Devil's Game (Reapers MC, #3)(101)

“So what’s your story?” he asked. “I hear rumors about you and Em. You know she’s like a little sister to all of us. I’m real protective of my sisters.”

“Yeah, I’ve gotten that vibe from several of your brothers,” I said, folding my arms behind my head. “She tells me Daddy doesn’t like it when she and Kit bring home their boyfriends.”

“You could say that.”

“Well, I’m not her boyfriend. I’m her old man and I’m not gonna let anyone get between us. You could get around that by killing me, but until then, consider Em taken. How’s that for gossip from Portland?”

He raised a brow and nodded thoughtfully.

“To be honest, it’s more interesting than what we usually hear from Deke,” he said. “He likes to talk about pesky little Devil’s Jacks moving in like they have a right to exist on our territory.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of this?” I asked, considering how many different versions of this conversation I’d heard over the years. “You insult the Jacks, we insult the Reapers, someone gets shot and then we all pout for the next decade?”

I’d caught him off guard, and he laughed.

“Can’t believe I’m sayin’ this, but I kind of like you. Hope I don’t have to bury your body tomorrow.”

“Well, I have to admit,” I said, sitting up and leaning forward on my knees. “I’m kinda hoping you don’t have to bury my body tomorrow, too.”

A scream cut the air, and Horse cocked his head.

“Think that might be your club brother,” he said, studying my reaction.

I shook my head.

“Not one of ours,” I said flatly. “Let me lay it out for you … If that was my brother, I’d be fighting for him right now. I’d rather die than let a Reaper torture a Jack. But him? That’s the cocksucker who tried to kill my woman. One of his bullets missed her head by a couple of inches at most. Hell, he grazed my ear. The only problem I’ve got with this situation is I’m in the wrong room. I should be in there with him, making sure your boys don’t kill him too fast.”

Another scream wailed out.

“Mind if I take a nap?” I asked, catching and holding Horse’s gaze. “Sounds like it could take a while.”

Horse laughed again.

“Make yourself comfortable.”





Chapter Nineteen


I actually managed to drift off for a while, which says something about how tired I was. I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me so much—I hadn’t gotten much rest the night before, most of which I’d spent in Em’s driveway. I woke up when someone kicked the cot, instantly alert. Horse stood at the foot of the bed.

“Apparently our friend has finally decided to talk,” he said. “Oh, and good news. He’s not a Devil’s Jack.”

“No shit,” I muttered, rubbing my face. Felt like a cheese grater. When was the last time I shaved? “I told you he wasn’t.”

“Glad it was the truth. Get up, Pic wants you in on the interrogation. Says you need to hear what this * has been saying. Some pretty serious shit coming to light.”


I followed Horse into a room significantly larger than the one we’d just left. A hint of bleach hung in the air, along with the acrid scent of urine mixed with the copper of blood. Work lights hung from the ceiling from extension cords, and the floor sloped downward toward a drain in the center.

Convenient.

Right over the drain sat a bloodied, dark-haired man in a metal chair, arms and legs tied down tight. His face was a mass of bruised flesh, eyes swelling shut, and his lips were both split wide open. His shoes were off, showing the smashed remains of his toes. Blood dripped from his fingernails, too—or rather, from where his fingernails used to be.

Someone had had a long night.

“This our guy?” I asked, taking a quick glance around. The room held Ruger, Duck, Horse, and three men I didn’t recognize. One seemed to be the designated bad guy, because blood still covered his hands. I shot a quick look at his name patch. Bam Bam.

Picnic came over to stand next to me, his face grim.

“Yup,” he said. “He’s not one of yours.”

It took everything I had not to roll my eyes.

“Yeah, we covered that before,” I said politely. “So whose is he?”

“Cartel,” Pic replied. “Of course, this one’s not important or valuable. They sent him up here to parade around in fake colors, set things up. Cut’s over there, you can take a look in a few … But that’s not the interesting part.”

I cocked a brow in question. I found someone wearing fake Devil’s Jacks colors pretty damned interesting.

Pic walked over to the chair and kicked it. The man moaned.

“Tell my friend here what you just told me,” he ordered.

The man lifted his head, although I had no idea if he could see me through the swelling.

“I’m just a halcone,” he whispered, his English faintly accented. Mexican, I figured. Of course, not a huge leap, given where the cartel was headquartered. Men like this—poor and desperate—made up most of their cannon fodder.

“I follow orders. They told me to go with some gringo boss, come up north. Wear that vest, go to bars, talk to people. Do whatever the boss says. Tonight he said to shoot at people, so that’s what we did.”