Page 47 of Sexting the Bikers
Katya whips around, confusion all over her face. She’s standing on the last step of the porch, eyes darting between Reaper and Alexy. “What are you doing?” she demands.
It’s too quiet out here.
The kind of quiet that makes my skin itch, like every bird and bug just vanished. I don’t like it, and Reaper’s calm isn’t making me feel any better. I watch him out on the porch, arms loose at his sides, voice too casual as he addresses Katya’s cousin.
“Katya,” Alexy calls out, eyes never leaving her. “What are you waiting for?”
But Reaper doesn’t move. “Alexy,” he says, his tone almost friendly, “did you come alone?”
That makes me pause.
Why is he asking that?
I slip out from the bar, keeping in the shadows, and find a spot near the window where I can see more of the property. Sure enough, tucked just beyond the tree line—almost out of sight—are three, maybe four men. Dressed in black, hands loose at their sides, but the posture says it all. They’re not here for a family reunion.
What the hell is going on here?
And why is Reaper stalling, letting Katya stand out there exposed?
Katya’s voice drifts back to us, thin and tense. “Reaper wants to be paid, Alexy. We made a deal.”
Alexy doesn’t look at her. His eyes stay on Reaper, cold and annoyed. “I don’t have time for this,” he says, his tone finally slipping, irritation seeping through. He glances over his shoulder, just a little—toward the trees, toward his men, as if he’s waiting for a signal.
My jaw tightens.
“Katya, please come over here,” Alexy says.
“Take cover!” I shout, my voice echoing above the next crack of gunfire.
Katya darts back to the door just in time. I grab her arm and haul her across the room. She stumbles, too stunned to resist, and we slide behind the old oak bar where Reaper’s already crouched low, gun ready, eyes cold. The bar’s thick, solid—built in another era. It won’t stop everything, but it’s better than nothing.
Bullets bite into the walls, and glass shatters, the air thick with the sound of wood splintering. My pulse hammers at my temples, but I keep Katya’s head down, shield her as best I can. She’s pale, lips parted, still reeling from what just happened.
“Who needs enemies when you have family?” I mutter, shaking my head.
She looks at me, dazed. “Would he really kill me? I grew up with him.”
I meet her gaze, letting her see the ugly truth. “You’ve been mucking up everyone’s plans for mutual destruction, Katya. They could kill you, blame Novikov for letting you get kidnapped by his business associates, and then go to war over it. Everyone gets what they want—except you.”
She shakes her head, as if trying to wake herself up. “And why would they do this? I still don’t understand.”
I sigh, keeping my eyes above the bar, watching for shadows in the windows. “Look, I don’t know how it works in Moscow, but here? A grievance like that is enough to justify killing a rival crew. Your death would be a spark. Blame Novikov, the Bratva takes revenge, and your family gets to come out on top, or at least try.”
Reaper grunts his agreement, gun trained on the door. Katya’s silent, still shaking, absorbing the reality she never wanted to see.
The door gives one final groan—then crashes to the floor, blowing in with a cloud of splinters and daylight. There’s barely time to think. A couple of the men in dark suits burst through the frame, guns raised, spraying bullets wild into the room. Glass shatters, bottles explode behind us, and wood chips fly off the bar.
Reaper lets out a guttural snarl. “They’re ruining the furniture,” he mutters, as if that’s the worst part of this whole mess.
I almost laugh at the absurdity—almost—until Katya hisses beside me, “Seriously? All this stuff would be rejected from a second-hand store.”
Reaper shoots her a glare but doesn’t waste another breath. He rises from behind the bar like a viper striking, moving with a calm, practiced grace. One hand slips beneath his vest, drawing a pistol from a holster at his ribs, and in the next breath, he squeezes off two shots—one, two—each man drops, their guns clattering to the floor before they even hit the ground.
Dog’s already flanking left, diving for cover behind an overturned table, firing back as another shadow flickers in the ruined doorway. I’m up too, gun drawn, heart slamming in mychest. I move with purpose, all the years of drills and runs and bloody business coming back in a rush.
I take cover by the side of the bar, sighting down the barrel. Someone tries to duck in from the porch and I squeeze off a shot, hear the wet thud and the collapse just outside the threshold. Dog catches my eye, nods once, no words needed.
Then everything goes still.
