Chapter Eighteen
The night of the seventy-two-hour deadline arrived with a heavy, suffocating silence that hung over the entire compound.
Downstairs, the main clubhouse bar was closed to the public. There was no loud rock music, no clinking of glasses, and no rowdy laughter. Instead, the building was filled with the low, rumbling voices of the patched members gathering in the chapel—the private meeting room at the back of the clubhouse where the Reapers made their most critical, life-or-death decisions.
In Jake’s quarters, I stood near the window, peering through a small c***k in the heavy curtains. The courtyard was lined with parked motorcycles, their chrome frames gleaming under the harsh security lights. My hands, still wrapped in thin white bandages, pressed against the cold glass.
