Chapter 3 #4
“You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up in our town,” Greyson says, voice carrying across the parking lot. His tone is conversational, which anyone who knows him recognizes as his most dangerous. “Firing shots into civilian businesses. Putting our people in the hospital.”
The Reaper enforcer spits on the ground between us. “Free country, last I checked. We go where we want.”
I feel the collective tension behind me, brothers shifting, hands tightening on weapons. My own pulse remains steady, my breathing controlled. I’ve been in this situation too many times to let adrenaline cloud my judgment.
“Not anymore,” Greyson replies, steel threading through his voice. “You’ve got one hour to pack your shit and clear out. After that, we stop being polite.”
A harsh laugh erupts from the enforcer. “Polite? That what you call this?” He gestures at our assembled force. “Looks like intimidation to me.”
“Call it whatever helps you sleep,” Greyson says with a shrug. “One hour. Then we come back, and we won’t be talking.”
The enforcer’s eyes slide from Greyson to me, a calculating look I recognize all too well. He’s assessing threats, looking for weaknesses. His gaze lingers on me a moment too long.
“You Butcher’s kid?” he asks, nodding toward my father. “Heard stories about your old man. And you.”
I don’t respond. Don’t need to. My reputation speaks for itself.
“One hour,” Greyson repeats, already turning away. It’s a power move showing his back, as if they’re not worth his concern. But I don’t turn. I stay facing them, eyes locked on the enforcer, watching for the twitch of muscles that would signal an attack.
The enforcer smiles, slow and ugly. “Your hour started five minutes ago.”
We back away methodically, mounting our bikes in formation. As I kick my engine to life, I catch the enforcer watching me specifically. Something in his eyes makes my skin crawl, not in fear, but recognition of a kindred spirit. Someone else who understands the cold math of violence.
We roar out of the parking lot, a thunderous statement of power and unity. Once we’re safely out of sight, Greyson signals for us to pull over at a gas station a mile down the highway.
“They won’t leave,” I say as we gather in a tight circle. It’s not a question.
Greyson nods. “I know. But now they can’t say we didn’t give them a chance.”
“Public relations?” my father asks with a harsh laugh.
“Something like that,” Greyson agrees. “When this goes sideways, I want the locals to know who the aggressors were. These Reapers came looking for trouble in our town, terrorized civilians. We gave them a chance to leave peacefully.”
I check my watch, calculating. “We should position ourselves before the hour’s up. Have eyes on all exit points.”
“Already on it,” Demon says, holding up his phone. “Prospects are in place, watching from the tree line. They’ve got orders to stay hidden, just observe.”
Greyson nods approvingly. “We roll back in forty minutes. Full force, no hesitation. I want them to understand exactly what happens when you threaten what belongs to the Devil Souls.”
As the others discuss logistics, I step away to check my phone. Two missed calls from Xavier, followed by a text.
Hope everything’s okay. Let me know when you’re free. We’ve had a few traumas today and they called me into work thirty minutes ago. Still come over tonight?
My thumb hovers over the screen. What do I tell him? That I’m about to ride into what could become a bloodbath? That the man who held him this morning might have blood on his hands by night?
I type quickly. Still handling club business. Will call when I can. Stay safe and I will come over tonight.
It’s not enough, not nearly what I want to say, but it’s all I can offer right now. I slip the phone back into my pocket, pushing thoughts of Xavier into that locked compartment of my mind. I need to focus, need to be Slaughter right now, not the man who woke up with Xavier in his arms.
“You good?” My father appears at my shoulder, eyes sharp with concern.
“Fine,” I reply automatically.
He studies me for a moment, seeing more than I want him to. “Your head’s somewhere else today.”
I straighten my shoulders. “My head’s where it needs to be.”
“Bullshit,” he says, but there’s no heat in it. “I know that look. You’ve got someone.”
I don’t answer, which is answer enough.
He nods slowly. “Anyone I know?”
“Xavier Blane,” I admit, the name feeling strange on my lips in this context, like worlds colliding that should remain separate.
Recognition flashes in his eyes. “Ethan’s boy? The doctor?”
I nod once.
A complex expression crosses my father’s face: concern, understanding, something like approval. “Good kid. Smart. Comes from good people.” He gives me a slight smile that only my dad can pass off.
“It’s new,” I say, which isn’t really an answer.
My father claps a hand on my shoulder. “I just want you to be happy, the way your mom has made me all these years.”
Greyson’s voice cuts through the parking lot. “Mount up! Ten minutes to position.”
We break apart, returning to our bikes. The brief moment of personal concern evaporates, replaced by the familiar cold focus I need for what’s coming. I check my weapon one last time, adjust my vest, and swing my leg over my bike.
The ride back to the motel is silent, tense with anticipation. We approach from different directions this time, a coordinated effort to cut off escape routes. I follow Greyson to the east entrance, engines cutting simultaneously as we pull up.
The parking lot is eerily quiet. Too quiet.
Instinct prickles at the back of my neck. Something’s wrong.
“Grey,” I say softly, but he’s already noticed, hand raised to signal caution.
We advance slowly, weapons drawn, moving with the practiced coordination of men who’ve faced danger together for years. The motel doors hang open, rooms dark beyond. No movement, no sound except the creak of the old sign swinging in the breeze.
“Spread out,” Greyson orders, voice barely audible. “Check every room.”
I move forward, back against the wall, senses heightened to every shadow and sound. The first room consists of an empty bed, unmade, cigarette butts in an ashtray, and beer cans scattered across a table. Recently vacated.
The second room is the same. And the third.
“Clear,” calls a voice from the other end of the building, echoed by another, and another.
I meet Greyson in the parking lot, where he stands with my father and Kyle, faces grim.
“They’re gone,” I state the obvious, holstering my weapon.
“Not gone,” Greyson corrects, jaw tight. “Moved. And they left us a message.”
He holds up his phone, displaying a text from Demon. Shots fired at Murphy’s again. Multiple Reapers spotted heading toward Main Street.
Cold rage washes through me. They waited for us to leave, then doubled back toward town. Toward civilians. Toward—
Xavier.
The thought hits me with physical force. Xavier’s hospital is on Main Street. He could be walking to his car, heading to lunch, completely unaware of the danger.
I’m already moving toward my bike when Greyson’s voice stops me.
“Slaughter! We move together. As a unit.”
I turn back, fighting the urge to break formation, to ride ahead alone. “They’re targeting civilians, Grey. We need to move now.”
He nods sharply. “And we will. But smart. Coordinated.”
I take a deep breath, forcing down the panic that threatens to cloud my judgment. He’s right. Rushing in without a plan could make things worse.
My phone vibrates against my thigh, the sensation jolting through me like an electric shock. I pull it out, my thumb leaving a smear of sweat across the screen as I swipe to unlock it. Xavier’s name appears, and for one heartbeat, relief floods my system that he’s okay, that he’s able to text.
Then I read the message.
Something’s happening downtown. Gunshots near the hospital. We’re on lockdown.
Ten simple words that turn my blood to ice. The phone nearly slips from my suddenly numb fingers as the implications crash through me. The hospital. Xavier’s hospital. The place where he saves lives, where he should be safe.
“Greyson,” I say, my voice coming out with a deadly calm that doesn’t match the hurricane raging inside me. I hold up the phone, screen facing him, watching his eyes scan the message. “The hospital’s on lockdown. They’re targeting medical facilities.”
Greyson’s face transforms, the controlled anger hardening into something terrible, something I recognize, because I feel it building in my own chest. His jaw locks, a muscle jumping beneath the skin.
“Mount up. Now.”
The command ripples through our ranks, brothers moving. No questions, no hesitation. Just the synchronized movement of men who understand exactly what’s at stake.
I swing my leg over my bike, the leather of my seat creaking beneath me.
The key slides into the ignition, metal cool against my fingertips despite the heat of the day.
My father appears at my side, his own bike rumbling to life, our eyes meeting in silent understanding.
This isn’t just club business anymore. This is personal.
The engines around me roar to life, a thunderous chorus of controlled power.
The vibration travels up through the handlebars, through my arms, settling in my chest alongside the cold rage building there.
I position myself at the front beside Greyson, where I belong as enforcer, as the club’s right hand.
As we pull onto the highway, formation tight and purposeful, a single thought drives me forward with laser focus: if they’ve hurt Xavier, if they’ve so much as frightened him, there won’t be a place on Earth where they can hide from me.
The wind whips past, tugging at my clothes, the familiar sensation grounding me in the moment. I lean into the curve of the road, my bike responding like an extension of my body.
Two miles to town. Two miles to Xavier.