Page 20 of Claimed By The Club

GHOST

I keep a vigil on the clubhouse’s side entrance, posted near a grimy window that overlooks the yard.

Dawn light filters through the glass, revealing dust motes suspended in the still air.

A scuffed wooden bench supports my weight.

Behind me, the corridor leads to a small armory and storage area, a place we’ve fortified since rumors of the Iron Reapers’ presence in Clearwater Springs escalated.

My muscles remain tense, senses tuned to any hint of movement.

I’ve been on edge all morning, thanks to the scuffle at Dolly’s store yesterday.

Sierra nearly got herself snatched by one of those thugs, and I’m still nursing the bruise on my cheek from the exchange.

She managed to slip away, no real injuries, but the whole situation highlighted how close danger is creeping.

I rub a thumb over my bruised knuckles, recalling how it felt to slam the Reaper’s head into a shelf.

My tolerance for threats is zero, especially when Sierra’s involved.

That stray thought triggers a flicker of guilt, along with a memory of the brief, heated kiss we shared behind the clubhouse.

An echo of her soft mouth lingers. I know it complicates everything, especially with our situation now.

But reason isn’t winning any arguments in my head right now.

Footsteps in the hallway make me glance up. Viper—Carter—approaches, hands shoved in his pockets. His shoulders look tense, jaw clenched. He stops when he notices my stance.

“You got a minute?” he asks quietly.

I nod. “What’s going on?”

He edges closer, lowering his voice. “We got intel. A small group of Reapers is roaming near Old Creek Road. They might be scouting or moving weapons. Axel caught wind of it. Frost wants us to intercept.”

A jolt of adrenaline courses through my veins. “How many are we talking?”

“Four or five, max,” he replies. “Could be more if they’re hidden. We’re taking a small team. Frost wants me, you, and maybe one prospect to run backup.”

I push off the bench, straightening. “When do we head out?”

“In an hour,” he says. “Gear up. We’ll meet out by the bikes.”

He turns and walks away, tension visible in every step.

Viper might be the youngest of us, but he’s fiercely protective.

If these Reapers are sneaking around, it’s a direct threat we can’t ignore.

I nod to myself and head toward the armory to grab my preferred handgun and a couple of knives.

My focus narrows to the objective: confront them, send a message, keep Sierra out of harm’s way.

Thirty minutes later, I’m standing with Viper, Frost, and Axel near the chain-link fence at the compound’s edge.

The harsh morning sun casts long shadows across the dusty ground.

A few patched members linger, waiting for final instructions.

We’re traveling light—two bikes, plus a pickup.

The plan is to head to Old Creek Road, try to catch the Reapers before they slip away.

Frost meets my gaze, eyes glinting with steel. “Ghost, you ride with Viper. Axel’s in the truck with one prospect. I’ll be trailing behind. We keep radio contact. If it’s a setup, we pull back.”

I give a brief nod. “Understood.”

The gate slides open, and we mount our vehicles.

Viper straddles his Harley, motioning for me to climb on.

I prefer riding solo, but this time we need to move quickly.

I hop on behind him, stowing my weapon in a hidden holster.

As the engines roar, dust plumes in the air.

My heart rate spikes with that familiar rush of battle readiness.

We roll onto the main highway, the wind battering my face.

I grip the seat, scanning the horizon for any sign of trouble.

My mind flicks to Sierra, left behind in the clubhouse.

She’s safe, presumably working on the bar’s marketing strategy or sorting finances.

That knowledge keeps me calmer than I should admit.

Part of me can’t stop replaying the way her eyes looked yesterday, brimming with gratitude when I stepped in to protect her.

After ten minutes of highway travel, we veer onto a deserted stretch of cracked pavement lined with scrub brush and tumbleweeds.

Old Creek Road meanders through rocky terrain, an ideal spot for shady deals.

The next bend reveals a worn-out barn leaning precariously, roof half-caved in.

Axel’s truck pulls ahead, the prospect scanning the surroundings with binoculars.

I squint against the sun, searching for any glint of metal or movement.

Suddenly, Viper curses under his breath.

A cluster of shapes materializes near the barn—motorcycles, silhouettes in the hazy distance.

My pulse ramps up. The Reapers are definitely here.

We slow, parking the bikes behind a cluster of boulders for partial cover.

The truck eases off the road, dust swirling as the engine cuts.

We gather behind the rocks, firearms at the ready. Frost crawls forward to observe through a pair of binoculars. “Four bikes, six men total,” he mutters. “One of them is rummaging in the barn. Could be stashing guns or contraband.”

Axel’s jaw sets. “We take them now?”

Frost’s eyes flick between me and Viper. “We approach quietly, see if we can gauge their purpose. If they’re just passing through, we might scare them off with minimal force. If they’re planning something bigger, we shut it down.”

Viper grins, though there’s no humor in it. “I’m ready.”

We split into pairs. Viper and I circle around the barn’s flank, creeping behind scraggly bushes and a dried-up trough.

My heart thuds, adrenaline surging with each step.

The Reapers’ voices drift across the stillness, muffled but aggressive.

I can’t make out their words, but the tone suggests they’re on edge. Perfect. Maybe they sense we’re near.

Viper taps my shoulder, pointing. Two Reapers stand guard near a rickety side entrance. One is tall and broad-shouldered, sporting a shaved head. The other has a wiry frame and a patch that marks him as a mid-level enforcer. We tuck ourselves behind a rusted tractor, waiting for the right moment.

I glance around to confirm Frost’s position, but he’s obscured by the barn’s corner. That means it’s on Viper and me to handle these two. Viper raises a brow, silently asking if I’m ready. I respond with a single nod. We move in unison, covering the short distance like ghosts at dawn.

The big Reaper sees us first. His eyes widen, and he reaches for his weapon.

I lunge, grabbing his arm before he can unholster.

We tumble against the barn’s wall, the impact jarring my shoulder.

Viper engages the second Reaper, a sharp punch connecting with the man’s jaw. The crack echoes in the dusty air.

The big guy snarls, swinging me around. I brace a foot against the wall and pivot, using my momentum to drive my elbow into his gut.

He wheezes, momentarily winded. Without hesitation, I sweep his legs, sending him sprawling.

A wave of savage satisfaction grips me as I press my knee to his chest, pinning him.

He’s a big man, but I know exactly where to apply force.

Viper dispatches the other Reaper with a well-placed strike. Then he pulls out zip ties, swiftly binding the man’s hands. I do the same to my opponent, ignoring his wheezed threats. Adrenaline floods my veins, fueling an icy calm. This is what I excel at—neutralizing danger before it escalates.

A muffled shout from inside the barn indicates Frost and Axel have engaged the others. My pulse hammers. “Stay with these two,” I instruct Viper, pressing the Reaper’s shoulder until he groans. “I’ll back up Frost.”

Viper nods, hauling his captive upright. The battered side entrance stands ajar, and I slip inside. Dust motes float in the golden sunlight streaming through broken slats. The barn smells like old hay and grease. I move carefully, scanning for movement. Distant scuffling draws me deeper.

Rounding a stack of crates, I spot two more Reapers cornered by Frost and Axel.

One tries to lunge with a switchblade, but Frost disarms him in a fluid motion, twisting the man’s arm until the knife clatters to the floor.

Axel levels a gun at the second Reaper, forcing him to freeze. The tension in the air hums.

I hear footsteps behind me. Whirling around, I come face-to-face with another Reaper, presumably the sixth man.

He wields a short crowbar. The expression on his face is pure menace.

Without warning, he swings for my head. I dodge just in time, pain shooting through my shoulder as I twist away.

The sound of metal clanging against the crate reverberates in the enclosed space.

He sneers, winding up for another strike.

I see an opening and slam my forearm against his wrist, forcing the crowbar free.

He staggers, cursing, but recovers fast. We trade blows, fists connecting with dull thuds.

My jaw aches from a glancing hit, but I grit my teeth, driving my knee into his midsection.

He gasps, stumbling back. Before he can recover, I hook a punch across his temple, sending him to the dirty floor.

My breathing heaves. My knuckles sting, likely split open again.

The Reaper lies there, groaning, eyes unfocused.

With swift efficiency, I snatch zip ties from my belt and secure his wrists.

A quick glance shows Frost and Axel have subdued their targets.

Four Reapers, plus the two outside, all neutralized.

My body hums with leftover aggression, an edge that takes time to fade after a fight.

This might be considered a victory—no gunfire, no major injuries, a handful of thugs captured.

Still, I can’t shake the nagging feeling that it’s too easy.

The real threat is probably out there, planning something bigger.