Chapter 3 #5
I check my mirrors, seeing the line of bikes stretching behind me, a snake of chrome and leather, my family, my brothers, all moving with the same deadly purpose. The Reapers wanted to make a statement? They’re about to learn exactly what happens when you threaten what belongs to the Devil Souls.
My father pulls alongside me at a stoplight, his expression grim behind his sunglasses.
He taps two fingers against his chest, our old signal from when I was a kid.
Be smart. Think before you act. I nod once, acknowledging the warning even as adrenaline courses through my veins, urging me forward faster.
The first sirens wail in the distance as we approach Main Street.
Blue and red lights flash at the intersection ahead, a barricade of police cruisers blocking the road.
Civilians huddle on sidewalks, faces pale with shock and fear.
The familiar rhythm of my town has been disrupted, replaced with the jagged pulse of chaos.
Greyson signals, and we pull over a block from the barricade. No sense in antagonizing the cops, not when we share the same immediate goal of stopping the Reapers.
“Demon,” Greyson calls, voice carrying over the rumble of idling engines. “What’ve we got?”
Demon slides off his bike, phone already in hand, fingers flying across the screen. “Police scanner says at least six Reapers opened fire near the courthouse, then split into two groups. One headed toward the hospital, other toward the high school.”
The high school. Where Samantha teaches. Where Xavier’s sister works.
My hand tightens on the handlebar, knuckles white beneath my leather gloves. These bastards know exactly what they’re doing, targeting the places that would hurt our community the most. Schools. Hospitals. The beating heart of any town.
“They’re trying to stretch us thin,” my father observes, voice tight with controlled anger. “Make us choose.”
Greyson nods, already making calculations behind those blue eyes. “We split up. Half to the hospital, half to the school.” He points to various brothers, dividing our forces with the efficiency of a general. “Slaughter, you’re with me. Hospital.”
Relief floods through me, though I keep my expression neutral. He knows. Without me saying a word, Greyson knows exactly where I need to be.
I check my weapon one last time, the familiar weight of it against my palm steadying me. The metal is cool, the grip textured beneath my fingers. I slide it back into its holster, secure against my ribs beneath my cut.
“Remember,” Greyson says, voice pitched for all to hear, “civilians are everywhere. No wild shooting. We take these fuckers down clean and controlled.”
Nods all around. We may be an MC, we may operate outside the law in many ways, but we protect our town. We don’t endanger innocents.
As we prepare to move out, my phone vibrates again. I check it immediately, heart in my throat.
Still locked down. Patients are safe. I’m okay. Be careful.
Xavier. Still alive, still thinking of others’ safety even in crisis. Something fierce and protective surges through me, mingling with the cold rage already there. The combination is dangerous and makes me capable of things I try to keep leashed.
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.
A nurse spots us, eyes widening at the sight of leather cuts and drawn weapons. But instead of fear, I see recognition in her eyes. And relief.
“They went that way,” she says, pointing toward double doors leading deeper into the hospital. “Looking for someone specific. A doctor.”
My heart stops, then hammers against my ribs with renewed force. A doctor. They’re looking for a doctor.
For Xavier?
The thought sends ice through my veins, followed immediately by a wave of molten rage so intense my vision blurs at the edges. If they’re specifically targeting Xavier…
No. Focus. I force the thought away, channeling the anger into the cold precision I need right now.
“How many patients are still here?” Greyson asks the nurse, voice calm and authoritative.
“Most of the ambulatory patients evacuated through the west exit,” she replies. “We’ve got about a dozen critical cases that couldn’t be moved, plus staff.”
Greyson nods, already formulating a plan. He signals to brothers, splitting us into teams with hand gestures we’ve used for years. My father, me, and Greyson will pursue the Reapers. The others will secure this area and protect the remaining patients.
We move toward the double doors, weapons ready, every sense heightened to the point of pain. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense silence. Our boots squeak against the polished floor, each step measured and deliberate.
Beyond the doors, a long corridor stretches before us, eerily empty. Papers scattered across the floor, an abandoned wheelchair pushed against one wall. Signs of a hasty evacuation everywhere.
A crash echoes from somewhere ahead, followed by a man’s shout. We quicken our pace, moving in formation with Greyson on point, me covering the right flank, and my father on the left.
Another corridor branches off, leading toward what the sign indicates is the radiology department. A trail of blood droplets leads that way, smeared as if someone wounded was dragged or stumbled in that direction.