Grim (Bloodline Saints MC, #2)

Chapter 1

Grim

The Saints’ shooting range sat on the far edge of town, wedged between a line of pines and an abandoned freight road. At dusk, the place almost looked peaceful. Targets lined the tree line. The gravel still held the day’s heat. The air hung thick with gun oil and dust.

Grim stood at the edge of the firing line, arms crossed, boots planted wide, watching the four prospects set up. The last of the paying customers had cleared out twenty minutes ago, leaving only the Saints and the fading light.

Rook stood beside him, clipboard in hand, posture relaxed, eyes razor-sharp. VP mode. Instructor mode. The version of Rook the public trusted was steady, competent, calm, not the man who could break someone’s jaw without raising his voice.

Brick adjusted his stance for the third time, jaw tight, shoulders locked.

Vandal smirked at his reflection in the rental booth glass, spinning his pistol once until Grim’s stare cut him off.

Ghost checked his weapon with quiet precision, expression unreadable, movements efficient.

Switchblade moved with calm, methodical ease, the kind Grim recognized in men who’d lived through hell and learned to breathe through it.

Rook called out, “Prospects ready.”

Brick nodded once. Switchblade didn’t react. Ghost blinked. Vandal winked at his target.

Grim’s gaze dragged down the line — stance, grip, focus — then stopped on Switchblade’s boots.

“Fix your laces,” Grim said. “Left one’s crooked.”

Switchblade glanced down, barely a twitch of annoyance. “Doesn’t change my aim.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Grim said. “Fix it.”

Switchblade bent, quick and efficient.

He didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth threatened it.

Grim stepped forward, boots crunching over gravel. “You’re not here to show off,” he said, voice low. “You’re here to learn. You learn by shutting up and paying attention.”

Brick straightened. “Yes, sir.”

Rook muttered, “Better.”

Grim raised his hand. “Five rounds. Controlled. On my call.”

The range fell silent. The cicadas quieted. Even the wind held its breath.

“Fire.”

Four shots cracked through the air, sharp and controlled as they echoed off the trees.

Brick’s first round went wide. Vandal’s grouping was sloppy. Ghost’s was tight. Switchblade’s was perfect.

Grim walked the line, eyes scanning targets.

Brick’s target looked like it had been attacked by a drunk squirrel.

“Brick,” Grim muttered, “what the hell was that?”

Brick exhaled through his nose. “Pulled too early. Won’t happen again.”

Better. Not defensive. Not whining. Just determined.

Switchblade stepped behind him, adjusting his stance with steady hands. “Relax your shoulders. You’re muscling the shot.”

Brick nodded, jaw tight. “Got it.”

He fired again.

Better.

Rook leaned in. “He’s trying.”

“Trying isn’t enough,” Grim said. “He’ll get there.”

Brick fired again. Closer to center.

“Good,” Grim said. “Don’t rush.”

Switchblade huffed a quiet laugh. “He only has one speed.”

Brick’s mouth twitched — not a smile, just acknowledgment.

Grim stepped forward again. “Brick.”

Brick snapped to attention. “Yeah?”

“You rush like that in the field, you die.”

Brick swallowed. “Understood.”

“Slow down.”

Brick nodded once, serious. “Okay.”

Rook clapped his hands. “Reset. Last round.”

The sun dipped lower, bleeding red across the treeline. The air cooled. Shadows stretched long across the gravel.

“Fire.”

Four shots cracked through the dusk.

Brick’s was shaky. Vandal’s was better. Ghost’s was clean. Switchblade’s was perfect again, dead center, like he’d been born with a weapon in his hand.

“Good,” Grim said. “Clean up.”

Switchblade stepped beside Grim, wiping down his weapon. “He listens.”

Grim glanced at him. “Most of the time.”

“He looks up to you.”

Grim snorted. “He looks up to anyone taller than him.”

Switchblade’s mouth twitched. “Still true.”

Grim watched the prospects finish collecting spent casings, the last of the sunlight bleeding out behind the trees.

Rook clapped Grim on the shoulder. “You heading back?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m heading home to Avery. Try not to scare the prospects while I’m gone.”

Grim grunted, the closest he came to a laugh these days.

Rook turned toward his bike. “Prospects, pack it up. Head back to the clubhouse.”

Brick, Ghost, Vandal, and Switchblade grabbed their gear and headed for their bikes, voices low and tired in the fading light.

Grim stayed behind a moment, letting the quiet settle around him.

He took one last look at them as they rode out. Switchblade’s steady posture. Brick’s restless energy. Ghost’s quiet focus. Vandal’s easy swagger hiding something sharper underneath. Something in his gut twisted.

This won’t last.

He didn’t know why the thought hit him so hard. He just knew it was true.

Grim turned toward his bike, the night air cooling the sweat on his skin, and headed back to the clubhouse.

Grim rolled into the clubhouse lot as the last streaks of sunset bled out behind the pines. The rumble of engines and rough laughter spilled into the night, warm and loud and alive in a way the shooting range never was.

The clubhouse noise filled the room, the kind only men who had survived too much and slept too little could make.

Laughter ricocheted off wood paneled walls.

Neon beer signs flickered like they were fighting to stay lit.

Someone shouted over a game of darts. Someone else cursed at a TV stuck on static.

Grim sat at the edge of it all, boots planted wide, elbows on his knees, a half-finished beer sweating in his hand. He wasn’t drinking it. He had forgotten it was there.

Across the room, the prospect trio crowded around the pool table. Brick, Ghost, and Vandal. Brick was mid-story, hands flying, voice animated. The same restless energy he had carried at the range still buzzed under his skin.

A few feet away, Switchblade leaned against the wall with a beer. He didn’t join the noise. He didn’t try to. Switchblade’s stillness moved with calm, methodical ease. Grim recognized the quiet that came from surviving things you didn’t talk about.

Grim gave him a nod. Switchblade returned it with a sharp, respectful one.

“…and then the guy comes storming out of the bathroom, pants half down, yelling I stole his girl. Which is insane because she was the one…”

Vandal cut in, grinning. “She was the one who asked you to show her how to hold the cue stick.”

Ghost didn’t look up from chalking his cue. “She didn’t want to learn pool.”

Vandal snorted. “She wanted to learn Brick.”

Brick smirked like it was a compliment.

Switchblade took a slow sip of his beer. “She wanted free drinks,” he said, voice low and dry.

Brick groaned. “Bro, whose side are you on?”

Switchblade shrugged. “The side that doesn’t get stabbed in a bar bathroom.”

Brick flipped him off. “You’re all jealous.”

Grim wasn’t listening to the story. Not really. He watched Brick instead. The way he stood too tall, too proud, too eager. The way he tried to fill space he hadn’t earned. The way he didn’t see how fast the world could take everything from him.

Brick caught Grim’s eye mid-story and grinned like he had won something. “You know what I’m talking about. Right, Grim?”

Grim didn’t give him more than a look. “You talk too much.”

Brick laughed. “That’s a yes.”

Havoc snorted from the couch. “Kid, Grim hasn’t said yes to anything since 2014.”

“Bout the last time he smiled too,” Ghost said as he lined up his next shot.

Grim ignored them. Mostly because they weren’t wrong.

The hallway door opened and Stone stepped out, wiping grease off his hands with a rag. He had been in the garage again. His version of meditation.

Switchblade straightened when Stone walked in. Not out of fear. Out of respect. The kind Grim recognized from men who’d served under good leadership.

Stone’s expression shifted when he looked at Grim, sharper and focused. Business.

“Alright,” Stone said, raising his voice just enough to cut through the noise. “Listen up.”

The room quieted.

Stone looked at Havoc first. “You’re heading to La Luna tonight. Someone reached out.”

Havoc lifted a brow. “Someone?”

“Daniel Reyes,” Stone said. “Mechanic. Local. Says he’s got intel we might want to hear.”

Vandal whistled. “Random guy with intel. Sounds legit.”

Ghost muttered, “Sounds like a setup.”

Stone nodded toward Ledger, who had appeared in the doorway with a tablet in hand. “Ledger ran him.”

Ledger pushed his glasses up. “No record. No warrants. No known ties to any crews. Works at a small auto shop off County Road 12. Pays taxes. No red flags.”

Havoc frowned. “Then why come to us?”

Stone shrugged. “Didn’t say. Just asked for a meet. Said it was important.”

Grim’s mouth pulled tight. “Feels off.”

Ledger hesitated, thumb tapping the tablet. “One more thing. Traffic cams picked up a Reaper bike near County Road 12 last night. Same model showed up near the old mill two days ago.”

Stone’s brow furrowed. “Same rider?”

“Couldn’t see the face,” Ledger said. “But the timing’s too close to be coincidence.”

Grim’s jaw flexed. “They’re mapping something.”

Ledger nodded. “Yeah. And I don’t like not knowing what.”

Stone exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. “Back when they started sniffing around town last year, it didn’t add up. Too quiet. Too careful.”

He looked at Ledger. “We knew we were only seeing the surface.”

Ledger nodded. “Whatever this is. It started back up months ago.”

Stone didn’t disagree. “Which is why Havoc’s going. And why he’s not going alone.”

Stone turned to Brick and Ghost. “La Luna’s been rowdy lately, and we’ve had a couple Reaper sightings in the area. Owner asked for extra eyes. You two are riding backup.”

Brick straightened, excitement lighting his face. “Yes, sir.”

Ghost nodded once, calm and steady.

Switchblade exhaled through his nose, a quiet reaction to Brick’s eagerness. Grim caught it. So did Brick.

Grim stepped closer to Stone, lowering his voice so only the table heard. “Brick moves before he thinks.”

Brick blinked. “What? I’m fine.”

“You’re impulsive,” Grim said, voice low but firm. “You act before you think. Ghost waits. You don’t.”

Stone’s gaze shifted to Brick, assessing. “It’s a routine sweep and a simple meet.”

“With the Reapers sniffing around, nothing’s routine,” Grim said quietly.

The room stilled. Even the neon sign seemed to buzz softer. Stone studied him. “You think they’ll hit La Luna?”

“I think they’ll hit something,” Grim said. “And Brick needs to keep his head if it’s tonight.”

Brick bristled. “I can fight.”

Grim stood, slow and deliberate, towering over him. “Fighting’s not the problem. Thinking is.”

Brick swallowed but didn’t look away.

Stone stepped in. “He needs experience.”

“He needs to survive the experience,” Grim said, still respectful, still controlled.

Havoc rose from the couch, stretching. “I’ll keep him close. He won’t sneeze without me knowing.”

Vandal grinned. “If he does, Ghost’ll stab the sneeze.”

Ghost didn’t react. Havoc snorted. Brick laughed.

Stone clapped a hand on Grim’s shoulder. “You’re wound tight tonight.”

Grim shrugged him off. “Just paying attention.”

Stone studied him for a long moment. “You heading out?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“Ride.”

Stone nodded once. Permission granted.

Grim grabbed his helmet and headed for the door. Switchblade watched him go, posture straightening just a fraction. Not nosy. Not intrusive. Just aware. Grim didn’t mind it. Switchblade was one of the few prospects who paid attention for the right reasons.

The night air hit him like a cold slap, sharp and grounding. He breathed it in, trying to shake the heaviness crawling under his skin.

Behind him, the clubhouse door swung open again.

“Hey.” Brick jogged out, breath puffing in the cool air. “Thanks. For… y’know. Caring.”

Grim stared at him. “I don’t care.”

Brick grinned. “Sure you don’t.”

Grim didn’t answer. He swung onto his bike.

Brick hesitated. “You think tonight’ll be bad?”

Grim looked at him, really looked at him, and something in his chest tightened.

“I think you listen to Havoc,” Grim said. “And you don’t try to be a hero.”

Brick nodded, serious now. “Got it.”

Grim started the engine. The rumble drowned out the clubhouse noise, but not the feeling in his gut.

Something was coming. He could feel it.

The road opened up in front of him, long and dark and empty. Grim let the bike eat the miles, the steady rumble beneath him usually enough to quiet the noise.

Not tonight.

The air felt wrong, too still and too heavy. The night carried a quiet that didn’t just lurk; it waited.

His phone buzzed in his cut. One vibration. Then another. Then a third.

Havoc’s emergency pattern.

Grim answered before the third buzz finished. “Talk.”

Static crackled, followed by Havoc’s voice — low, tight, nothing like the man laughing on the couch twenty minutes ago.

“La Luna’s hit.”

Grim’s spine went rigid. “Reapers?”

“Yeah. They came in swinging. Civilians everywhere. Brick’s…” Havoc’s breath hitched. “I lost eyes on him.”

Grim’s grip tightened on the handlebars. “How the hell did you lose him?”

“Because I was dragging a bleeding bartender out the back door,” Havoc snapped. “Kid doubled back to help someone. I’m trying to get to him but…”

A crash exploded through the speaker. Shouting. Glass breaking. Someone screaming.

Havoc cursed. “Grim, get here. Now.”

The line went dead.

Grim didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Didn’t breathe.

He twisted the throttle until the engine roared like something feral, the bike leaping forward beneath him. Wind tore at his cut, the night blurring into streaks of shadow and streetlight.

La Luna was ten minutes away.

He’d make it in five.

If the Reapers had spilled blood tonight, if they’d left a mess behind, Grim would make sure they paid for it.