The first guy doesn't even see it coming. I'm on him before he can react, my fist connecting with his jaw hard enough to spin him around. He crashes into a shelf, and the whole thing comes down on top of him.
The second one pulls a knife. Amateur move. I catch his wrist, twist until I hear bones crack, and relieve him of the weapon. He's on the ground screaming before his partner even finishes falling.
The SAA is smarter. He backs toward the door, reaching for his phone. "You're dead, Saint. You and your whole club…"
I throw the knife. It embeds in the doorframe two inches from his head, and he freezes.
"Leave," I say quietly. "Tell your president that if any of you come near her again, what I did to your boys here will look like a fucking massage."
He runs.
I turn to Ava, who's struggling to her feet. There's blood on her face, bruises forming on her cheek. Fury ignites in my chest, and it’s hot and consuming.
"Hold still," I mutter, pulling out my pocketknife to cut the zip ties.
Her hands come free, and she rubs her wrists. "You shouldn't have come."
"You're welcome."
"I'm serious. You just assaulted three Reapers on their turf. Do you know what that means?"
"Yeah. It means they'll think twice before touching you again." I cup her chin, tilting her face up to examine the cut. "You need stitches."
"I need to get out of here before more of them show up." She pulls away from my touch, grabbing her bag from where it's been tossed in the corner. "How did you know where I was?"
"Your friend called, said you gave her my number."
"I didn't…" She stops, her eyes widening. "Someone's setting this up, they wanted you to come here."
The words barely leave her mouth before I hear it: motorcycles. A lot of them.
"Time to go," I say, grabbing her hand.
Chapter 2
Ava
The roar of motorcycles fills the night air, getting closer with every second. Ice Pick's hand wraps around mine, calloused and rough, pulling me through the maze of the Reapers' warehouse with a confidence that suggests he's memorized the layout, which he probably has. Men like him make it their business to know the terrain of their enemies. And men like him don’t move alone unless they have to. If he’s here without his brothers at his back, it’s because time ran out and consequences be damned.
"This way," he growls, taking a sharp left down a corridor that smells like stale beer and marijuana.
My head's still spinning from the beating, the cut above my eyebrow throbbing in time with my pulse. I stumbled into this, thinking I could play the role, convince them I was just a reporter looking for a story about MC culture. Instead, they'd seen right through me, found the wire I'd stupidly thought was well hidden, and decided to make an example.
If Ice Pick hadn't shown up when he did, I'd be in pieces right now.
The question is why he showed up at all. Saint’s Outlaws don’t trade women. They don’t sell them, and don’t ignorethem. I don’t know their rules yet,but I know the look in Ice Pick’s eyes when the Reaperssaid missing women. That wasn’t curiosity. That was a line being crossed.
We burst through a side door into an alley, and the cool night air hits my face like a slap. My legs are shaking, adrenaline and fear mixing into something that makes me want to either throw up or scream. I do neither. I can't afford to fall apart, not now.
"Where's your bike?" I ask, scanning the alley for his Harley.
"Two blocks east. Can you run?"
"Can I run? I just survived three Reapers trying to beat information out of me. I can run a goddamn marathon if it means getting out of here."
His mouth quirks into something that might be a smile under different circumstances. "Good. Stay close."
We take off at a sprint, my messenger bag bouncing against my hip with every step. Behind us, the sound of the Reapers organizing their pursuit echoes through the streets. Shouts. Engines revving, and the slam of doors and boots on pavement.
