“That seems a bit dramatic,” I say, glancing back at him.
“That seems accurate,” Wayne replies dryly, folding his arms across his chest.
I look around the bar again, taking in the broken glass and boarded windows. Someone kicked in the back door too.My fingers curl tighter around the note.
Wayne notices. “Rae,” he says, his voice turning a little sharper.
I look back at him. “What?”
“You are not going after whoever did this,” he says firmly.
I lift an eyebrow. “Define ‘going after.’”
Wayne drags a hand down his face and groans. “See?” he mutters, pointing at me. “This is exactly what I’m talking about.”
Wayne is standing behind the bar, watching me as I take in the damage. I turn toward him, still holding the folded note in my hand. “Did you call the police?” I ask, gesturing toward the windows and the broken glass. “Because this feels like the kind of situation where the police might want to know about it.”
Wayne rolls his eyes immediately, like the idea alone annoys him. “I called someone,” he says, folding his arms across his chest.
“That sounds shady,” I reply, narrowing my eyes at him.
“It means I handled it,” he says calmly.
I lean my hip against the bar and cross my arms. “Wayne, the windows are smashed and the back door looks like it lost a fight with a battering ram. Someone clearly came in here with a bad attitude and a plan. That seems like police territory to me.”
He exhales slowly, clearly losing patience with me. “They’re on their way.”
“They?” I repeat, tilting my head.
Before he can answer, I hear it. The sound starts low and distant, barely noticeable at first, but then it builds quickly until the whole building seems to hum with it. Engines. A lot of them. The rumble grows louder until it fills the parking lot, vibratingthrough the walls and floor. I glance toward the boarded windows and then back at Wayne. “…That’s not the police.”
“No,” he says simply.
A moment later the door opens, and several large men in dark cuts walk inside like they’ve done it a thousand times before. The room somehow feels smaller the second they step through the doorway. The Iron Reapers.
Cole steps inside, his gaze moving slowly across the room as he takes in the damage. His eyes pass over the broken glass, the boards over the windows, the overturned tables. His jaw tightens slightly before his gaze lifts and lands on me. He pauses for half a second, then walks toward the bar like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Morning,” he says.
I stare at him, then gesture around the bar. “Morning?” I repeat. “You walked into a bar that looks like it lost a fight with a wrecking ball and you went with ‘morning.’ That’s an odd greeting choice.”
Something flickers at the corner of his mouth, like he almost smiles.
Wayne taps the note on the bar. “Someone left this,” he says.
Cole picks up the paper and reads it once, his expression flattening immediately. One of the other bikers leans over slightly to look at it too.
“Well that’s friendly,” the guy mutters.
Cole folds the paper slowly and sets it back on the bar before glancing at Wayne. “Back door?”
“Kicked in,” Wayne says, nodding toward the hallway.
Cole turns and disappears down the hall to check it out. The other bikers follow him, spreading out through the bar as they look over the damage.
I glance back at Wayne. “You called them,” I say, realization settling in.
Wayne shrugs like it’s obvious. “You think I’d call the cops?”
I look toward the hallway where Cole disappeared. “Your biker friends seem… invested.”
