Page 1 of Hunter's Game
Eight years of military service had taught Hunter that plans rarely survive first contact with the enemy. Being the Blind Jacks’ Road Captain had taught him that the most dangerous enemies are the ones you never see coming.
The clubhouse’s familiar scents of leather, motor oil, and gunpowder grounded him as King laid out a mission that would either make his career or get him killed. Probably both.
King, a muscular man with dark hair and intense eyes that missed nothing was Hunter’s closest ally. At barely forty, the Blind Jacks’ sergeant-at-arms carried himself with the quiet authority of someone who commanded respect through action rather than intimidation. His face held the sharp angles and watchful expression of a man who’d learned to survive by staying three steps ahead of his enemies.
“Remember, this isn’t just about the drugs anymore.” King’s voice filled the concrete-walled chapel as he spread surveillance photos across the reaper-carved table. Each image told a story of carefully orchestrated criminality. “International art theft, high-end forgeries, antiquitiestrafficking—they’re moving millions through digital channels we can’t trace. We need hard evidence.”
Hunter studied the photos with the kind of attention to detail that had kept him alive through three tours in Afghanistan and countless undercover operations since. The Devil’s Mark MC clubhouse dominated most shots—a fortress masquerading as a biker bar on the wrong side of county lines. To untrained eyes, it looked like any other outlaw clubhouse. But Hunter saw the truth in the details.
Reinforced steel doors disguised as standard commercial entries. Security cameras positioned to leave no blind spots while appearing random to casual observers. Windows that offered perfect fields of fire while seeming decorative. This wasn’t just a clubhouse. It was a military-grade operations center.
“Six museums hit in the last eight months.” King tapped a series of photos showing crime scenes. “Each one a professional job. No evidence, no witnesses, just priceless artifacts vanishing and perfect forgeries left in their place. Then this started showing up in private collections.
“Curator at the Institute of Ancient History has been documenting the thefts,” King continued, sliding over another file. “Dr. Katherine Chen. She’s been tracking patterns, building a timeline of artifacts that reappear in private hands.”
Hunter studied the curator’s photo, noting her cold professional smile. Something about her features tugged at the edge of his mind, but he dismissed it to focus on more pressing details.
He slid forward a photo of an ancient dagger, its Damascus steel blade gleaming with distinctive patterns. “This piece was stolen from the Metropolitan Museum three months ago. Last week, our contact spotted it on display in the Devil’s Mark clubhouse. Except...”
“Except it’s not really on display,” Hunter finished, seeing the pattern. “It’s being shown to potential buyers.”
“Exactly.” King pulled out another photo, this one showing a well-dressed man entering the clubhouse. “Viktor Romano. Ex-military intelligence, now a ‘legitimate businessman’ with interesting connections to the international art world. Shows up every Tuesday like clockwork, meets with Merrick Mitchell for exactly one hour, then leaves with a briefcase that’s never the same one he brought in.”
Hunter studied Romano’s image, professional assessment mixing with the instincts that had kept him alive in far worse places than an MC clubhouse. Romano was lean and patrician, with silver-streaked dark hair and the kind of manicured appearance that screamed old money. But Hunter recognized the predator’s watchfulness in those cold gray eyes, the careful way he held himself—always ready, always assessing.
The way Romano’s bespoke suit was carefully tailored to hide a shoulder holster. How his casual stance masked perfect situational awareness. The slight bulge at his ankle that suggested a backup weapon…
This was no ordinary art dealer.
“What’s our in?” He already knew he wouldn’t like the answer. The best covers were always the ones closest to truth.
“They need a mechanic.” King’s smile held no humor. “Someone who can modify bikes for special cargo. Someone with military experience who knows how to be discreet. Someone who won’t ask questions when those modifications aren’t exactly street legal.”
“And won’t raise eyebrows when checking out their security systems.” Hunter saw the full play now. His background in military intelligence made him perfect for this—maybe too perfect. “Timeline?”
“Three months.” King spread out more photos showing shipping manifests and security details. “Romano’s planning something big. Multiple shipments converging, heavy security being moved into position. Whatever they’re setting up, it’s happening soon. We need someone inside before then.”
“The Devil’s Mark isn’t exactly known for welcoming new members.” Hunter remembered the last time they’d tried to infiltrate the rival MC. They’d lost two good men. “Especially not lately.”
“That’s why you’re going in with a solid backstory.” King pulled out a thick file. “Jake Hunter, ex-Army mechanic. Did time in Leavenworth for assault, dishonorable discharge. Last few years spent building a reputation for discretion and skilled work. The kind of guy who can handle special modifications without asking uncomfortable questions.”
Hunter absorbed this, noting how closely the cover matched his own history. The best lies always contained truth at their core. His military service, his skills with engines and electronics, even his tendency toward violence—all real, just twisted slightly to serve their purposes.
“They’ll check,” he warned. “ Merrick Mitchell doesn’t trust easily.”
“Let them.” King seemed unconcerned. “The background will hold up. Jake Hunter exists in all the right databases with all the right documentation. As far as anyone can tell, he’s a skilled mechanic with a questionable past and a talent for keeping secrets.”
Simple. Clean. No complications.
That plan lasted exactly three seconds after walking into the Devil’s Mark clubhouse the next evening. Just long enough to spot her behind the bar—the complication he never saw coming.
She moved with lethal grace, all toned curves and sharp edges, but it was her hands that caught his attention first. Eden Mitchell was stunning in a way that went beyond conventional beauty—oliveskin, high cheekbones, and dark hair cut in a severe bob that emphasized her striking green eyes. But it was the way she carried herself that really caught his attention—the controlled power in her movements, like a jungle cat conserving energy until the perfect moment to strike. Quick, precise movements as she worked something that looked suspiciously like a signal interceptor beneath the bar, masked by the motions of mixing drinks. The device’s soft blue glow reflected in her eyes as she glanced up, catching him watching.
Their gazes locked across the smoky room. Recognition flared—predator spotting predator through the haze of cigarettes and ulterior motives.
Hunter fought back a smile as he approached the bar, letting his stride convey easy confidence while his mind cataloged details that screamed federal agent to anyone who knew what to look for. The careful positioning that gave her sightlines to all entrance points. The slight bulge of a concealed weapon at her ankle. The way she scanned the room with quick, professional glances that spoke of extensive training
DEA, he decided, watching her handle multiple conversations while her fingers danced across hidden tech. The way she moved screamed federal training, but there was an edge to her that suggested personal stakes. Something darker than just professional duty.
