Riot hits the speed dial. It rings once.
“Talk.” Mason’s voice is sharp gravel through the speaker, already on edge like he knew we’d be bringing trouble.
Riot doesn’t waste a second. “We got eyes on something big. College dealers linked to a warehouse crew. Heavy product. Heavy security. Military-style organization.”
I punch the gas a little harder, heart still hammering. “This ain’t small-time bullshit,” I add loud enough for Pres to hear. “Whoever’s running them thinks they own this town.”
There’s silence on the line. The kind where leaders think about war.
Finally, Mason speaks. “Get your asses back to the clubhouse. Safe and fast. Nobody makes another move until we meet.”
“Yes, Pres,” Riot replies.
The call ends with a click. No goodbye. Club business doesn’t do goodbyes.
Lucky wipes sweat off his forehead. “You think they saw us?”
“No,” I say, even though I’m not sure. “If they had… we’d already be dead.”
Riot leans back, adrenaline fading into something meaner. “Pres is gonna want names. Pictures. Everything.”
“And he’ll get it,” I growl, my pulse slowing into something cold and focused. “Tomorrow, we start hunting.”
Lucky stares out the back window as the warehouse disappears into the night. “This is gonna get ugly, isn’t it?”
Riot laughs under his breath. “Kid… it already is.”
Yeah. War’s coming. And the Reapers don’t lose.
SIXTEEN
BRI
The atmosphereat the shop feels like someone turned the tension dial all the way up and snapped the knob clean off. Tools clank louder than normal. Conversations die quick. Everyone’s eyes flick toward the windows whenever a truck passes by like they expect enemies to rappel from the clouds.
I’m supposed to be organizing invoices on Mason’s desk, but I keep glancing up because my anxiety is doing backflips. The Reapers usually joke around or give each other shit while they work. Today, nobody’s smiling. Not even a smirk. Not even Riot’s sarcastic eye roll.
Rev slams a hood shut with way more force than necessary. Switch mutters something like a curse and checks the security camera monitor again. Mason throws down a rag and mutters, pacing like a dad waiting for his daughter’s prom date to show up and prove he’s a disappointment.
My stomach twists because if they’re nervous, I should be terrified.
Blade is worse than all of them combined. He moves around the shop silent and predatory, scanning every single thing like he’s counting threats. The muscles in his shoulders bunch under his shirt each time the front bay door rattles. His eyes keep cutting to me like he’s worried I’ll somehow disappear or explode or spontaneously combust if he looks away longer than ten seconds.
When he catches me watching him, he marches straight over and takes hold of my hip, guiding me behind one of the bikes like we need privacy. His grip is firm and warm and entirely impossible to ignore.
“You’re gonna listen real careful, babygirl,” he says, voice low enough to vibrate right through my bones.
Oh. So we’re jumping directly into the serious vibes. Cool cool cool.
“What do you need?” I ask, trying not to sound like my heart is trying to race away on little cartoon legs.
He dips his head closer. His breath brushes my lips. “I got a mandatory meeting at the clubhouse tonight. The second it’s done, I’m coming to get you.”
“Okay, but why do you look like you want to punch the air into submission?” I ask, my voice thin and shaky even though I try to joke.
His jaw ticks once. Twice. He drags his gaze across the shop again before coming back to me. “You’re going home after your shift. You’re locking the doors. You’re keeping the windows shut. You do not open that door unless I’m standing right outside calling your name.”
I blink hard because what.
