The Fallen Reapers MC Book 2: Forgiving Raven

The echo of my boots against the hardwood floors of the clubhouse reverberates through the silence. As I approach the front doors, a towering figure blocks my path. His face is as hard as granite, the kind that could easily send you to an early grave with just a glance.

A quick look at the patch on his jacket tells me exactly who he is within the club. That’s why I wisely choose to back down.

“Lockwood.” I introduce myself with a curt nod, forgoing the handshake. Small gestures like these can foster bonds, create intimacy. But I have no intention of staying here longer than necessary.

It’s best to keep things as impersonal as possible. I didn’t come to McDermott to make friends. I’m here to settle an old score, a debt that should have been paid off long ago.

A debt that my father left behind, and now it’s up to me to clear it. Whatever it takes…I’m ready to give.

“What are you doing here? The club is closed.”

I glance past him, taking in the sight of a few other bikers wandering the halls. Each one of them carries a weight that I’m all too familiar with.

“I’m here on behalf of the founder,” I tell him, cutting straight to the chase. His expression hardens further, and his eyes darken.

If I hadn’t dealt with tough guys like him before, I’d be running for the hills by now. “He was my father,” I add. “He left me in charge, but I have a feeling you already knew that. I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m here to help, and then I’ll be on my way.”

But that’s not all my father left me. Along with the club that I’ve despised since I could talk, he also left me fifty thousand dollars in debt and a worn-out leather jacket with the Fallen Reapers patch sewn in.

Wearing that jacket to the clubhouse might have been a good idea, if I could stomach it.

“Grave,” the Reapers’ VP introduces himself, nodding in the same way I did. He doesn’t make any further attempts at conversation.

Good. Even though I know that’s his club name, I can’t help but think that this will probably end with me six feet under, right next to dear old dad.

Without another word, he leads me to a large meeting room. The few bikers that were hanging around take their seats as we enter.

One seat remains empty. I don’t take it. Even if it’s my right to. I won’t claim anything that I don’t plan on sticking around for.

I survey the half dozen men around the table. Grave might be the roughest of the lot, but the others aren’t far behind. In their world, you either toughen up or you end up with a knife in your back.

“We’ll fill you in on what we know. The prez won’t be here for a while. He just lost his wife.”

I’d heard about it. I was riding through town after paying a final visit to an old friend when news of the local bar explosion and the dozens of casualties hit the airwaves.

It was a massive blow, not just to the clubs directly affected, but to every rider in the state. And it was the final push I needed.

My old friend, Bogie, was the last person on my short list of people I wanted to share one last ride with. I was already on my way to McDermott.

The destruction of the Cann and an entire club of bikers was the final kick I needed to start making amends for my past mistakes. That’s why I’m here now, a week later.

I had a list of wrongs to right, from minor ones to more serious ones like apologizing to a mother whose son I had killed without a second thought. There’s no easy way to knock on a stranger’s door and confess, “Hey, I’m the one who shot your son.”

But I tried. Because that’s all I can do, given that I don’t feel a shred of remorse. And maybe, just maybe, I might have eased their pain a little by giving them someone to blame.

If they knew the real reasons why I’d taken the lives of their loved ones, their world would come crashing down. Regardless of my reasons, I’ve killed people.

This will be the last time I play that role. And if it comes down to it, I won’t resist. I’m ready for death. How else can I make amends for causing so much of it?

“I understand.” I nod. “Carry on as usual. I’m just here for the ride.”

The last name to cross off the list. My father had always dreamed of seeing his son ride with the Fallen Reapers. But I chose a different path, shattering every hope and dream he had for me.

Joining the military was the ultimate slap in the face, and I reveled in it at the time. The Fallen Reapers MC was my father’s pride and joy. So much so that he dragged his wife through the heartache that came with the late nights and the lifestyle.

Eventually, it cost him his family. I’ve long since forgiven him for that. The main reason I’m here with the Reapers is for my mother. She loved my father through it all, right up to his last ride.

I’ll always regret not coming back for her sooner, and this is the only way I know how to honor her.

“About two months ago, a few of our guys were jumped while riding through Knight territory. One’s dead, another’s missing, and the last one’s in hiding until we figure this out.”

I nod again, and he—Switch—continues. Their names are stitched above their patches on their jackets. Seeing those reminds me of the last time I spoke to my father.

It had been a long night. Dad was out late, and mom was up even later. I’d grown tired of seeing the bags under her eyes and the lost look on her face. So I’d stayed up for him too.

We had a heated disagreement. A full-blown fight. He made his choice, and I made mine. At the tender age of sixteen, I packed my bags and left home for good.

Switch continues, “Whoever this guy is, he’s trying to claim as much territory as he can on our turf.”

“And he’s desperate enough to risk angering every club in Montana,” I chime in.

“Since the bar attack, there haven’t been any other incidents or leads. An entire club was wiped out in that explosion. Maybe he’s got all the territory he needs,” Grave proposes.

I shift my focus to him, taking in his stern expression. “You don’t really believe that.”

He shakes his head. “No. Their territory was dwindling, half of what it once was. They were easy targets, but I don’t think whoever’s behind this is finished.”

I agree. “I don’t think so either. So, what’s our next move?”

Silver, who proudly wears the club’s Sergeant-at-Arms patch, snorts dismissively. “Next move? We’re just planning to hit up a local bar, have a few drinks.”

“That’s it?”

“No,” he scoffs. “This bar is in neutral territory. It’s always packed with people, bikers, and other…undesirables. We have a lead, and there’s a good chance our guy will be at that bar.”

I turn to Switch. “A lead?”

Switch, our enforcer, smirks, softening his usually stern face. He pulls out a knife with an intricately engraved handle and slams it into the table. “We did a little questioning for our prez. The guy was part of the crew that stole from us, so…I persuaded him until he spilled his guts.”

Grave interjects. “He didn’t know much, except how to identify the guys working for the man who hired his crew.”

A photograph lands on the table in front of me. I study it, taking in the image of a winding serpent tattoo on a man’s bloodied arm. “Gang symbol?”

“Yes,” Silver confirms. “There’s a girl at this bar, the Diggs, who’s been seen with one of those. Normally, we’d ignore it—lots of people copy tattoos to look cool—but…”

“It’s too coincidental,” I finish his thought. If this girl were anywhere else, she wouldn’t be on our radar. But the combination of the tattoo and her proximity makes it impossible to dismiss as mere chance.

“With that in mind, we’re heading out later tonight.” Switch looks at me. “Are you coming with us?”

“Absolutely.”