Reaper's MC: Hunted By Death

Thiago Carvalho

"Senhor Carvalho."

I didn't turn. "You're interrupting my coffee, André."

"I know."

Interesting. André had worked for me for eleven years. He knew precisely what happened to people who brought insignificant problems to my table before nine in the morning.

I set the porcelain cup onto its saucer. "Then I assume someone is dead."

A pause. "Several people, actually."

I glanced over my shoulder. André stood near the open doors in a charcoal suit despite the heat, tablet tucked beneath one arm. His expression told me everything I needed to know. This wasn't about a shipment being delayed.

"Sit."

He did. I finished another sip of coffee before asking, "What happened?"

"We received confirmation from the United States early this morning."

"Regarding?"

"The Washington operation."

I frowned. We had several interests in Washington. "Be specific."

"Rourke."

That got my attention. I lowered my cup. "What about him?"

"He's dead."

For several seconds, the only sound between us was the ocean. I leaned back in my chair. "How?"

"Gunshot."

"Who?"

"We're still confirming that."

"Then you haven't confirmed very much."

André's jaw tightened. "No, sir."

"What happened to his operation?"

"Compromised."

"How compromised?"

"Completely."

That was unfortunate. Rourke had been useful. Not intelligent enough to become dangerous. Not ambitious enough to become irritating. Useful. Those were increasingly difficult men to find.

"Police?"

"Eventually."

My eyes narrowed. "Eventually?"

"A motorcycle club attacked the operation first."

I almost laughed. "A motorcycle club."

"Yes."

"Destroyed an international trafficking operation?"

"One branch of it."

"And killed Rourke?"

"Yes."

I stared at André. He didn't look away.

"Americans." The word left me on a sigh. André wisely said nothing.

"Which club?"

"The Reapers."

Something tugged at my memory. I'd seen that name. Recently. "Why does that sound familiar?"

André hesitated. That hesitation interested me far more than his answer.

"Because of the woman."

My fingers stopped against the porcelain handle. "What woman?"

Another hesitation. Then... "The American."

I stared at him. He clarified. "The one you purchased."

Ah. Her. Now I remembered. Dark hair. Tattoos. A mouth that looked incapable of remaining closed when instructed. There had been several photographs. Most of the women presented to me looked exactly the same after enough time in captivity. Empty. Terrified. Broken.

She hadn't. She'd looked furious. Even bruised. Even bleeding. Especially bleeding. There had been something alive behind her eyes. Something hateful. I remembered telling André that one. He'd warned me she was considered problematic. I considered that a recommendation.

"What about her?"

"She wasn't delivered."

Silence. I placed my coffee down. Very carefully.

"I paid for her."

"Yes."

"One million four hundred thousand American dollars."

"Yes."

"In full."

"Yes."

"And she wasn't delivered?"

"No."

I looked toward the ocean again. Interesting. "Was she killed?"

"No."

That surprised me. "Then where is she?"

"With the Reapers."

I turned back. André placed the tablet on the table and pushed it toward me. News articles. Photographs. Police reports. Social media posts. Most were useless. Then I saw her. My attention stopped.

The photograph wasn't particularly good. Taken from a distance. She was walking beside several men dressed in black leather, her body battered enough that I could see bandages even beneath her clothing. But she was upright. Alive. Angry. And wearing leather of her own.

I enlarged the image. A patch was partially visible. REAPERS MC.

I studied her face. "She belongs to them?"

"Apparently."

"And Rourke knew this?"

"We believe so."

"Before he sold her?"

"Yes."

A quiet laugh escaped me. That changed things.

I swiped to the next image. Her again. Different angle. One man beside her. Large. Dark hair. Blood across his clothing. His hand rested against her lower back. Possessively.

"Who is he?"

"Knox."

"Last name?"

"We're working on it."

"Position?"

André's mouth tightened. "President."

My eyebrow lifted. "Of the Reapers?"

"Recently."

"What happened to the previous President?"

"Dead."

"Rourke?"

"Indirectly."

I continued scrolling. More photographs. More bikers. One man seemed perpetually close to her. Another appeared in several images. Three. Always three.

"Explain what happened."

André did. Warehouses. Tunnels. Women discovered. Gunfire. Explosions. Police. Dead bikers. Dead traffickers. Rourke cornered. Rourke killed. The woman recovered. The Reapers surviving.

By the time André finished, my coffee had gone cold.

"And my payment?"

"We can pursue reimbursement."

I looked at him. He immediately realized his mistake.

"I apologize."

"Do you believe I'm concerned about the money?"

"No."

"Good."

I stood. André followed. I walked inside. Cool air replaced the Brazilian heat as we entered my study. Books lined two walls from floor to ceiling. The third overlooked the ocean.

André followed me toward the desk.

"Her file."

"Sir?"

"The original."

He hesitated. Then opened his briefcase. He placed a thin black folder in front of me. I opened it.

The first photograph was the one I remembered. Her face. Blood at the corner of her mouth. A bruise spreading along her cheek. Eyes filled with enough hatred to make lesser men uncomfortable.

I turned the page. Female. American. Approximate age: twenty-two. Then the warnings. There were considerably more than I remembered.

HIGH-RISK TRANSPORT. VIOLENT WHEN RESTRAINED. REPEATED ESCAPE ATTEMPTS. COMBAT EXPERIENCE SUSPECTED. EXTREME RESISTANCE TO HANDLERS. DO NOT APPROACH WITHOUT MULTIPLE PERSONNEL.

I smiled. "And people declined her?"

"Eleven buyers."

"Idiots."

"They considered her too dangerous."

"Exactly."

I turned another page. There was a photograph of her restrained in a chair. She'd still managed to bloody someone's nose. I remembered that detail. It was why I'd doubled my original offer.

"You could request repayment."

"I don't want repayment."

"We could purchase someone else."

My gaze slowly lifted. André stopped speaking.

"Someone else?"

"I only meant—"

"I know what you meant."

I closed the folder. "I didn't purchase a dress, André."

"No."

"I didn't order a car that arrived in the wrong color."

"No, sir."

"I selected her."

His expression remained carefully neutral. "Yes."

"Therefore…" I pushed the folder toward him. "…I expect her."

He didn't immediately pick it up. "The Reapers aren't going to hand her over."

For the first time that morning, I genuinely smiled. "I should hope not."

André stared at me.

"That would be terribly disappointing."