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If we played the reaper, the Tonopah Royal Bastards MC invented the dealer of death. That club boasted its own unique set of skills and held secrets that made ours look like child’s play. We had a reaper. Theywerethe grim reapers.
“Get to the bar and grab a drink,” Devil ordered. “It’s gonna be a long night.”
He was right about that.
I pulled Devil aside an hour later, needing to finalize the plan. “You calling church in the morning?”
“Yeah. I’m giving everyone the night to relax. Tomorrow, we plan the takedown of this fucking cult.”
“Good. What about Henny?”
He chuckled. “You worried she’ll leave? I’m not.”
“I do,” I conceded, “She’s in danger. We have Mike Huber, but we’ve only started a shitstorm, pres. War is coming. That fucking cult and the Huber family won’t back down.”
“I agree. That’s why we’re asking the Tonopah chapter for help. Grim won’t turn a brother in need away.”
“I didn’t think of that.”
Why not ask the real reapers to help us with our problem?
“I guess that’s why you’re the pres,” I joked.
He laughed, but it was laced with something dark and insidious—a hint of what we shared with our brothers in the RBMC. We were about to take a ride through hell.
I just hoped we survived.
THE MORNING DAWNEDwith a bright blue sky, warm as summer, as I glanced out the window. A light mist hovered above the grass and rolled in the wind as I rubbed sleep from my eyes.
I sat up, pushing the blanket aside, when I felt something crinkle on the bed. “What the hell?” I asked out loud.
My fingers wrapped around a thick padded envelope. I couldn’t help opening it and sliding out the documents inside. A list of names, addresses, email accounts, and affiliations, all with letterhead. The Sect of Primordial Light. Those arrogant motherfuckers believed no one could take them down.
“We live to serve. We die to serve.”
Their fucking oath.
This was the package Devil and the Reaper’s Vale needed to track down and eliminate that fucking cult.
I rushed to my feet, prepared to run this to Devil when another slip of paper drifted to the floor. Amelia’s handwriting stood out as I bent to retrieve it.
Dear Henny,
Neither of us is great at goodbyes.
I’ll keep this short and sweet.
Oh, shit. No. I knew she didn’t do this and run off, taking Josie with her.
I found him. Your foster parent.
Here’s his information:
Jim Parsons
An address followed the name.
My hand trembled so hard that I almost dropped the letter.
