The cigarette drops to the floor.
The screaming starts before the first punch lands.
No one reacts. Sounds like this belong here.
I turn and walk back into my office, already bored with the outcome.
“When they stop crying, clean the floor,” I say over my shoulder. “I want answers, not stains.”
The door closes. The noise dulls.
At my desk, I open the folder markedIRON REAPERS. Faces. Addresses. Patterns. Months of work. Blade’s photograph stares back at me. Hard eyes. A man who has buried enemies and learned nothing from it.
Men like that do not adapt.
They react.
Reaction creates opportunity.
I turn the page.
There she is.
Brianna.
Laughing. Curvy. Alive in a way that makes men careless. Too soft for the world she’s in. Too real. Too visible.
Too good for a biker.
Vin steps in a few minutes later, wiping blood from his knuckles. “They’re alive,” he says. “One’s talking.”
“Good,” I reply without looking up. “Fear loosens tongues.”
He glances at the photo. “She doesn’t look like a club girl.”
“Oh, she is,” I say calmly. “She just hasn’t paid the price yet.”
“If the Reapers realize we’re involving women,” Vin warns, “they won’t stop.”
“That is not a concern,” I say. “That is the objective.”
He falls silent.
I dial a burner phone.
“Fletcher,” I say when it connects. “Redirect their attention. Keep them busy.”
My gaze stays on Bri’s face.
Plans adjust.
Vin shifts. “You still want surveillance? Routines?”
I consider it for half a second.
“No,” I say finally.
He looks at me.
