Page 42 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)

BISHOP

I climb the rusted metal ladder on the back of the clubhouse, my boots scuffing against the rungs as I haul myself up onto the roof.

The night air feels thick with smoke and anticipation, hickory wood burning down below and filling my lungs with the promise of a meal I’ll probably never get to taste.

I ignore the pang in my stomach and unsling the rifle from my shoulder, my fingers moving with practiced ease as I check the chamber, adjust the scope, and find a good angle behind a stack of old cinderblocks.

From this vantage point, the whole yard is laid out beneath me, like a chessboard in shadow and dim light. I spot Reaper and Katya walking out to the middle of the open space, just where Novikov’s headlights catch their outlines and make them easy to see. Exposed, maybe, but I know the truth.

Hidden in the dark, tucked behind piles of scrap metal, crouched under the porch or lurking inside the club’s battered trucks, half the Ravagers are already locked and loaded. They’re invisible from down below, but up here, I see the faint movement, the careful shifts of men waiting for a sign.

The barbecue is still burning, left abandoned when the warning came through. The scent of grilled steak floats up, warm and familiar, mixing with the cold bite of the night. My stomach growls and I curse softly, wishing this whole mess could have waited another hour.

I sight through the scope, putting Novikov’s black sedan in the crosshairs for a heartbeat, then shifting to sweep the rest of his crew fanning out into the yard.

I count heads, mark locations. Every second brings me closer to the calm I only ever find in these moments, every detail falling into place. This is what I do best.

I think back, for just a second, to earlier tonight—me up a tree in Novikov’s estate, half-hidden in the dark, a flask of cheap bourbon in one hand and the rifle balanced across my lap.

I had a front-row seat to the chaos, watching those Russian goons scurry around the garden, shouting into radios and waving flashlights, convinced they were in control.

I barely had to move, just found the thickest branch, settled my back against the trunk, and let the night pass by underneath me. Best time I’ve had in a while.

Nothing to do but wait and watch, the city lights glittering in the distance and the tension of a hunt humming in my bones.

When Reaper’s plan snapped into action, I got to pick my moments—first the warning shot, then keeping my sights trained on Novikov’s bodyguard, ready to ruin someone’s whole year if they so much as twitched wrong.

The way those bastards froze up when the bullet cracked past their boss’s ear? Worth every mosquito bite and cramp.

Now, on the roof, I have a clear view of everything.

I watch Reaper squeeze Katya’s hand, see her searching his face for any flicker of doubt.

I know him well enough to recognize that look—focused, all-in, like he’s already decided how this ends.

Katya doesn’t flinch, just stands there with her chin high, refusing to give Novikov even a hint of fear.

I respect that. Most people, put in the spotlight with a man like Novikov barking threats, would fold or run. Not her.

The Russians shift around their boss, their weapons visible even from here, but none of them move too fast. They know something’s off.

Maybe they caught a glimpse of the bikes tucked away or heard the click of a safety from the shadows.

Doesn’t matter. They’re in the open now, and as long as I have line of sight, nobody gets a clear shot at Reaper or Katya.

I let the rifle rest, finger loose along the trigger guard.

My pulse is even, my breathing slow. Down below, the barbecue smoke drifts over the yard, hiding the scent of gun oil and nerves.

Novikov’s voice booms out again, demanding his bride, threatening fire and destruction.

I smile, watching Reaper shake his head, watching Dog give the signal to the guys waiting on the perimeter.

Reaper presses his earbud, head tilted, every muscle in his body tensed for whatever’s coming through the wire.

He doesn’t speak, just listens, eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the yard.

When he finally lowers his hand, he holds up the OK sign, two fingers circled, aimed right at me.

It’s supposed to mean things are under control, but something in the way he moves tells me he’s not as sure as he wants the others to believe.

Down below, the Bratva start making their approach, fanning out across the yard, their boots crunching the gravel with every step.

They move quietly, but not quietly enough for me to lose track.

I count each figure as they slip into the open, guns in hand, eyes hunting for movement in the shadows.

Their faces are cold, set, the kind of men who’ve done things they never speak of in daylight.

Novikov is front and center, shoulders broad and stiff, mouth set in a line.

He wears a long dark coat, the collar up against his neck.

I’m surprised he came here tonight, instead of just sending men to do his dirty job.

But I guess Zaika must have forced his hand.

Then I spot a handful of men moving with them, a few steps behind the main group, not quite blending in.

Something about their faces sticks out—high cheekbones, sharp jaws, the same pale eyes I’ve seen in Katya.

They’re not being handled like prisoners, but there’s distance between them and Novikov’s men, as if neither side wants to claim them outright.

For a second, I think they’re just more of Novikov’s muscle, until I catch a tattoo on one man’s arm—a faded two-headed eagle, the same old symbol we saw on the crew that attacked us at the clubhouse weeks ago.

Recognition hits. These are the Riazanovs. Katya’s family.

I slide my scope along the line and my pulse jumps. Among them, unmistakable, is Alexy Riazanov. I remember him from earlier this week when he tried to attack us. I haven’t forgotten him.

My confusion spikes. The Riazanovs, working with Novikov?

That wasn’t in any plan we made, and it throws me.

Last I knew, the Riazanovs played by their own rules.

Now they walk behind Novikov, close enough to be used, far enough to show the arrangement isn’t friendly.

Are they hostages? Are they here by choice, or is Novikov using them as insurance?

I watch Katya from my post on the roof. She sees them too. Her face changes, sadness washing over her features, but not surprise. She knows what’s up, was probably even expecting them.

The yard is quiet now, every eye on Novikov as he shouts his demands. I keep the rifle trained, sighting from Novikov’s chest to Alexy, then over the line of men who share Katya’s features.

Katya stands beside Reaper, unmoving, her gaze locked on her cousin. She doesn’t reach for him, doesn’t call out, just stands taller, her hand unconsciously gripping the edge of Reaper’s jacket.

The Ravagers are hidden, waiting for a signal, every man in place. The barbecue’s smoke hangs heavy in the air, clinging to my clothes, but the hunger is gone now. All I feel is tension, cold and certain, humming through my bones.

Alexy is the first to step into the yard, shoulders squared, mouth drawn into a hard line.

He doesn’t hesitate, just pushes through the gravel with a handful of Riazanov men at his back.

The Bratva pour in behind, forming a loose line, weapons in plain sight.

Alexy glares at Reaper as if he’s weighing up whether to talk or just start shooting.

I catch Reaper in my scope, watching from above as he makes a show of his own calm.

He leans against a battered picnic table, beer in hand, casual as if it’s just another club night instead of the front edge of a war.

He raises the bottle, tips it at Alexy and the others, and then takes a sip, the kind of move that would get him killed if there weren’t a dozen guns aimed from the dark.

“I see you arrived for the barbecue,” Reaper says, his voice carrying across the yard. “The only question is, are we grilling steaks or Russian pigs tonight?”

There’s a beat of silence, tension thick in the air. Then Katya, standing at Reaper’s side, lifts her chin. “I vote for pig,” she says.

Novikov steps forward, eyes on Katya. He spreads his hands in mock concern, his tone full of poison. “You’re really going to war against your own family, Katya? Some family you are.”

Katya doesn’t flinch. She looks straight at Alexy, her face set. “Some family you are. Siding with the same men who tried to kill me.” Her voice is low but everyone can hear. “You know what he is, Alexy. You know why we’re here.”

Alexy’s jaw works, something flickering in his eyes. He glances away for a second before locking back on her. “If you cared about this family, you’d be standing with us,” he says.

She shakes her head, her disappointment clear. “Twenty-four hours ago, you wanted Novikov dead, and now you’re standing shoulder to shoulder with him. You expect me to trust you after that? After everything?”

Alexy’s grip tightens on his weapon. He looks at Novikov, then back at Katya. “You know why we’re doing this, Katya.”

He says it like that’s supposed to mean something—like she should already understand the impossible position they’re all in.

It’s enough confirmation for me. Whatever deal Novikov brokered, whatever threats are in play, he’s got someone important in his grip.

The family is here as leverage, not out of loyalty.

A heavy quiet follows, the kind that fills the yard from one end to the other. Katya’s family watches, shoulders tense, uncertain whether to move or wait. Novikov stands smug behind Alexy, his gaze shifting between the two of them, ready to pounce on any weakness.