Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
DAGGER
It’s mid-afternoon, and Perdition is quiet, just a few regulars scattered around. The low hum of conversation and the clink of glasses fill the air as I sit at the bar nursing a beer. The cool bottle sweats in my hand as I take a slow sip, letting the bitterness settle on my tongue.
The door swings open, boots thudding against the floor. I don’t need to look to know it’s Sledge. He’s got that heavy presence, like a storm rolling in. Sure enough, he stomps up to me, face set like he’s got something to prove.
“Prez wants us on a run,” he says, skipping the pleasantries.
I glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Afternoon to you too, sunshine.”
He’s not in the mood. “We’re heading north. Guns to pick up, Russians to deal with. Prez wants it done tonight.”
I take another swig of my beer, setting the bottle down slow. “Sounds like a blast. You’re real chipper about it.”
“Let’s just get this over with,” he snaps. “Last thing I wanna do is spend hours in a truck with you.”
I smirk. Sledge’s got a chip on his shoulder. I’m not his favorite person since I got back. Not to mention, Hawk’s his boy, and he’s rooting for him to end up with Chloe. Not that I care.
“Relax, Sledge,” I say, sliding off the barstool. “We’ll get it done. Try not to pout the whole way.”
He storms out and I laugh. I probably shouldn’t be busting the guys chops, but fucknit, I don’t care anymore. When I get out there Sledge is in the driver's seat. Cool, I’d rather ride.
The delivery truck rattles down the highway, the engine’s drone blending with the occasional squeak of the old suspension. I’m watching the scenery zip by with my boots propped up on the dash. Sledge has both hands on the wheel, his jaw tight like he’s holding back from saying something.
“So, what’s your angle?” he finally asks, breaking the silence.
I glance at him. “Angle?”
“Yeah, your deal. You’ve been back with the club for a while, but some of us are still wondering where you stand.” He cuts me a look. “And by some of us, I mean me.”
I lean back, crossing my arms. “You’re about as subtle as a brick, you know that?”
“I’m not here to sugarcoat shit, Dagger. I’m still pissed that you left the club hanging. The guys just welcomed you back, but I’m not that forgiving. Hawk’s my best friend, and you’re stirring things up with Chloe. Doesn’t sit right with me.”
“What happens with Chloe is her call,” I say, my tone flat. “But if you’re questioning my loyalty to the Reapers, don’t. I’ve bled for this club. You want proof? Stick around. You’ll see.”
Sledge doesn’t answer right away. He’s chewing on my words, I can tell. Finally, he nods, barely noticeable. “Guess time’ll tell.”
The rest of the drive is quiet, the tension still there but dulled down. By the time we pull into the lot to pick up the guns, night’s fully settled in. The exchange goes smooth. We load up the crates, heavy with cold steel, and head back out.
It’s close to midnight when we roll up to the meeting spot. The Russians are already there, their black SUVs lined up under the weak glow of a flickering streetlight. Sergei, one of Dimitry’s top dogs, leans against the lead SUV, cigarette glowing in the dark. His face is all smug confidence, like he’s already got the upper hand.
Sledge kills the engine, and we step out. The night air’s sharp, carrying a faint bite of smoke and oil. Sergei’s guys watch us close, hands twitchy near their weapons.
“You’re late,” Sergei says, his Russian accent thick.
“Traffic,” I deadpan.
He doesn’t laugh. Instead, he waves one of his men forward, a guy lugging a bag. Sergei unzips it and dumps the cash onto the hood of the SUV. I step up and start counting. It doesn’t take long to see something’s off.
“You’re short,” I say, looking Sergei dead in the eye.
His smirk tightens. “It’s enough.”
“Enough” doesn’t cut it,” I say, my tone hard. “We agreed on a number, and this ain’t it.”
The air shifts. Sergei’s guys start moving, hands brushing holsters. Sergei straightens, his own hand resting near his hip. “Maybe you misunderstood the deal.”
“I don’t misunderstand numbers,” I say, stepping closer. “You either pay what’s owed, or this deal’s done.”
Then it all goes to hell. One of Sergei’s guys lunges at Sledge, and before I can blink, fists are flying. Sledge drops one with a hard right hook, but another grabs him from behind, locking an arm around his neck and pressing a gun to his head.
I don’t think. My hand goes to my belt, yanking my knife free. The blade’s out and flying before the guy even sees it. It buries itself between his eyes, and he drops, dead before he hits the ground.
The rest of the Russians freeze, wide-eyed and pale. Sergei curses, his hand inching toward his weapon, but I’ve already got mine drawn, aimed square at his chest.
“Get in your cars and leave,” I say, my voice low and cold. “Now.”
Sergei hesitates, his jaw working as he weighs his options. Finally, he barks something in Russian, and his men scramble to their vehicles. They’re gone in seconds, tires squealing as they vanish into the night.
I holster my gun and turn to Sledge. He’s catching his breath, his eyes darting between me and the body on the ground.
“You good?” I ask.
He nods slowly. “Yeah. Thanks to you.”
We climb back into the truck, the silence heavy. I pull out my phone and call Mason. He picks up quick.
“What happened?” he barks.
“They tried to short us,” I say. “It got ugly. One of their guys is down. They bolted, but we’ve got the guns.”
There’s a long pause before Mason speaks again, his tone sharp. “Get your asses back to the clubhouse. Now. This is bad, Dagger. Real bad.”
“On our way,” I say, hanging up.
The truck hums along the road, the weight of the night sitting heavy between us. Finally, Sledge clears his throat.
“Hey,” he says, his voice gruff. “Thanks for having my back out there. I mean it.”
I glance at him, surprised. “You’d have done the same for me.”
He smirks, the tension easing just a little. “Yeah. Guess we’re cool now.”
The clubhouse lights come into view, the sound of bikes rumbling in the lot. We’re not out of the woods yet, but tonight proved something. Sledge and I might not always see eye to eye, but when it counts, we’ve got each other. That’s the way it’s gotta be in the Reapers.
When Sledge and I walk into Perdition, the place is rowdy like it usually is. The music’s loud, voices louder, and there’s an energy that makes it feel like the walls themselves are alive. But it’s not time to party—we’ve got shit to deal with.
We push through the crowd, heading to the back room where business goes down. The meeting room’s packed, all the members gathered around the table while the rest stand pressed against the walls. It’s a tight fit, the air thick with smoke and tension.
Mason’s already there, leaning on the edge of the table, his face set like stone. As soon as we walk in, all eyes are on us. I nod at Mason, and we start laying it out—the Russians trying to short us, the fight, Sergei’s man ending up dead.
Mason listens without interrupting, but his jaw ticks. When we’re done, he straightens up, his voice calm but heavy. “They’ll retaliate. Russians don’t let shit like this slide.”
The room goes quiet, the weight of his words settling over everyone. He lets the silence hang a moment before continuing. “Here’s the plan. We’re locking down the clubhouse. No one in or out unless I say so. We’ll double up security at every entry point. Dagger, Sledge, you’re on patrol duty tonight. Everyone else, get armed and stay sharp. I’ll reach out to a couple of our allies to make sure we’ve got backup if it comes to that.”
He glances around the room, his gaze hard. “This isn’t over. They’ll come for us, but they’ll regret it. The Reapers don’t back down.”
A murmur of agreement ripples through the room, and I feel the weight of the moment settle over me. This isn’t just about the Russians. It’s about proving who we are and what we stand for. Mason’s right—when they come, we’ll be ready.