Motherfucker.
Another engine roars to life. Third truck.
Rebel continues, almost bored. “Settle your war, Wolf. Then we’ll discuss repayment.” The line clicks dead.
Blaze snarls something unintelligible.
Through the narrow gap between containers, I see Reapers pulling back. Retreating toward the west gate. Cowards. Or survivors.
Blaze’s breathing is ragged in my ear. “Shotgun’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“This is on you.”
“Fucking hell, Blaze!” I fire back. “They hit all our compounds to pull us thin. You think this is about Charlotte? No. It’s about them wanting our trade. Our territory.”
“I don’t fucking care!” he spits. “They were silent until your sister—” He mutters a curse, pausing his rant to probably save himself from another rain of bullets.
Ryder props up his gun and fires again, keeping two advancing shooters pinned behind a concrete barrier. “Argue later,” he mutters. “We’ve got movement on the left side.”
The first truck lurches forward. I step out to get a clean shot at the driver and a wall of bullets cascades. I’m forced back instantly, but not before a stinging burn starts to pulse through my left arm.
Fuck, I’m hit.
Blaze tries the same from his side. Same result.
Suppression fire is so heavy it’s surgical. They don’t want us dead. They want us helpless, pinned.
The first truck barrels toward the north gate. Gone. The second follows. I empty half a magazine toward the tires—sparks fly, but the driver swerves and disappears through the exit.
The third truck revs hard. Ryder moves again, trying to flank. More bullets. Closer this time. Concrete chips bite into my cheek.
We can’t move. We can’t advance. We can’t even fucking retreat. We are locked in place while they take everything.
The third truck tears through the gate. Silence follows. Not complete silence—just the ringing kind. The hollow aftermath.
Hell’s Army shooters melt back into the treeline like they were never here. They stop firing, just like that. Because they’re done.
Blaze’s voice is hoarse in my ear. “They just took our lifeline.”
Yeah. They did. Three trucks. Shotgun dead. Reapers alliance gone. Nomads crippled. And we’re standing in the dust, alive only because they allowed it.
Ryder lowers his gun slowly, almost hesitantly. I stare at the empty gate.
This wasn’t about Charlotte. It wasn’t about a bargain. It was a message: We can reach you anywhere. We can take whatever we want. And there’s nothing you can do to stop us.
??????
“You need to let me patch this up, Wolf.”
I groan and continue pacing the length of my living room on club grounds. Ryder called Healer the second he noticed blood dripping down my arm during the ride back. I hadn’t given a fuck, not even a little.
My head was still spinning from what we’d lost. The precision. The statement Hell’s Army made with that strike.
All I wanted was to get back and see Charlotte with my own eyes. Make sure she was breathing. So when Ryder suggested I get stitched up before going anywhere near her, I’d nearly taken his head off.
Until he’d said, flat and brutal, “What? You want her to see you bleeding so she feels sorry for you? You think she’ll give a fuck?”
