Page 8 of Razor

“It happened a few days ago. A college student was abducted from the parking lot in full view of the students. Two cars boxed her in, and she was dragged into one of them, and then they sped off. Nobody has seen her since.”

I swear my blood is boiling, but I maintain my calm.

“Did the kids film it?”

“There are a few reels on social media, but the license plates are missing. Such a pretty girl, too. New to these parts and a favorite already with the locals.”

I hate how hard my heart is pounding as I picture Sunday being that student, but it sounds exactly like her. Nobody could dislike her; it’s impossible, and Dorothy may as well have stabbed me in the heart with my blade.

She says with concern.

“I hope she’s the reason you’re here, stranger, because if you’re looking for her, I’m guessing she has a chance.”

She heads off before waiting for a response, and my heart slams against my chest. Dorothy is right. If anyone is finding Sunday, it’s me, and when I do, those fuckers who took her have taken their last breath.

* * *

After forcing myself to eat,telling myself it’s in Sunday’s best interests that I’m fighting fit, I head to Satan’s Fury. The collegecan wait because I have a feeling that nothing goes on in this town without their knowledge, and Sultan is about to spill what he knows, even if I have to beat it out of him.

I leave my leathers and bike in the back of the van and head there without the badge of war that the Twisted Reaper insignia promises. I need them on side, not their guards raised, and as I pull into their yard, I note a few prospects smoking on the front step.

They jump up when I slam the door shut to the van, my gaze hard and my attitude, don’t fuck with me.

“You lost, man?”

It’s obvious these dipshits didn’t get the memo and yet before I can speak, a loud voice rumbles, “Fuck off.”

They turn and their faces drop as a huge bear of a man stands there, his gaze pissed.

“You must be Sultan.”

I respect the president’s badge on his jacket, and he nods, flipping his thumb in the direction of the clubhouse.

“Excuse my men. They just pulled up.”

His gaze is deadly as he turns it on the prospects who stare open-mouthed at their president as if they can’t believe he left the confines of the clubhouse at all.

“Welcome to hell, Reaper.”

That one word is enough to freeze the two men who stare at me as if I’m the fucking second coming.

“It’s good to be here, Prez.”

He nods, acknowledging the respect of my greeting, and as he turns, he growls, “We’ll head to my office.”

He adds to the guys watching us, “Bring some cold beers.”

I follow him inside, noting the old-fashioned clubhouse that has definitely seen better days. Paint is peeling, wood is rotting, and the stench of sweat and beer is almost suffocating.

It reminds me of how the other half live. The Reapers are a military unit rather than an MC club, and we respect our surroundings. Not many realize that is our role. To other clubs, we are the best and the most feared, and a visit from The Reapers spells certain death if you piss us off.

Ryder King is our president, and his name strikes fear into the hearts of anyone who has heard of the legend, which is why it gained me a swift invitation to speak with the top man in hell.

* * *

We reach his office,a small room with a beat-up desk and two leather chairs where the fabric is exposing the workings inside.

Framed photos on the wall of his club members reveals a motley bunch of renegades. His desk is strewn with discarded papers and cigarette ends crushed into a large ashtray. It amuses me to picture Ryder’s administrator, Lucy, in this office. She would explode with anger if she faced this tragedy, and as I take my seat opposite the great man, I hope my visit here is a short one.