I type back quickly.Stay where you are.I’m coming.
I don’t wait to see if he responds.I pocket the phone and kick my bike back to life, falling in beside Greyson as we peel away from the curb.The hospital is three minutes away at normal speeds.We’ll make it in less than two.
As we thunder downside streets to avoid the police barricade, I feel myself slipping fully into the cold, focused state that earned me my club name.Slaughter.The man who eliminates threats with ruthlessness.The man who protects what’s his.
And Xavier, whether he fully understands it yet or not, is mine.
The hospital comes into view, its modern glass facade reflecting the afternoon sun.Police cruisers form a perimeter around the main entrance, officers with weapons drawn creating a barrier between the building and whatever threat lurks nearby.Ambulances are redirected to a side entrance, emergency lights flashing as paramedics rush stretchers inside.
We pull up behind the police line, engines cutting almost simultaneously.The officers turn, hands tightening on their weapons as they register who we are.One steps forward, a sergeant I recognize from previous encounters.His expression is a mix of wariness and reluctant relief.
“Greyson,” he acknowledges with a terse nod.“Situation’s fluid.We’ve got at least three armed suspects who fired shots at the main entrance before disappearing around the east side.SWAT’s fifteen minutes out.”
Greyson dismounts, his movements deliberate and controlled.“We’re not waiting for SWAT.”
The sergeant’s jaw tightens.“This isn’t your jurisdiction?—”
“It’s our town,” Greyson cuts him off, voice low but carrying an edge that makes the officer step back.“Our people inside that building.You want to stop us?Try it.”
The unspoken reality hangs between them: the police are outnumbered, outgunned, and they know it.More importantly, they know we’re not the enemy here.
The sergeant’s radio crackles with static, then, “Shots fired at east entrance.Repeat, shots fired.”
My blood runs cold.The east entrance.The emergency department.Where Xavier works.
I’m moving before the transmission ends, Greyson and my father flanking me as we circle the building.Other brothers fan out behind us, a coordinated unit operating on instinct and years of training together.We stick to cover, advancing in short bursts, weapons ready but not yet drawn.
The east side of the hospital comes into view.Glass doors shattered, bullet holes peppering the concrete facade.A security guard lies on the ground, clutching his leg as blood seeps between his fingers.No sign of the shooters.
“There,” my father grumbles, nodding toward a service road that runs behind the hospital.Three motorcycles, hastily abandoned, kickstands not even deployed.
They’re inside.
The realization hits me.Reapers are inside the hospital.Where Xavier is.
I draw my weapon, checking the magazine one last time.The metal is cold against my palm, familiar and deadly.
“Slaughter,” Greyson says quietly, reading my expression.“We do this smart.Together.”
I meet his eyes, letting him see the cold fury in mine.“They’re dead men walking.”
He nods once, understanding perfectly.“Yes, they are.But we do it clean.No civilians caught in the crossfire.”
I take a deep breath, forcing the rage into that icy focus that makes me effective.Letting emotion rule now would only endanger Xavier and everyone else in that building.
“I know the layout,” I say, voice steady.“Emergency department has two main corridors, central nurses’ station, trauma rooms along the east wall.”
If Greyson wonders how I know the hospital’s layout so intimately, he doesn’t ask.Now isn’t the time.
We move toward the shattered entrance, glass crunching beneath our boots.The wounded security guard looks up, fear flashing across his face as he registers who we are.
“Three men,” he gasps, face pale with shock and pain.“Armed.Headed for the main floor.”
Greyson nods his thanks, signaling to one of our brothers to stay with the injured man.The rest of us form up, moving through the entrance with precision.
The emergency department beyond is a scene of controlled chaos.Medical staff crouch behind counters, some tending to patients who couldn’t be moved.Ceiling tiles dangle where bullets have torn through them.The air smells of antiseptic, blood, and the sharp tang of gunpowder.
My eyes scan frantically for a familiar face, for dark hair and steady hands, for the man who held me this morning in another lifetime.But Xavier isn’t among the staff I can see.
