Copper (Hell's Handlers MC 4)

Reaper snorted. Whoever had taken him prisoner, roughed him up quite a bit. One black eye, a seeping gash on his cheek, ripped shirt, wheezy breathing. His short black hair was caked with blood, matted to his head. Not near enough punishment in Shell’s eyes.

“Been easy to slip under the radar with you idiots looking for me,” Reaper slurred like his tongue was swollen. He smiled, actually smiled, revealing missing teeth.

From the cover of her tree, Shell locked her knees to keep from charging forward and raining a hell of her own down on the smug bastard.

Copper chuckled. “That may be, but we got your ass now. Been waiting on this moment for a long time.” As he spoke, he drew a wicked looking blade from a sheath on his belt.

Shell’s eyes widened, and she covered her mouth to muffle a gasp. Maybe she hadn’t been as prepared as she’d thought to watch Copper take a life.

Yet she couldn’t tear her gaze away.

The rest of the men stood with spread legs, folded arms, and flat expressions as they watched Copper close the distance to Reaper. Pressing the blade against the man’s throat, he said, “This is for my President, his ol' lady, and Shell.” The venom in Copper’s voice had Shell’s eyes widening more than the act of blatant violence she was about to witness. He sounded like a different man. A lethal man completely capable of killing in cold blood. “This is for Shell most of all because an eleven-year-old girl should never have to live with the image of her father being gunned down. Rest in hell, motherfucker.”

Reaper laughed, making Shell flinch. The sound was so maniacal it could have been a psychotic movie villain’s cackle. And the man dared to do it while Copper held a deadly knife to his throat.

Insanity.

“There’s so much you don’t know Prez,” he said as though mocking Copper.

“Details don’t matter. You killed my president, now you die.”

Reaper might be a psychotic killer, but he was freaking brave. Not once did he cower, beg for his life, or break eye-contact with Copper. Just as Copper’s arm muscles flexed with the telltale sign of impending movement, Reaper said, “Too bad I didn’t notice the girl watching me that night. Might have taken her with me. She’da made a good plaything.”

The growl that came from Copper sent chills skittering across all Shell’s nerve endings. He didn’t bother speaking, just drew the blade across Reaper’s throat in one fluid motion.

Easy as slicing through butter.

Blood immediately flowed from the slash followed by a horrendous gurgling sound. This time, Shell couldn’t catch the shocked gasp before it left her mouth. The moment it was out, she held her breath and prayed no one heard. Copper didn’t so much as twitch. Zach watched the life drain from Reaper. Mav bounced his leg as though impatient to get the process over with.

But Rusty, Rusty met her gaze with a cold, sadistic stare. Shell gulped down the disgusting taste of bile that flooded her mouth.

As he glared at her, Rusty’s lips curled into a smile that could only be described as predatory.

The hairs on Shell’s arms stood straight on end. Something about that smile set her on edge because she’d swear it had nothing to do with Reaper’s death and everything to do with her.

Shit. Would he rat her out to Copper? The jerk would probably take great pleasure in that. Now that she’d been busted, she could only wait and see what fate had in store for her.

CHAPTER ONE

2018

Copper downed yet another shot, then slammed the glass on the table. There weren’t too many nights he let himself get this tanked anymore. Being president of a one-percenter motorcycle club came with too many responsibilities for frivolous behavior. But, hell, a man only turned forty once, and there’d been a few times in his youth Copper had been pretty damn convinced he’d never make it to forty, so celebrate he would.

Besides, the alcohol would numb some of the restless dissatisfaction he’d been battling the past few weeks. Now that he was turning forty, life seemed to be smacking him in the face, showing him everything he was missing. As each of his men dropped like flies, finding a good woman, Copper became more aware of the void in his life. An ol’ lady, children, a house, maybe even a fucking dog. Two years ago, he sold the house he’d lived in since moving to Townsend, and started living at the clubhouse. He was always there, so it just seemed easier. In reality, he hated the idea of rambling around a big ol’ house alone.

Fucking depressing thoughts had no business crashing his party.

“Happy birthday, old man,” Zach said, slapping a hand on Copper’s shoulder. “How many of those you had?”

“Don’t get cocky. You ain’t that far behind, brother.” Copper tried to whack Zach’s shoulder as well, but missed the target and knocked his enforcer on the back of the head. “Shit. Sorry. Lost count around eight or so.”