Ride and Reap (2 page)

Linda O’ Conner had always been a
piece of work. Kane couldn’t blame her. Their biological father had dumped two
squalling kids in Linda’s lap, only to never be heard from again. Despite some
loose screws in her head, Linda did her best as a single mother. Kane figured
raising one decent son and a recovering addict loser weren’t bad odds.

“Son, I’d like to go over a couple
of things with you,” Reyes said.

“Please, Detective,” Kane said
hoarsely. “Can you give me a couple of minutes with my brother? Then we can talk?”

Reyes nodded curtly. “Of course.
I’ll be outside when you need me.”

Kane never got the chance to have
that talk with Reyes. Sirens sounded in the near distance. Every news channel
and radio relayed the same news—the outbreak of the T-11 virus, the herald of
the end of days. Reyes did leave Kane a parting present though. Kevin’s case
file outlined all the gruesome details. A photo also fell out, a grainy shot of
the man fleeing the scene where Kevin’s body was found, his brother’s captor
and killer, and if Kane had his way, a walking dead man.

Werewolf. Killer-for-hire. Biker.
Reaper.

****

Two
Years Later

Kane cut off the engine of the
rusty sedan he’d stolen two towns back, and glanced at the shantytown ahead of
him. Calling it a town seemed laughable. Two rows lined the cracked road, with
buildings made of tin roofs and wooden walls, easily collapsible when a storm
came. Folks from all walks of life came and went. Dirty, bare-foot children
occasionally ran into the main street, and like rats, disappeared back into
hidden corners.

New Melville didn’t look like much
at first glance, but the barbwire enclosing the compound gave Kane pause. Ahead
of him mercenaries dressed in mismatched pieces of armor and leather totted
rifles. More snipers watched from the single tower by the front gate. One of
the guards had spotted Kane’s car a mile away, and had his gun trained on him.

“Certainly doesn’t lack for
security,” Kane muttered.

He took deep breaths, conscious of
his appearance. Kane looked like shit. Hair matted, clothes stained with the
blood of his last kill. Said kill remained stowed in his trunk, and his entry
ticket into New Melville. Rumor had it former human hunters ran New Melville
like clockwork. That they only accepted untainted humans with the same ideals
as they had into their gated compound.

Kane had no choice. He needed to be
the best to avenge his brother. Didn’t cost him much to shed a little of his
morals and humanity. Starting the ignition, Kane drew close. Rolling the window
down, he addressed the guards at the gate.

“Purpose of visit?” one asked,
looking him up and down.

Kane certainly didn’t look like the
part of a killer. Hell, when the world ended, he’d earned a living selling his
body. To survive, he became hard—or tried to. Most of the time, he’d botched up
his kills, but determination to avenge Kevin kept him alive.

“I’m here to see Harvey Fisher.”

“And why would a great hunter like
Fisher want to see a dirty-looking beggar like you?”

“Because I can give him what he
wants.” When the guard gave him a doubtful look, Kane sighed. “I’m popping my
trunk open. See for yourself.”

The guards traded a look, and one
walked to the back. When he came back, he had a frown on his face. “How do we
know that’s your shifter kill, or if you stole the body from someone else?”

Kane leveled his gaze at the guard,
sick of the staring contest. He showed the asshole all the hate and anger he’d
accumulated all over the years. “I came here, because I need one murdering
son-of-a-bitch shifter dead. I don’t intend to leave until I get what I need
from Harvey.”

That seemed to satisfy the guards.

Kane steered the car in, ignoring
the curious and suspicious looks from on lookers on the street. After some
inquiries, Kane rolled to the edge of town. Getting out, he patted the gun on
his shoulder holster, and the genuine silver-tipped blade hidden on the sheath
on his back he’d stolen from another hunter. The blade was a reference, because
real hunters carried silver, a rarity in Post-fall times.

Unlike the ram-shackle hovels in
front, Fisher’s single-story residence looked preserved, and probably existed
before Pre-fall times. Getting out of the sedan, Kane ignored the Fuck off.
Private Property sign. Kane’s footsteps creaked on the rickety porch, and he
barely managed to dodge as a shot rang out. Dropping to the floor, Kane
grunted, and stared at the hole on the front door.

“Didn’t see the sign, boy? I’m not
warning you again,” a gruff voice yelled from the door.

Unwavering, Kane rose to his feet,
flinching as another shot missed his head by inches. “I have something you
want.”

Fisher chuckled behind the door.
Another shot rang out, startling close to his ear. Kane gulped, but he refused
to back out now. “Do you now, boy? I’m not a shifter, but I can smell the stink
of your fear from here.”

“Yeah? Can you smell the blood on
me too? The dead animal’s loaded in the trunk of my car.”

“What use would I have for a fur
rug?”

Well, Kane hoped it would be
leverage. Lugging the damn corpse did gain him entry to New Melville, where the
legends lay. Kane cut to the point. “We share similar interests, because we
want the same man dead. Reaper. He killed my brother, and I intend to take his
head, even if costs my life.”

Dead silence, but no more shots
rang out. He sat on the steps of the porch. After an hour passed, he buried his
hands into his hair, and wondered what the fuck he was doing. Shortly after he
identified Kevin’s body as the corpse, his mother took her own life, before the
world went to pieces. A wise woman, or a fucking coward?
 
Kane didn’t know.

It took him months to track down an
informer who knew Reaper. Shutting his eyes, Kane refused to let the tears
gathering under his lids fall. A hard man accepted failure and moved on to plan
B. Except Kane didn’t have any other plans, because his trail grew cold. No one
knew where Reaper went. The more it became obvious Kane chased after a shadow,
the more he grew obsessed. Some part of him began to wonder if he chased after
his brother’s killer because he needed a purpose to live, an excuse to remain
on this shitty planet.

Night fell, and Kane jerked awake
at the sound of the front door creaking. He spun, hand on his own gun, but
quick footsteps and a hard grip sent his revolver flying. Iron gray eyes looked
down at him from a heavily lined faced. Rumored had it Harvey Fisher was in his
forties, but the strength in his leathery arms told a different story.

“You’re going to kill Reaper, when
you can’t even defend yourself against one old man, boy?” Harvey turned his
head to spat on the porch. His eyes, under the shadow of night, glittered like
hard stones, devoid of mercy or pity. Eyes, Kane hoped to have, after his
training.

“Teach me. I know I’m weak, but I
can be strong. I can kill this fucker.” Whatever it was Fisher heard in Kane’s
voice, or saw in Kane’s eyes, it worked.

Fisher released his wrist, shaking
his head. “You’re going to take a lot of work, kid, but we’re going to hammer
that anger and direct it to something else. We’re going to make you into a
weapon.”

Walking back to his door, Fisher
didn’t turn his back. “What are you waiting for?”

Unable to believe his luck, Kane
scrambled to his feet. The darkness of Harvey’s house welcomed him, and the
door behind him shut close by the wind outside. Kane peered at the broken furniture
with disinterest, and made sure not to step on rotting floorboards. Reaching
what used to be the living room, Kane’s breath caught in his throat.

Dim lighting illuminated the
peeling wallpaper and Harvey’s mounted trophies. Heads of monsters hung on the
wall. Dust clung to some of them, but some looked fresh. Shifters, most of
them, Kane was sure, although some were in human form. His gaze settled on one
empty space with a plaque beneath, and the word embossed on it. Heart racing,
Kane drew in a sharp breath. Reaper.

“Just wait, Kev. I’m going to get
the fucker that messed with your life,” Kane whispered to himself. He closed
his eyes, letting an overwhelming wave of relief fill him. Purify him. Kane was
finally home.

C
hapter One

Present

Motorcycle engines purred near a blockade
and a Welcome to Wolf County sign, followed by the sound of rough and coarse
voices. Three patched members of the Hellhounds MC dismounted. The huge inked
werewolves began peering in the rolled-down windows of the steady line of
vehicles eager to enter their territory. They asked each guest passing through
tough questions, their menacing presence an intended effect.

The bikers didn’t need to establish
their dominance, or remind folks what happened if someone screwed with them.
Post-fall and Pre-fall, the MC possessed a black reputation that only turned a
shade darker after the news they decimated the ruler of the West territories
and his mini army became known.

Kane clutched at the wheel of his
rusty old blue Toyota until his knuckles turned white. His heart beat against
his chest in trepidation. Sweat rolled down his back. Not good. The Hellhounds
would smell fear on him, tell him to fuck off at the very least. But Kane could
still turn back now.

“Hell’s a one-way road, right
brother?” Kane whispered.

He glanced at the dog-earned photo
pinned to his dashboard. Kevin and he were downright identical
eight-year-olds—from goofy grins to haircuts. No one could tell them apart
then, not even their poor mother. Hard to tell which one was rotten to the core
or inherently good, deserved to live and not die a horrible death.

The good ones always went first
according their mother. Linda had a couple of loose screws in her head, but she
got one thing right. She hammered one lesson home into Kane’s mind that would
stay with him forever.
“Protect your
brother. Remain together. You’re blood, no matter what happens, even if the
fucking world goes to hell.”

The world did end. Life moved on.
Supposedly.
Kane kept the picture for
one reason. Without physical evidence, Kane would forget he had a brother, or
why he embarked on the messy business of vengeance in the first place.

“Prepare to dig two graves.
Confucius had his shit right,” Kane muttered under his breath. He visualized
Kev’s corpse. Remembered thinking how Kev looked like a broken and forgotten
doll lying there, his peaceful expression confusing the hell out of Kane.

Kane’s car screeched to a stop in
front of the checkers. By then, he’d gotten his breathing and heart rate under
control. He knew he’d lose it again, if one of the three Hellhounds were the
asshole he’d been hunting for most of his life. Lady luck appeared to be on his
side after all. He recognized no one.

One huge fucker knocked on his
window with a huge tattooed knuckle. Kane rolled it down, and plastered a
friendly grin on his face. “Hey there, handsome.”

The bastard didn’t rise to his
bait.
Very professional.
Most thugs
took one look at his lean figure and his passable good blond and blue-eyed
Ken-doll looks, and usually slapped labels like
meat
and
prey
on him.

The shifter took a sniff inside
Kane’s car, maybe scenting for drugs or ammunition, then grunted. “Purpose of
visit?”

Kidnap
one of your brothers. Make him hurt bad until he regrets laying his tainted
hands on Kevin. Leave him on the roadside, burned and naked.
Kane had been
tempted to say. That was pure fantasy, though. The stakes were too high. To
succeed, Kane had to settle for a quick kill.

“Here for the Golden Festival. I
got a couple of brews to trade.”

The biker frowned, studying him far
too intently for Kane’s liking. “Open up your trunk.”

Kane did. He padded to Kane’s trunk
with another werewolf. Kane knew what they would find—four kegs of prized
genuine Post-fall beer. One of them whistled. Funny how these murderous
bastards dealt in guns and locally brewed beer. Wolf County supposedly
possessed old farming tech that enabled their vineyards to thrive while the
rest of the country’s dirt couldn’t grow jack shit but root vegetables.

“He’s clear,” the biker rumbled.

The third waved him off. It
couldn’t be that easy, could it? Kane anticipated a severe security check. Some
kind of argument he had to lie his way through. Nothing. The wheels of his
abused Toyota shifted from rugged pockmarked roads to smooth paths. Some said
Wolf County was the last paradise on earth, if one didn’t mind being under the
rule of monsters. Kane believed it.

Pockets of civilization thrived
here and there. Bloomed like unwanted weeds on arid dessert soil. Wolf County
took Kane some getting used to. A couple of roadhouses and inns dotted the side
of the main road. This late in the afternoon, Kane heard the faint thump of
music and the sound of laughter filled rowdy voices from early drinkers. He
drove on, right into the thick of the action—the town center.

Locals moved about, setting stalls
and pitching tents for the annual wine and beer festival. Felt a little
surreal, truth be told, to be in the midst of something so Pre-Fall. Something
normal. It made Kane a little sullen and resentful too, seeing everyone
laughing or joking around, as if these people found the secret to happiness and
didn’t like to share.

“Fuck you all.” Kane wouldn’t
linger long. He didn’t expect to come out alive. If he had the balls, he would
go out with a bang, but Kane hadn’t been that far gone in the sanity
department. Kane intended to finish his business clean and nice.

Most of the inns facing the
festival square were fully booked. Kane managed to find a spare room in one of
the tiny hotels near a side street, run by an elderly couple. He turned on his
charm, like he did with the Hellhounds guarding the town entrance. Concocted
some sad little story about selling the last of his dead father’s wares—the
kegs he’d flinched from the last town—and they let him use the inn’s unoccupied
honeymoon suite. Perfect. He wasn’t proud of being a compulsive liar, but he
was damn good at it. To be survivor in these kinds of times, one used all the
weapons in his arsenal.

Once in the privacy of his tiny
room, Kane took out his satchel. The rugged little canvas bag contained
critical information about his target. Kane was no assassin. Before life took a
turn for the worse and the world ended, he’d already been a waste of space.
He’d dropped out of college, and took to drugs. Stripped for cash, fell into
some bad company, and eventually rented his body out.

Kev was his exact opposite. His
brother was meant for greater things. Kev was about to graduate with a degree
in social work. Become the first member of the O’ Conner family to get a
bachelor’s degree in social work, when Kev was snatched from the street on his
way home one night from his shift at the hardware store.

Kane clenched his jaw, remembering
the details in the file on the monster who abandoned his brother like a disposable
piece of trash. It took Kane two years to get a name, another for a location.

Reaper. Fine name for a killer.

Kane wasted more time plotting,
increasing the chances of his success, and inhaling the poisonous fumes of his
hate.

Kev and he had been inseparable as
kids. People thought they were twins, even though Kane was older by a year.
That changed when their lives took different directions, but Ma was right. They
were blood. They should have watched each other’s back because they had no one
else, but Kane failed.

He dragged out his suitcase next.
The case the bikers didn’t find had been hidden in a secret compartment he
installed between the front and backseat. Kane flopped it open against the
soft-carpeted floor with a satisfied grunt. Inside, metal gleamed from
organized rows—handguns, silver-edged blades, clips with silver bullets. Not
easy to obtain, but worth every penny.

“You
have one shot at this. Fail, you can’t go home. Defeat means death. Are you
ready for that, Kane?”
Harvey, his brief mentor, had said. Humans couldn’t
waste shifters easily, unless they were trained all their lives for that one
purpose. Kane sought out a retired hunter who specialized in shifters, and
learned all he could, but it hadn’t been enough.

Going in intimate and close—that
was the only path to success. Or else, plan B. Kane’s gaze slid lower, to the
neat row of cylinders attached to leather straps. He shut his eyes to calm his
tumultuous heat beat. He opened his eyes again and fingered each piece
lovingly, maintained and polished to perfection. Yet, he wondered why the cold
touch of metal didn’t give him the relief he sought.

This room and the little case of
death he’d been so proud of—would that become sum of his existence? The small
voice inside him told him it wasn’t too late. He could retrace his steps. Find
a new direction and a place to settle down with a nice guy to keep him warm at
night. Forget all about this awful business. The apocalypse had passed. Most of
the survivors learned to live again. Move on, except him.

Kane gritted his teeth. “No
jitters. No weakness. Fuck, am I pathetic.”

No. Cowardice wouldn’t become him.
Besides, he was in too deep. Stopping now wasn’t an option. He pulled out the
festival pamphlet the Millers handed him. The opening ceremony started first
thing tomorrow morning, the Hellhounds would be there, watching their human
chattel go about their business.

Kane suspected the monsters let the
locals organize shit like this to keep them happy—and in line. Show folks an
even balance of cruelty and kindness and you get them worshipping your paws in
no time. Smart.

He showered, and decided to head to
bed early. Tomorrow wasn’t just a new day, but a glorious one.