We loaded the dead Serpent into the trunk of a wreck that had already been stripped of anything useful. No plates. No registration. Just an empty mouth of rust.
“Anyone want to say anything over him?” Medusa asked dryly.
“Yeah,” I said. “Should’ve stayed home.”
We shoved the trunk closed.
The crusher ate that car, too.
Bone, leather, metal—everything mashed down into a cube that would be thrown into a pile with a hundred other anonymous boxes of failure.
By the time we rolled back into the compound, the sun had shifted. The light was harsher. Or maybe that was just me.
Girls on porches and by the gate saw the Steel Serpent cut slung over Medusa’s shoulder and went very, very still.
We didn’t say anything until we were back in Liberty’s office.
Liberty dropped the cut onto her desk like evidence. The burner phone thudded beside it. Jersey’s phone lay in the middle of the mess, Blackjack’s voice already crackling faintly through the speaker.
“Repeat that,” Blackjack said. “I want it clean.”
Liberty obliged.
She walked him through it. The dead yard owner with the phone cord around his neck. The Serpents already waiting when we arrived. Their little monologue about a “client” who’d paid heavy money. The way they’d been less interested in the bike itself and more in whatever it had been carrying.
“They weren’t improvising,” Liberty said. “They were on a job for the Vincino’s. That job wasn’t just retrieval, but a cleanup. They wanted to see who showed up for the wreck and remove all connections to the package.”
“And you’re sure they name dropped Vincino?”Blackjack asked.
“They weren’t being subtle about it,” I cut in. “They started to say Vincino, caught himself, changed his words. Mentioned their client was unhappy. They weren’t just flexing; they were pissed the deal had gone sideways.”
“We killed one,” Liberty continued. “Others are wounded. The rest ran once it became clear we weren’t handing them anything and their odds were shit.”
“You get anything off the body?” Blackjack asked.
“Yes,” Liberty said. “A cut. A burner. And some very flattering glamour shots.”
She tapped her phone against the desk.
“I’ve got photos of the dead Serpent’s face, his cut, and his body in the yard,” Liberty said. “You’ll have them in your inbox by the time we hang up. That plus the crushed bike and dead owner should be enough to convince Roman this isn’t us trying to stir up a dick-measuring contest between him and the Vincinos. The war’s already moving. They fired first.”
“Good,” Blackjack said. “I’ll forward them to Roman. He already believes there’s rot. This will help him see the shape of it.”
“We also took care of the wreck,” I added. “Diamondback checked it—nothing else hidden. Then we fed it to the crusher.”
“Good. Less evidence, fewer loose ends,” Blackjack replied.
Jersey’s shoulders eased a fraction. Knowing that bike was dead for good meant something to him. Icould feel it from here.
“The burner?” Blackjack asked.
Liberty picked it up, flipped it open. Cheap plastic. Bare bones. The contact list was almost empty. One number was saved. No name.
“There’s one set of digits in it,” she said. “I’m going to hit it.”
“You sure you want to poke the bear?” he returned. “Because if that phone is what I think it is, the man on the other end thinks he’s talking to his own dogs. He might not appreciate hearing a hiss instead.”
Liberty’s mouth curved, humorless.
