful what you wish for.”

She reached for the top-shelf bottle, the movement allowing her to adjust what he now spotted as a highly illegal signal booster disguised as a liquor display.

“I hear the Devil’s Mark has a way of giving a man exactly what he asks for—right before it kills him.”

The warning could have been simple biker bravado, but Hunter caught the layer of truth beneath. She was telling him something without actually saying it. This place was more dangerous than even Darkness suspected.

The next hours were a careful dance of observation and calculated risks. He played his role—ex-military mechanic with skills the MC needed—while watching her work both the crowd and her hidden tech.

She was good. Better than good. The kind of good that came from years of undercover work and a desperate need to prove something.

Eden. The name hit him like a physical blow when one of the patches barked it across the bar. Darkness’s briefing hadn’t mentioned the Devil’s Mark president had a daughter—a daughter whose surveillance setup could crack their digital security wide open.

He caught glimpses of her true capabilities as the night progressed. The way she cloned Romano’s phone with a casual brush past him, the movement so smooth it looked like simple flirtation. How she used the bar’s sound system to mask the hum of a wireless packet sniffer, the technology seamlessly integrated into everyday operations. The elegant brutality of her coding style as she sliced through firewalls between serving beers, each digital intrusion precisely targeted.

More details emerged through careful observation. The way she tensed slightly whenever Merrick Mitchell entered a room, a daughter’s instinctive reaction to a father who inspired fear rather than love. How her smile never quite reached her eyes when talking to the club’s inner circle, suggesting years of practiced deception. The carefully hidden rage that flared whenever Romano was nearby, personal hatred masked by professional courtesy.

This wasn’t just an operation for her. This was personal.

The pieces started forming a pattern he didn’t like. A father in a position of power. A daughter with federal training and a talent for technology. An operation involving millions in stolen art and antiquities. And running through it all, the kind of bone-deep hatred that only came from intimate betrayal.

“Hunter,”

she called eventually, “be a dear and help me get some bottles from the back?”

The storage room was dimly lit and cramped with servers humming behind locked cage doors. Eden closed the door with a soft click that sounded like destiny—or doom.

“You’re not just a mechanic.”

She didn’t back away, leaving barely inches between them. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to kill.

“And you’re not just a tech-savvy bartender.”

He should step back. Instead, he found himself swaying closer, drawn into her orbit like a moth to a flame. Something about her called to the darkness in him, the part that understood vengeance and necessity.

“We’re both playing dangerous games here.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper as her fingers traced over a rack of hard drives.

“The question is, are we playing the same one?”

The smart answer would be to deny everything. To maintain his cover at all costs. Instead, he heard himself say, “Depends on what stakes you’re playing for.”

She studied him for a long moment, then reached up and brushed her fingers along his jaw. The touch was feather-light but it burned like fire.

“High enough to get us both killed if we’re not careful.”

“Careful’s not really my style.”

He caught her wrist before she could pull away, his thumb finding her racing pulse.

“Is it yours?”

Memory flashed again—another woman, another mission that had ended in blood and betrayal. But this felt different. Eden’s eyes held too much raw pain, too much desperate purpose to be playing him.

Unless that was exactly what she wanted him to think.

A noise from the bar shattered the moment. Eden stepped back, but her eyes promised this wasn’t over.

“Romano’s been moving files through our secure network,”

she said quietly.

“Watch the artwork on the walls. Especially the new pieces. They’re not all what they seem.”

Before he could respond, she was gone, slipping back into the bar with that lethal grace that had first caught his attention. Hunter took a moment to steady his breathing, to lock down the surge of attraction that threatened to compromise everything.

King’s warning echoed in his head: “Don’t trust anyone in that clubhouse. This operation is too important for complications.”

But watching Eden work both the crowd and her tech, noting how her systems kept pinging Romano’s encrypted communications, Hunter knew it was already too late for warnings. She was the key to this whole operation. And God help him, he was already imagining all the ways this could end with one or both of them dead.

The night stretched ahead, full of shadows and secrets and the promise of violence. Through it all, Hunter watched Eden move through her carefully constructed world, seeing past the masks she wore to the wounded warrior beneath. Every detail built a more complex picture—the way she flinched almost imperceptibly when Merrick touched her shoulder, how her hands shook slightly whenever Romano’s phone pinged with certain encrypted messages, the fierce determination that burned behind her careful smiles.

She was dangerous. Complicated. Absolutely lethal when crossed.

And she was hiding something bigger than just a federal investigation.

Around them, the club’s normal operations continued—patches drinking and fighting, prospects running errands, private meetings in back rooms where real business happened. But Hunter’s attention kept returning to Eden, watching her play her role to perfection while gathering intelligence that could destroy everything her father had built.

The question was why.

Federal agents didn’t develop that kind of technical skill or maintain that level of cover without serious motivation. This wasn’t just about bringing down a criminal organization. This was personal vendetta wrapped in professional duty. The kind of mission that either ended in triumph or tragedy.

Usually both.

As dawn approached, Hunter watched Eden make one final sweep of the bar, her movements precise despite hours of maintaining her cover. She caught him watching and offered that razor-sharp smile that made his blood heat.

King was right. This operation was too important for complications. But something in Eden’s eyes, in the careful way she moved through this world of violence and secrets, told him she might be the key to everything.

Or she might be the death of him.

Either way, he was already in too deep to walk away.

The sun rose over the Devil’s Mark clubhouse, painting the world in shades of blood and promise. Whatever game Eden was playing, whatever secrets she was hiding, Hunter knew one thing with bone-deep certainty: This was just the beginning.

And it was going to end in either triumph or tragedy.

Probably both.

Just another Tuesday in the life of a Blind Jack. Only this time, the most dangerous element wasn’t the guns or the rival MC or even the international art theft ring he was trying to bust.

It was the woman behind the bar with death in her smile and secrets in her code. The woman who could either make his mission or destroy it completely.

And the most dangerous part? He wasn’t sure which outcome he was hoping for anymore.