I nod, already pulling my weapon from the holster concealed beneath my jacket.The weight is familiar, comforting.“You and Butcher take the front.I’ll handle the driver.On my signal.”
They move silently, disappearing around the corner.I approach the sedan from behind, staying in the blind spots.The driver’s window is half open, the faint bass line of music drifting out.I can see the back of his head, how he’s nodding along, completely oblivious.His cut is visible, the red trim of the Reapers’ logo stark against the black leather.
I tap my phone once, sending the signal to Butcher and Demon.Three seconds.Two.One.
In a single motion, I reach through the window, grabbing the driver by his hair and slamming his head against the steering wheel before he can react.The horn blares briefly as his face connects with the hard plastic.He struggles, reaching for something in his waistband, but I’m faster.My forearm locks around his throat, cutting off his air supply.
“Not smart,” I growl into his ear, tightening my grip as he claws at my arm.“Coming here.Into our town.”
He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a choked gurgle.I can feel his pulse racing beneath my arm, the desperate thrashing as his body fights for oxygen.I ease up just enough to let him draw a ragged breath.
“Where are the others?”I demand, though I already know.I want to hear him say it.
“Fuck you,” he spits, blood from his broken nose spraying the dashboard.
I slam his head against the wheel again, harder this time.The crack of bone is audible even over the horn.“Wrong answer.”
His resistance weakens, consciousness fading.I drag him out through the window, his body crumpling to the pavement like a discarded doll.The bank’s side door bursts open, and I pivot, weapon raised, only to lower it when I see Butcher shoving another Reaper ahead of him.
This one’s still conscious, though barely.His face is a mess of blood and bruising, one eye already swelling shut.He stumbles, would have fallen if not for Butcher’s grip on his collar.
“Where’s the third?”I ask, scanning the doorway.
“Demon’s bringing him,” Butcher answers, his voice flat.“This one tried to pull a gun on a teller.”
My blood runs cold at the thought.A civilian, an innocent, caught in the Reapers’ crossfire.I step forward, grabbing the Reaper by his throat and lifting him until his feet barely touch the ground.
“You were going to shoot a teller?”I snarl, watching fear bloom in his one good eye.“A fucking bank teller?”
He wheezes, hands scrabbling at my wrist.“Just… intimidation.Wasn’t… going to…”
I tighten my grip, cutting off his excuses.“You don’t intimidate civilians in my town.You don’t threaten them.You don’t even fucking look at them wrong.”
The side door opens again, and Demon emerges, dragging the third Reaper.This one’s unconscious, a dark stain spreading across his shoulder where blood seeps through his cut.Demon’s expression is cold, focused.
“Bank’s clear,” he reports.“Got the security footage.No witnesses saw us enter.”
I nod, releasing my grip on the second Reaper.He crumples to his knees, gasping for air.“Get them in the car,” I order.“We’re taking this somewhere more private.”
Butcher and Demon load the three Reapers into their own sedan, none of them in any condition to resist.I slide into the driver’s seat, the blood-spattered steering wheel sticky beneath my palms.The engine purrs as I pull out of the alley, Butcher and Demon following on their bikes.
I drive methodically, taking a circuitous route to ensure we’re not followed.The abandoned warehouse at the edge of town has served the club’s purposes before.Remote.Soundproof.Private.
One of the Reapers stirs in the back seat, moaning as consciousness returns.In the rearview mirror, I catch his eye as awareness dawns on his face.
“You’re making a mistake,” he slurs, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth.“Our president will?—”
“Your president sent you to die,” I cut him off, voice flat.“Coming into Devil Souls territory, threatening our people?There’s only one way this ends.”
Fear flashes across his face, quickly masked by false bravado.“We’re just the first wave, asshole.More are coming.Lots more.”
I let the information settle, turning it over in my mind.If he’s telling the truth, if this is just the beginning, then the message needs to be even clearer.
The warehouse looms ahead, its corrugated metal walls rusted and forbidding.I pull around to the loading dock, where large doors shield the interior from prying eyes.Butcher is already there, rolling the doors open as I park.
“Get them inside,” I order, stepping out of the car.“Secure them to the chairs.”
The warehouse’s interior is dim, dust motes dancing in the few beams of sunlight that penetrate the high windows.Three metal chairs wait in the center of the concrete floor, arranged in a loose semicircle.Old bloodstains mark the ground beneath them, evidence of previous conversations.
