We rolled out.
Slate and his guys peeled off first, heading down the long road behind the compound. The van followed a few seconds later, heavier and quieter.
Nobody talked during the twenty-minute drive from Maple Hills to Coldwater Ridge. Two Georgia towns close enough to share a weather report, but our clubs were worlds apart. Lines had been drawn years ago. Territories marked. Tonight I was about to walk into theirs and take what I came for.
I stared at the floor between my boots, listening to the hum of the engine, and the same thought kept circling: we don’t take omegas. We protect them. That’s the rule. That’s our whole damn reputation. And here I was, about to break that rule on purpose. I told myself it was different—this was leverage, not a sale, not a trade, not harm. Saint bleeding in that dirt was louderthan my conscience. But the line was still there, and I knew I was stepping over it.
When we got closer to the Blackthorn compound, the trees thickened around us. Jett killed the headlights and drove by Slate’s markers on the GPS until we hit the drop point.
“Stop,” Slate’s voice came through over comms.
Jett obeyed instantly.
The van shuddered to a stop. We killed the engine, and the woods swallowed the last bit of noise.
Wraith slid the side door open and stepped out, moving like a shadow into the trees with his rifle. Grim synced the comms, one ear tuned to every breath on the line.
A minute passed.
Then a faint hiss of compressed air over the comm. Then another.
“East fence guards are down,” Wraith whispered. “Twenty-minute window. Patrol’s running two minutes late—use it.”
Tight, but enough. They’d done recon the night before. I had to hope the Reapers were as predictable as they looked.
That was our cue.
We stepped out into the dark.
I grabbed the breach bag, pulled on the insulated gloves, and followed Grim through the trees toward the fence. It was tall, topped with coils of razor wire, and wired hot enough to cook a grown man if he was unlucky.
Fuse knelt beside me, handing over the cutters. “Hit the lower panel. Less voltage there. In theory.”
“In theory,” I repeated.
I set the blades and cut the first line.
Sparks snapped, small and fast. The fence gave a tiny metallic shiver.
I cut the second line.
For a second, the hum in the wire spiked and a faint flash flickered down the row of metal posts. I held my breath, waiting for alarms or shouts—nothing. The compound lights stayed steady, no one came running. Fuse exhaled a curse under his breath and adjusted the cutter’s hinge. “Told you the grid’s touchy,” he muttered. “We’re good. Just don’t lick it.”
The section loosened enough for me to pull it back, and Fuse clipped it in place with rubber fasteners. Grim swept the tree line one more time.
“Clear,” he said.
I switched to thinner gloves for better grip.
Wraith’s voice slid through comms, calm and quiet. “Clock’s running. Move.”
I slid through the fence first and let training take over. Heart steady. Breathing even. Boots silent.
I was inside Blackthorn Reapers territory.
Everything was too damn quiet.
I knew my guys had my back—Wraith covering sightlines, Grim watching for movement, Fuse ready to drag me out if the fence tried to kill me—but it still felt like walking into a church before a funeral.
