"Main entrance is secured with a new padlock," Zip reports via comms. "Recent activity."
"Fire exit on the east side is ajar," Osprey adds. "Deliberate?"
"Could be an invitation," Ghost suggests. "Or a trap."
"We go in through the east," I decide. "Osprey first, then me. Ghost and Zip provide cover and secure our exit."
The factory interior is dim, dust motes dancing in the weak sunlight filtering through broken windows. Our footsteps echo despite efforts to move silently, the cavernous space amplifying every sound. The air hangs heavy with neglect and something else—a metallic tang that raises the hair on my neck.
Blood.
We move deeper into the building, following a trail of disturbance in the dust. Someone has been here recently, leaving scuffed footprints and displaced debris. The blood smell intensifies as we approach what once was a foreman's office overlooking the factory floor.
The door stands partially open, a dark smear visible on its surface. I signal Osprey to cover me, then push it open with my weapon raised.
Nothing could have prepared me for the scene inside.
Sophia's body is displayed deliberately, positioned in a chair facing the door as if waiting for visitors. Her eyes stare vacantly, skin waxy with death, but it's what's been done to her that turns my stomach. Crude letters carved into her exposed torso form words too deliberate to misinterpret:
STAY OUT OF OUR BUSINESS
"Jesus Christ," Osprey mutters behind me, crossing himself reflexively.
I force myself to approach, to assess the scene with professional detachment despite the rage building in my chest. The cuts are precise, made with a sharp knife by someone experienced in causing pain. Blood patterns suggest she was alive during the carving—a fact that fuels the fire growing inside me.
"Take photos," I instruct, my voice mechanical to my own ears. "Everything. We document, then we call it in anonymously after we're clear."
Osprey complies silently, his camera clicking the only sound in the grotesque tableau. I study the details clinically, noting the positioning, the restraint marks on her wrists and ankles, the other injuries visible beyond the message carved into her flesh.
This wasn't just murder. It was torture. Prolonged, methodical, designed to extract information before delivering the final message.
And the message itself—it's not just for us. It's a warning to other witnesses, other women who might testify against Hargrove or identify his operation. Stay silent or suffer the same fate.
"Specific knife work," Ghost observes from the doorway, his expression grim. "Four-inch blade, serrated edge. Signature technique of the Reapers' enforcer division."
The confirmation of what I already suspected does nothing to ease the cold fury crystallizing inside me. This is beyond retaliation for the warehouse raid. This is a declaration of war.
"We're done here," I say finally. "Let's move."
Outside, I draw deep breaths of fresh air, trying to cleanse the scene from my lungs if not my mind. We mount our bikes in silence, each processing what we've witnessed in our own way. The ride back to the clubhouse passes in a blur of asphalt and internal darkness.
"They tortured her first," I report to the assembled club members, my voice flat as I deliver the details. The chapel is packed—every Saint present for this emergency session. "Extraction of information was the primary goal. The message was secondary."
"What information?" Condor asks, knuckles white around his beer bottle.
"Everything she knew about our operation. Safe house locations, member names, details about other witnesses." I meet each brother's eyes as I continue. "We need to assume our security is compromised. All safe houses, all protection details."
Murmurs of anger ripple through the room, brothers processing the implications. The murder wasn't just brutal—it was tactical, designed to undermine our entire protection network.
"We move all witnesses to alternate locations immediately," Vulture orders. "Change all codes, routes, schedules. Nothing remains the same."
Agreements echo around the table, members already mobilizing to secure our people and information. The efficiency would be admirable if not born of such grim necessity.
"What about Cara and Miranda?" Ice Pick asks, voicing the concern foremost in many minds. "They're primary targets with direct knowledge of Hargrove."
"They stay here," I state firmly. "Clubhouse is our most secure location. Twenty-four-hour protection, no exceptions."
No one argues the point. After what happened to Sophia, the danger to our key witnesses is undeniable. Especially Cara, whose value as both witness and personal leverage against me makes her doubly vulnerable.
