“Which tells us something important,” Mason says. “They weren’t expecting resistance, and they weren’t prepared for Iron Reapers muscle.”
He folds his arms. “We left a message.”
Dagger’s mouth curls slightly. “One they’re going to hear loud and clear.”
Mason nods once. “They took one of ours. They thought they could move in the shadows. Now they know better.”
The room stays quiet, heavy with understanding. Not shock. Not fear. Recognition.
Dagger leans forward slightly. “Alexei.”
Mason nods. “Alexei Morozov.”
The name hits the room with weight, familiar now in the worst way.
“Morozov was close to the top,” Mason says. “High enough to run operations, oversee logistics, and make executive calls. But he wasn’t the man in charge.”
Ghost switches the screen, pulling up files layered with connections and timestamps. “Morozov answered directly to one source. Same source tied to the financial restructuring we saw two years ago.”
Riot adds, “When we cut ties with the Russians over the gun pipeline, that didn’t end anything. It just forced them underground.”
Mason’s jaw tightens. “They didn’t retaliate. They reorganized.”
He looks around the table, meeting eyes one by one. “Morozov wasn’t a loose end. He was a trusted lieutenant. A planner. A handler.”
My fists clench under the table.
“And his death,” Mason continues calmly, “is going to cause ripples.”
Ghost nods. “Already is. Cartel’s scrambling. Russian channels went dark within the hour.”
“That’s not panic,” Mason says. “That’s damage control.”
Dagger exhales slowly. “Meaning Morozov mattered.”
“Meaning he was valuable,” Mason agrees. “But replaceable.”
Silence stretches again, thick and electric.
Then Mason turns his attention fully back to the room.
“Perdition wasn’t random,” he says. “The clubhouse bombing wasn’t a coincidence. And Bri being taken wasn’t collateral.”
His eyes flick briefly toward me before locking forward again, sharper now.
“That was a separate operation,” Mason continues. “Planned. Controlled. Designed to destabilize us.”
Rev mutters a curse under his breath, low and venomous.
“They wanted us distracted,” Mason says. “They wanted fear. Division. Internal pressure.”
He shifts his weight slightly, eyes moving around the table, making sure every officer is locked in and listening.
“The docks weren’t supposed to be a war,” he continues. “That meet was business. Clean. Quiet. Over. They never intended to draw Iron Reapers there.”
Tank’s jaw tightens. “So now they’ve got one.”
Mason nods once. “Now they do.”
