Epilogue
RAZOR
The ride home is a long one with only my thoughts to keep me company.
Blade rides beside me. Always beside me. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
He needed that. Closure. They all did.
Watching Ryder, Flash, Drake, and Blade take revenge for their loved ones was the sweetest. Retribution is not usually personal, but this one was.
Gideon Fox and Jenna Sloane had it coming, and where justice failed, rough justice prevailed.
It’s what we do. Clean up the mess from the streets when the courts fail.
Their bodies were left beside the road. The vultures will dine well tonight. They will be discovered but will never be mentioned in the news. They never are.
They will fade into oblivion and become a footnote in a past court case, with the odd person wondering what became of them.
They will not be missed.
My chest tightens. One person is sorely missed, and I am struggling to deal with that.
When Sunday walked away from me, she took what’s left of my heart with her.
She will never know.
She deserves better than me. I want better for her.
I have never dealt well with emotions. Preferring to keep things bottled up.
Nobody can hurt you then. I’m guessing it’s the outcome of a troubled childhood.
A father who dominated our mother, who reacted with his fists rather than love and understanding.
It’s only when we got the courage to fight back that things changed.
The rage inside me burns like a ball of fury, and the Reapers is the best place to deal with that.
Sunday doesn’t deserve this life. She’s a sweet girl and so pretty my heart stops beating when she smiles my way. One wink from her and I forget to breathe, and it’s probably a damn good thing she left because I couldn’t keep away from her if I tried.
Inevitably, my nights ended up in her bed. Holding her, my blend of loving her. But I never showed it. Never told her what was burning in my heart because she deserves better.
But I miss her so damn hard, it physically hurts my heart.
* * *
We head home under the cover of darkness, and as I park up, Blade peers at me with concern.
“Are you okay?”
“Sure.”
I jerk my thumb toward the trail leading to his new house.
“Go check on Aspen. She’ll be wondering where you are.”
I turn away and he barks, “Razor.”
“What?”
My expression is blank, and he sighs heavily.
“You know where I am if you need to talk.”
“Sure.”
I pop my shoulder.
“I know.”
“Razor.”
Another voice, familiar and more authoritative, diverts my attention, and Ryder approaches, his expression grim.
“I need a word.”
“Sure.”
Blade makes to follow, and Ryder holds up his hand.
“Go and find your wife, soldier. This is a solo conversation.”
If anything, I’m surprised at that. Ryder’s first port of call when returning from a mission is usually his wife. But not this time, and I wonder what’s up.
Blade also appears concerned but knows better than to go against a direct order, and as I follow Ryder, he heads straight for his office.
My heart jackknifes inside me as I recall anything I may have done wrong. I follow orders. I question nothing. I am a machine—a Reaper machine—his machine, so I’m more curious than afraid.
He points to the door.
“Close it behind you.”
As he drops into his leather chair, he reaches for the bottle of whiskey in the top drawer of his desk.
“Fetch two glasses, Razor, we could sure use a few of these right now.”
As I do as he says, he fills the glasses and pushes one my way.
I’m surprised to be here at all. Usually, Snake and Brewer have this honor, and yet for some reason, it’s just the two of us, which raises my guard.
I lean back in my chair, my expression inscrutable, and he heaves a deep breath.
“Sunday.”
I swear every sense I own is on high alert, but to anyone observing, I look no different.
He thumps his fist on the desk.
“She’s missing.”
The blood rushes in my head and I’m about to break something. He lowers his voice.
“She never reported in. That’s not unusual; she sometimes misses the deadline, but it’s been two days. I’ve left the usual cryptic message to call her mom, but the message remains unread.”
My heart is banging so hard I swear he hears it, and he directs a hard gaze my way.
“I need you to head up there. Check out her apartment, scope the area. She hasn’t shown up for work for two days, and there is no sign of life at her apartment. I’m doubtful she’s on vacation because she is aware of the conditions of her new life.”
He’s not wrong. Many of our fallen angels are starting again under our supervision. Sunday is no different and is aware of our concerns. We pay for her new life, and if she ever needs anything or runs into trouble, she only has to pick up the phone.
Ryder is right to be concerned. This isn’t good.
“I’ll leave early hours.”
I’d leave now if I hadn’t drunk a fistful of whiskey.
Ryder nods. “I’ll do some digging here. Get Brewer and Lucy onto it. It may not be anything, but we are aware of Sunday’s past that may have decided to pay her a visit.”
My heart is cold, tension increasing in the room as we face the possibility that despite all our efforts, Sunday is in danger.
Maine was the furthest place to send her, and she had no connections there, and the sleepy town she set up in is not on anyone’s radar.
Fuck, she’s in danger. I know it, and I pull out my phone and hover above her number.
Ryder is watching every move I make, and yet I can’t help myself and press call, doing something I have attempted many times this past nine months and never had the courage to follow through.
It’s as if time drags as the tone fades to an automated message and I curl my fist around it.
“Do some digging, Razor, but don’t draw attention to yourself. It may be best to ditch the jacket and the Harley and take the SUV instead.”
“I’ll take the transit with the bike in the back.”
He nods his approval.
“Good call.”
He points to the door.
“Get some sleep. I’ll have everything ready by five am. Call for backup if you need it. There’s a local MC club, Satan’s Fury. Ask for Sultan, he’s their president. It may be the best place to start.”
He sighs, his expression heavy with concern. “I hope it’s nothing, but I’m uneasy.”
That alone should concern me because when Ryder King is uneasy, wars usually start, and as I drag my chair back and stand, our eyes meet.
“I’ll be in touch.”
“Good luck, soldier.”
Luck. We make our own luck, and if Sunday is in any bother, whoever is the cause of it will soon discover their luck just ran out.
* * *