Page 4 of Reaper & the Lioness
“We start by torching their warehouse to remind them that Houston is our territory.”
Hatchet offered a wicked grin. “I just put a new set of pipes on Detective Rodriguez’s bike. All right guy, for being a cop. I’ll reach out to him with some intel about the Rangers’ coke distribution. The heat will keep them on edge.”
Merrick Morris, our sergeant at arms, crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. His sharp brown eyes focused on me as skepticism colored his scarred face. “What about the shipment coming in next week? We can’t afford any extra attention right now.”
The tension in the room ratcheted up a notch. The shipment was my orchestration—my contact bringing us a container of “lost” military-grade weapons to be sold off the books. This delicate operation demanded finesse. A single fuck-up would land us all behind bars in Beaumont. The weight of their gazes fell on me, waiting for my response.
“Thane,” I said, my voice carrying a note of authority that caused everyone, including the president, to pause. “I get thatwe need to deal with this boycott shit. But the fucking Rangers are pushing into our territory, and we’ve got a club to run and deals to broker. You sure you want to complicate things with some PR stunts?”
I held Thane’s gaze, unflinching. This dynamic defined our leadership—my steel to his flexibility.
“The PR support will be for businesses associated with the club,” Thane explained, annoyance clear in his tone. “The club stays separate, as always.”
I ground my molars like I chewed on broken glass. The news coverage of the boycott had just flushed a juicy construction contract down the shitter, but I still didn’t want someone poking around in the business I’d worked so hard to build. And I hated the idea of working with someone who thought they could make us out to be something we’re not. We’d rightfully earned our reputation for ruthlessness.
“I’m not working with some motherfucker who thinks he can spin a story that the big, bad bikers are really the good guys.”
Thane let out a laugh. “I think you might be in for a surprise if that’s who you think I’ve hired. Linc, tell us what you’ve found out about our new consultant.”
My brother snickered as he spread the contents of a folder onto the table. “Eva Harland, thirty-two years old, born in Michigan. Went to Boston University on a full ride. Just bought a house off 1484.”
Fuck me. The photograph hit me like a sledgehammer. Her stormy, blue-gray eyes pierced my soul. Her heart-shaped face was framed by a cascade of dark hair that begged to be wrapped around my fist. She wore an expensive navy power suit, her arms crossed over her chest as if she dared the world to fuck with her.
Linc continued, pushing through the pages of the background check. “Owner of Harland Communications &Marketing, a new LLC she just started.” The stack of printed pages rustled as he dove deeper. “She started her career in Washington, D.C., working at a crisis communications agency for political figures and big-name CEOs. Named to a thirty-under-thirty list at twenty-four. Won a few awards for campaigns she managed. She worked at Abell Enterprises up until November. She quit after an attack put her in the hospital.”
The following pages of the dossier, information he’d discovered using his skills as a hacker, hit like a punch to the gut. The police report presented a clinical, detached account of a brutal attack. The battered woman in the photos looked nothing like the polished, corporate ice queen in the headshot Linc had shown moments before.
They showed her swollen face and neck, distorted with a palette of sickening purples and yellows. One arm lay trussed up in a cast. The close-up of her side revealed a canvas of black-and-blue carnage. Bootprints had been stamped into her flesh.
I’d witnessed my share of brutality. Hell, I’d dished out plenty myself. But to do this to a woman? My trigger finger itched, and my blood ran cold all at once.
“She named her attacker immediately. Hale Abell.”
“Why does that sound familiar?” I asked.
“He’s the son of millionaire CEO Benjamin Abell. They were in the news a lot last year. Some insider trading shit. Anyway, his mountains of cash and army of lawyers made sure junior stayed out of jail. The charges were dropped this week.”
The familiar burn of rage built in my chest. “The whole goddamn attack was caught on camera. How does a rich cocksucker get away with something like that?”
The disgust in Linc’s eyes mirrored my own. He pulled out his phone. “Here’s the footage.”
The video flickered to life, the glow of fluorescent lights casting an eerie pall over the concrete parking garage. A figurewearing a hooded jacket slunk into the frame behind the woman in black heels, a white blouse, and a pencil skirt. In a heartbeat, he attacked, yanking her back by her long hair like a rag doll.
But this fireball of a woman was no one’s prey. She exploded into action, a whirlwind of elbows and nails like her life depended on it.
“Damn. Girl’s got some fight in her.”
Linc nodded grimly. “It ain’t enough. Watch. His face is never shown. Angles are all wrong. When he takes her down—there—she cracks her head. Bad concussion. His lawyers used that to say she couldn’t ID him for shit. He wore long sleeves and gloves, so no DNA under her nails, either.”
“Convenient,” I growled. My breath hissed through clenched teeth as I watched the savage attack continue, the kicks vicious and relentless. Once she hit the ground, her attacker wrapped his hands around her throat.
“Cowardly piece of—” I bit off the curse as a vehicle’s headlights swept across the scene. The attacker bolted, leaving her crumpled on the cold concrete. Blood bloomed across the white silk top she wore as a figure hovered above her and dialed 911.
Linc slipped his phone back into his pocket after the video stopped. “She lives alone. Probably jumps at every shadow. She doesn’t have many friends here yet. Mainly chats with Rhetta and some hotshot investigative journo from her college days. Matt Byron.”
I shook my head at Thane. “No fucking way can we have someone who’s friends with a journalist hanging around here. Might as well invite the goddamn feds for a tour.”
Thane’s face remained impassive, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes. He shared my concerns, even if he wouldn’t admit it.
