"And our response?" Ghost asks, the question hanging heavy in the air.
This is the crux of the matter. The Reapers have escalated beyond traditional club conflict into public terrorism and targeted murder. Our response must be proportional yet decisive. Strategic yet severe enough to end the threat permanently.
"We have two objectives," I begin, my decision crystallizing as I speak. "Justice for Sophia and protection of our remaining witnesses. To accomplish both, we need to strike at the heart of their operation."
"The Reapers' compound?" Zip suggests.
I shake my head. "Higher. We take out their supply chain. Cut off their income by hitting their distribution centers. Simultaneously."
The boldness of the proposal silences the room. Simultaneous strikes would require coordination beyond anything we've attempted, spreading our forces thin across multiple targets.
"That's a declaration of war," Vulture observes, though his tone carries no disapproval.
"They declared war when they carved a message into a woman under our protection," I reply, steel entering my voice. "We're just acknowledging the terms."
Discussion erupts around the table—logistics, manpower, weaponry needed for such an operation. The debate is tactical rather than philosophical; no one questions whether we should respond, only how to do so most effectively.
As plans form and assignments distribute, a knock at the chapel door interrupts our planning. Tessa enters, her expression carefully neutral.
"Cara's asking to see you," she tells me. "Says it's important."
I find Cara in the common room, standing before the evidence board we've constructed charting connections between Hargrove, the Reapers, and the Kings of Purgatory. Her posture is rigid, shoulders set in a line of determination.
"You found Sophia," she says without turning, not a question but a statement.
"Yes."
"And it was bad."
I move beside her, studying her profile. "Yes."
She nods once, jaw tight. "Tell me."
Part of me wants to shield her from the details, protect her from one more horror in a life that's seen too many. But the woman beside me isn't looking for protection. She's seeking truth, however ugly.
"They tortured her for information, then killed her," I say simply. "Left a message carved into her body. 'Stay out of our business.'"
Cara absorbs this, her expression unchanging though I notice her fingers trembling slightly before she clenches them into fists. "She was nineteen," she says quietly. "Taken from a community college in Burns Harbor. Had a little sister she was helping raise."
The personal details hit harder than I expected. Sophia wasn't just a witness or victim—she was a person with a life, a family, a future stolen first by traffickers and then permanently by murderers.
"We're responding," I assure her. "Planning now."
"I want in." She turns to face me fully, determination blazing in her eyes. "Not on the front lines. I'm not stupid. But the planning, the strategy. I understand these people in ways you don't."
"It's going to get worse before it gets better," I warn her. "The violence, the risk. You'd be safer distanced from the operation."
"I stopped being safe the moment Kane decided to use me as leverage against you," she counters. "Sophia's death proves they're eliminating witnesses who can identify Hargrove. I'm at the top of that list, Falcon. Distance doesn't make me safer—it just leaves me isolated."
Her logic is sound, though it does nothing to ease my concern. "Club chapel is members only," I remind her, a weak objection even to my own ears.
"Then make an exception," she challenges. "Or don't, and I'll contribute anyway. But I'm done being sidelined in a fight that's centered around me from the beginning."
The determination in her stance, the fire in her eyes—this is the Cara I remember from before. Brilliant, stubborn, refusing to be dismissed or diminished. The realization that this essential core of her personality survived five years of captivity hits me with unexpected force.
"Okay," I concede. "But you follow security protocols without argument. No exceptions."
Relief softens her expression briefly before resolve returns. "Thank you."
