Prologue
“Rip his head off!”
The crowd cheered around me; their enthusiasm at watching two men trying to kill each other was enough to make anyone think twice about fighting in this underground world. No one who signed up for these bouts aspired to someday make it to the pro MMA, myself included. I did it because I was a fuckin’ machine. I’d been trained to fight since I was thirteen years old. I was precise. Lethal if necessary. While I’d never killed anyone in the ring and had no desire to do so, I’d take all measures necessary to win. The prize money was nothin’ to sneeze at either. It was my way of contributing to our MC.
Focused on besting my opponent, I ignored the outrageous demands of the spectators. Instead, I honed all my training, steadied my nerves, and calmed my breathing, which was a feat in itself given how quickly I danced around the cage, my arms and legs working together to attempt to take this fucker out so I could be done with this fight and look for her.
While I learned never to underestimate my rival, I hadn’t expected this guy, whose name I didn’t care to remember, to last this long. He was at least thirty pounds too heavy, his gut hangin’ over the waistband of his shorts. And while his extra weight slowed his movements, he continued to try and best me, even after I broke two of his ribs. If I had the time to care, I’d respect the bastard for his perseverance.
“End this now, Linc,” Jagger yelled behind me. He shouted something else, but I didn’t hear him, too busy dodging the fist headed straight for the side of my head.
Leaning a few inches to the right, his hand flew past me the same time I hit him with a vicious uppercut, knocking him off his feet. Before he even hit the ground, he was out cold.
There was no time for celebration or showboating the win. I jerked my chin toward Jagger and hopped out of the ring, a flash of dark hair catching my attention in the back of the room.
Before I could tell him to follow me, my feet propelled me toward her, disregarding Marek’s warnings and shoving aside not only my safety but the protection of everyone else in the club.
My brain shut down as my body bristled, every step closer warning me of the consequences.
But I didn’t care.
I had to save her.
1
The metallic aroma of blood infiltrated my nostrils, and while I’d love to say I wasn’t used to the scent, I was. Hell, I was even used to the smell of desperation, but this shit was unbelievable. I stood next to Kaden in a cloud of confusion, staring at the circle of men surrounding Tag, who was strapped to the table and unconscious.
“Stop!” Kaden shouted when Cutter raised his fist to strike the guy again. “What did he do?”
Our president moved away from the table and stalked toward us, his eyes focused solely on his son, his hands clenching into fists the closer he approached. The way he glared at Kaden made both of us take a step back. He looked set to explode, and I didn’t want to be the one to get hit with the aftermath.
When father and son stood toe to toe, Marek growled, “He’s a fuckin’ Reaper.”
His words penetrated my ears, but my brain refused to absorb the words. There was no way Tag was a Reaper, part of that cesspool of a club. From what we’d witnessed during our interactions with them, and from the stories we heard over the years, their moral compass had been destroyed long ago, if it ever existed in the first place.
Not only had Tag moved back home to care for his sick mother, but he’d helped us when a fight broke out at Indulge, and again by giving us a detailed description of two members of the Reapers, the ones we thought were responsible for setting fire at that same strip club. If he was indeed one of them, which I still didn’t believe, why would he set up his brothers? Why would he say something knowing we’d retaliate against our sworn enemy?
My mind drifted back to what Kaden had told me about the night of the blaze, which was that Tag had gone outside to grab his cell from his truck. Then when he came back into the club, he’d pulled Kaden aside to tell him about two shady-lookin’ men he saw come around the side of the building. Not long after, smoke started to fill one of the back rooms of Indulge.
Someone had set a fire, and all things pointed to the Savage Reapers, especially after Tag had described the two guys in detail. They were the same ones we fought after my bout. The same ones who held her hostage.
Was it a coincidence Tag had left Indulge right before the fire started?
Had he helped set it?
Or had he truly only gone outside to grab his phone from his truck?
Was his mother even sick?
Did he even have a mother who was still alive?
The more questions I asked myself, the more confused I became, realizing I didn’t know Tag all that well. But my gut still told me he wasn’t a bad guy. My instincts told me he wasn’t a Reaper like Marek believed.
I pulled a breath deep into my lungs before releasing it. “What makes you think he’s a Reaper?” I asked, careful to keep my tone calm. Marek was wired to blow, and while I didn’t want my simple question to be the reason everything went to shit, I had to ask. The guys were set on killing Tag, their resolve to end his life disturbing. The least our leader could do was give us some sort of justification.
“I know he is.”
“How?” I pushed my luck, but I had to in order to be able to live with myself afterward. I’d never been involved in ending someone’s life, let alone cold-blooded murder, and I wasn’t about to start now. My inner voice screamed at me to shut up, to trust Marek and the other guys, including my ol’ man. That they wouldn’t do something like this, take such drastic measures unless they felt they had to.
Kaden and I had heard stories about life in the club before the war ended between us and the Reapers, but the tales were edited. I suspected they’d done some bad shit, but whenever we asked them about it, they’d simply say “We handled it” or “We did what we needed to.” They never admitted to killing anyone, and while Kaden and I could only assume that’s what their coded talk meant, we didn’t know for sure.
“Let’s get on with it, Prez,” Hawke shouted, gathering his dark hair and tying it back, his features more prominent without the shield of his strands, the look in his eyes unwavering. Then I looked at Cutter, who was dressed in all black and wielding a large knife, his stare laser-focused. Jagger stood next to him, a look of worry traveling over his face before he looked to my father. They both glanced in our direction, specifically at Marek, before turning their attention back to each other, sharing a look of apprehension. It was like they feared what our leader would do, but more so for his safety, if that made any sense, which it sure as hell didn’t to me.
Kaden grabbed Marek’s arm as he moved to turn away from us. “Dad. What’s goin’ on?” His voice was eerily quiet, but I had a sense he didn’t want to fuel his father’s fury. To add to the direness of the situation, Kaden never called his ol’ man Dad while in the company of the club members. He either called him Prez or occasionally Marek. I adopted the same habit, only referring to my father as ol’ man, Dad or Pops while at home and away from our brothers.
“I told you. He’s a Reaper. He infiltrated our club, and you two”—he looked to me quickly before focusing back on his son—“let it happen.” There was a shroud of rage in Marek’s eyes, but it was more than that. I thought I detected a spark of desperation as well, but I couldn’t be sure because he averted his stare and looked to the ground. His chest rose and fell several times before he picked his head up again. “You need proof?”