Reaper’s Justice (Outlaw Order MC #1)

Chapter 1 - Reaper

I slide onto a barstool at the back corner of this unnamed bar, keeping my back to the wall and my eyes on the room. This place appeared out of nowhere a few weeks ago, and something about it stinks worse than week-old roadkill.

Word on the street says it's a front for something darker. My gut agrees.

The bartender, bald with prison tats, walks up to me.

"Whiskey. Neat," I tell him, not bothering with pleasantries.

He glances at my cut, the black leather vest with the Outlaw Order MC patch prominent on the back, before nodding and turning away. They know who I am. Everyone in Pine Haven does.

Reaper. President of the Outlaw Order. The man mothers warn their daughters about.

I scan the room while pretending to check my phone. Mostly men. Few women, and those present have the hollow-eyed look of being owned rather than being customers. My jaw tightens. If the rumors about trafficking are true, blood's going to spill tonight.

The bartender returns with my drink. "Twenty dollars."

Overpriced. I slide him a twenty without comment, watching as he pockets it without ringing it up. Definitely a front.

"Place is busy for a Tuesday," I comment, voice casual while my eyes remain sharp.

"Private event later."

"Yeah? What kind of event?"

He smirks. "Not for you."

I take a slow sip of whiskey, letting the burn travel down my throat. My phone vibrates with a text from Ghost, my VP.

*In position. Back entrance covered. Blade's watching the parking lot.*

Good. My brothers are ready if shit goes sideways. And in my experience, shit always goes sideways.

The door near the back opens, and three men in expensive suits enter, escorted to a private room. More arrive over the next thirty minutes. All male. All with the entitled swagger of men with too much money and too little conscience.

My phone buzzes again. Emma. My daughter. My heart rate picks up as I check the message.

*Hey. Just wanted to let you know I aced my forensics midterm. Top of the class.*

Pride floods my chest, though I know I deserve none of it. Emma's success is her own, achieved despite me, not because of me. I type back with thumbs too large for the screen.

*That's my girl. Never doubted you for a second.*

I stare at the message, wanting to say more. Wanting to tell her I miss her. That I'm sorry for all she's seen. That the blood on my hands was never meant to touch her life. Instead, I hit send and pocket the phone.

The lights dim suddenly, and a heavyset man in a tailored suit takes position at the front of the room.

The remaining regular patrons are ushered out by security, but they ignore me.

Either they don't see me as a threat, or they're too stupid to recognize danger when it's sitting right in front of them.

"Gentlemen," the suit announces, "please make your way to the special event room. Tonight's merchandise is particularly... fresh."

Merchandise. My blood turns to ice, then quickly boils. I drain my whiskey, leaving the glass on the bar, and follow the last of the men through the door. No one stops me. My size and the menace I naturally project sometimes have their advantages.

The room beyond is arranged like an auction house. Chairs face a small stage with a podium. I take a seat in the back row, texting Ghost under the table.

*Human auction confirmed. Stand by.*

The response is immediate: *Say the word.*

The lights dim further, and the same suit takes the podium.

"Gentlemen, welcome to our exclusive event. We have eight items for your consideration tonight. As always, payment is cash only, and the merchandise will be delivered to your specified location within 24 hours."

My trigger finger itches. Eight women. Eight lives. Eight daughters, maybe sisters, maybe mothers.

Like Emma.

The first girl is brought out. Can't be older than twenty. Drugged, barely able to stand. The bidding starts at $5,000. My stomach churns as men raise numbered paddles, the price climbing for this child who should be worrying about prom, not being sold like cattle.

I memorize faces. Every single one. They'll all pay later.

Three more girls are paraded out. Each one younger and more terrified than the last. I've seen war. I've seen death. But this... this is a special kind of evil.

Then she appears.

The fifth girl stumbles onto the stage, brown hair tangled and dirty, falling in waves around a face too thin from malnutrition.

Unlike the others, she's not drugged. Her green eyes are clear, hollow with despair but burning with a quiet defiance.

She's older than the others, maybe early twenties.

Curves that even the shabby dress they've put her in can't hide.

"Item five is more... developed than our usual offerings," the auctioneer announces with a smirk that makes me want to tear his throat out. "Starting bid is lower at $3,000 due to age and condition."

Condition. Like she's a fucking used car.

Something in my chest breaks. Reforms into something primal and possessive. I've never felt anything like it.

A paddle raises. "$3,000."

Another. "$3,500."

My hand tightens around my phone as I text Ghost: *Now. Back room. Human trafficking confirmed.*

I raise my hand. The auctioneer nods at me. "The gentleman in the back."

"$10,000," I say, my voice carrying through the room.

Murmurs ripple through the crowd. The girl's eyes find mine, and what I see there isn't relief. It's resignation. She thinks I'm just another buyer. Another monster.

She's not entirely wrong.

"$10,000 from the newcomer," the auctioneer says with a greedy smile. "Do I hear $11,000?"

A paddle raises.

"$20,000," I counter immediately.

The girl's eyes widen. The auctioneer practically salivates.

"$20,000 going once—"

"$25,000," calls a voice from my right. Fat man. Sweating through his expensive suit.

I stand up slowly, unfolding to my full height. The room goes quiet as I reach inside my cut and pull out my gun, aiming it directly at the auctioneer's head.

"I think you misunderstood," I say, my voice deadly calm. "She's coming with me. And so are all the others."

Chaos erupts. Security rushes in, but they're met by the other Outlaw Order members crashing through the back door, guns drawn. Shots fire. People scream. The girl on stage drops to her knees, covering her head.

I move through the crowd like a shadow, taking down anyone who gets in my way.

Kneecaps, shoulders, ribs. Not fatal. Pine Haven is our territory, and we're here to protect it, not turn it into a war zone.

Sheriff might not like us, but he tolerates the Outlaw Order because we keep worse elements out.

"Blade!" I bark over the chaos. "That one. The one with the scar. We need him alive and talking."

Blade nods, moving toward the man trying to slip out the side door. He takes him down with a tackle that would make any NFL coach proud.

"Ghost and Wilder, secure the girls! Viper, Ace, watch the exits! Sheriff's probably on his way!"

The room erupts in panic. Buyers scrambling like cockroaches when the light flips on. Security guards reach for weapons but think better of it when they see how outnumbered they are by my men.

I reach the stage just as a guard grabs the girl's arm. I ram my elbow into his throat, not hard enough to crush his windpipe, but enough to make sure he won't be using it for a while. He drops to his knees, gasping, as the girl shrinks back against the wall.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I tell her, keeping my distance despite every instinct screaming to grab her and run. "I'm getting you out of here."

She doesn't believe me. I can see it in her eyes. Why would she?

"Reaper!" Ghost calls. "Sheriff and his deputies, two minutes out! Someone must've called it in!"

I holster my weapon and approach her slowly, hands visible. "You have two choices. Come with me now or wait for the Sheriff. Your call."

For a moment, she just stares at me, this broken, beautiful creature with eyes that have seen too much darkness. Then, with trembling legs, she stands and takes a step toward me.

"What's your name?" I ask her.

Her voice is barely audible, rough from disuse or screaming. I'm not sure which is worse.

"Evelyn."

"I'm Jackson," I tell her, offering my real name instead of my road name. A truth for a truth. "But most people call me Reaper."

Understanding flickers in those green eyes. She knows what I am. In her mind, she's trading one devil for another.

"The sheriff will be here soon," she says, her voice stronger than I expected.

"Yes."

"And you're leaving."

"Yes."

She swallows hard, looking around at the chaos, at the other girls being helped by my brothers. "Those men who were bidding..."

"Won't touch you or anyone else ever again," I promise, and it's one I intend to keep with blood if necessary.

She takes another step toward me. "I'll come with you."

I don't smile, haven't truly smiled in years, but I nod. "Smart choice."

The wail of sirens grows louder as I lead her through the back exit. Blade has one of the guys in a chokehold, dragging him toward our vehicles.

"Got him, Prez," Blade grunts. "He tried to swallow something. Some kind of pill. Stopped him before he could."

"Good. We need answers." I turn to Ghost, who's helping the other girls into the van. "Get them to the safe house. Call the Doc. These girls need medical attention."

Ghost nods. "What about you?"

I look down at Evelyn, who's watching the exchange with wary eyes. "I'm taking her with me. Back to the clubhouse."

Ghost raises an eyebrow but knows better than to question me in front of others. "And the guy we caught?"

"The shed. No one touches him until I get there."

And as I look at Evelyn again, I know I'm fucked. This woman, this stranger I just rescued from hell, has somehow reached inside my chest and wrapped her fingers around whatever's left of my soul.

And the most terrifying part? I'm going to let her keep it.