CLAIMED BY THE REAPER KING

CHAPTER 5

The messenger kid backed away into the shadows, his hands still raised, before turning and bolting down the alley into the dark.

I made a move to follow him, but Knox grabbed the shoulder of my prospect vest, his grip like a steel vise. He yanked me backward before I could clear the garage overhang.

"Let go of me, Knox!" I wrenched my shoulder out of his grip, breathing heavily. "You heard him. Colt has the rest of Jaxon's files at the sawmill. I am going."

"You are not going anywhere," Knox said, stepping directly into my path to block the alley exit. "Colt is drawing a target on your chest. You step foot in that abandoned mill, and the Vipers will put a bullet in you before you even cross the threshold."

"He said midnight!" I snapped, my voice echoing off the corrugated metal walls of the bay. "That gives me twenty minutes. If I do not show up, he burns everything Jaxon died for!"

Drake walked out of the back doors of the clubhouse, holding a half-empty glass of whiskey. He stopped next to Knox, looking between the two of us with a sharp, mean grin. "What was all that noise? Who was the kid?"

"A runner from Colt," Knox answered, his eyes never leaving my face. "He wants Raven at the old sawmill in twenty minutes. Claiming he has the rest of Jaxon's papers."

Drake let out a short, bark-like laugh and took a slow sip from his glass. "It is a trap. Pure and simple. The Vipers want to draw us out into the open so they can start a turf war over the border routes. Let him burn the paper, Knox. It is probably fake anyway."

"It isn't fake!" I yelled, turning on Drake. "Jaxon kept duplicate notes! He knew you officers would cover this up!"

"Watch your tongue, Prospect," Drake growled, his smile vanishing as he stepped closer. "You are wearing our patch on your back, but you are talking like an enemy. You accuse us of murder one more time, and I will tear that vest off you myself."

"Enough, Drake!" Knox's voice cut through the damp air like a blade.

He looked down at me, his jaw clenching so tight a muscle twitched near his ear. "You wanted to be a prospect, Raven. That means you follow orders. My order is that you stay in this garage, finish wiping down Barnaby's tools, and stay off the road tonight."

"And what are you going to do?" I asked, my voice dropping into a desperate whisper. "Are you going to let him burn my brother's life work?"

"I am going to handle Colt," Knox said flatly. He turned to Drake. "Get Big Mike and two bikes. We meet at the perimeter gates in five."

"You got it, Boss," Drake said, glancing back at me with a triumphant smirk before heading inside.

Knox turned on his heel and began walking toward his motorcycle parked near the main building entrance.

"Barnaby!" I called out into the dark garage bay.

The old mechanic poked his head out from under the pickup truck, a grease-stained rag clutched in his hand. He looked at me, then looked at Knox's retreating back, shaking his head slowly.

"Don't do it, kid," Barnaby warned softly, his voice gravelly from years of shop fumes. "I knew your dad. He was a bull-headed man, and it got him six feet under. You run off to that mill alone, and nobody in this club is coming to save you."

"I am not asking for anyone to save me," I said, dropping the heavy wooden broom onto the concrete floor.

I sprinted past Barnaby, past the maintenance pit, and slipped through the side door that led to the dark parking lot behind the clubhouse. My old sedan sat parked near the perimeter fence, its engine cold in the damp night air. I fished my keys out of my pocket, my fingers trembling so hard I almost dropped them into the gravel.

I climbed into the driver's seat, pulled the door shut quietly, and turned the key. The engine coughed twice before roaring to life. I did not turn on my headlights. I shifted into gear, backed out slowly, and took the back exit gate that cleared the property line toward the timber roads.

The old sawmill sat five miles up the mountain, hidden deep in the pine woods off Highway 9. The rain started again as I drove, big fat drops smashing against my windshield. My heart hammered against my ribs, echoing in my ears above the sound of the wipers. Colt's words kept repeating in my head. Ask Knox why he was at your ranch forty minutes before your dad drew his last breath.

Ten minutes later, I killed my engine and coasted the last hundred yards down the rusted access road.

The sawmill was a collapsing wooden hulk, its iron roof rusted through, surrounded by towers of rotting timber logs. The white light of a single lantern flickered through the broken windows of the main office on the second floor.

I grabbed a heavy steel tire iron from under my passenger seat, shoved my car door open, and stepped out into the mud. The smell of pine sap and wet decay was overpowering.

I climbed the rotting wooden staircase that hugged the outside wall of the mill structure, my boots squeaking on the wet steps. The door to the upper office hung loose on its hinges.

I pushed the door open with the tip of the tire iron.

Colt was sitting on an flipped-over wooden crate in the center of the room, a lit lantern resting on the floor beside his boots. In his lap rested a thick, water-damaged leather binder with my father's initials stamped into the corner in gold foil.

"You came alone," Colt said, raising his eyes. A faint smile touched the corner of his lips. "Smart girl. Or stupid girl. I haven't decided yet."

"Where did you get that binder?" I demanded, raising the tire iron in front of me, my knuckles turning white against the metal.

"Jaxon gave it to me two nights before he died," Colt said, running his thumb over the gold-stamped letters. "Your brother realized that Knox wasn't just running border routes. Knox was funneling club money out of the county to buy up your family's old land."

"You are lying," I breathed, my legs feeling suddenly heavy.

"Am I?" Colt stood up slowly, picking up the binder and holding it out toward me. "Take a look for yourself, Raven. Page forty-two. Read the signatures."

I stepped forward, reaching out my free hand to grab the binder.

Before my fingers could touch the leather, the door behind me was kicked off its hinges with a deafening crash that splintered the wood frame.

Knox stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, a black heavy-caliber pistol held steady in his hand, pointed straight at Colt's chest. Drake and Big Mike stepped up right behind him, their weapons drawn.

"Step away from her, Colt," Knox growled, his gray eyes burning with lethal intent.

Colt didn't flinch. He smirked, pulling the binder back toward his chest. "You are too late, Knox. She knows."

"Raven, get behind me right now," Knox ordered, his voice booming in the small room.

"No!" I shouted, looking between Knox's gun and the binder in Colt's hands. "Knox, show me what is in that book! Tell me the truth!"

"He is using you, Raven!" Knox yelled, taking a step into the room, his eyes flicking to me for a fraction of a second. "That binder is full of Viper forged documents!"

"It has my father's handwriting on it!" I screamed back.

Drake stepped around Knox, pointing his handgun directly at Colt's head. "Enough of this talking. Knox, give the word and we end this right now."

"Wait!" I yelled, throwing myself directly between Drake's gun and Colt. "Don't shoot!"

A sharp, deafening gun blast echoed through the wooden room, the muzzle flash blinding me for a split second. Pain flared instantly along the upper curve of my left shoulder, hot and sharp like a branding iron, tearing clean through the leather of my prospect vest.

I stumbled backward, my back slamming against the wooden wall as the heavy binder tumbled out of Colt's hand, hitting the floor and sliding directly into the dark shadows beneath the desk.