Chapter 8 #4
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.
I watch as Butcher and Demon drag the Reapers from the car, securing them to the chairs with zip ties. The driver is still unconscious, head lolling against his chest. The other two are awake now, eyes darting around the warehouse with growing terror.
“Water,” I say to Demon, who nods and retrieves a bucket from the corner. He returns, splashing the contents over all three men. They sputter and gasp, the cold shock bringing even the unconscious one back to awareness.
I stand before them, letting them take in the sight of me. The Devil Souls enforcer, Slaughter, the man whose reputation precedes him. I want them to know exactly who’s delivering the message they’ll carry back to their graves.
“Here’s how this works,” I begin, voice eerily calm as I pull a knife from my belt. The blade catches what little light filters through the windows, gleaming wickedly. “You’re going to tell me everything about your club’s plans for my town, and then I’m going to decide how quickly you die.”
The one in the middle, the one who’d threatened the teller, finds his courage first. “We don’t know shit. We’re just soldiers following orders.”
I smile, the expression never reaching my eyes. “Wrong answer.”
I move forward, the knife a natural extension of my arm. This is the part of me Xavier hasn’t seen, the darkness I keep carefully contained when I’m with him. But here, in this warehouse, with these men who threatened what’s mine, I let it surface.
“Let me tell you what happens to people who threaten my town,” I say, circling behind the first chair. “To people who would put guns in the faces of innocent civilians.”
My hand rests on the Reaper’s shoulder, feeling him tremble beneath my palm. The knife hovers near his throat, close enough that he can feel the cold steel against his skin.
“Your club made a fatal mistake coming here,” I continue, voice dropping lower. “And now you’re going to help me send a message they’ll never forget.”
The blade presses slightly, drawing a thin line of blood. Just enough to make my point. Just enough to make him understand exactly how serious I am.
“Start talking,” I command. “Or I start cutting.”
His Adam’s apple bobs against the knife’s edge. “They sent us to test defenses,” he blurts out, words tumbling over each other in his haste. “See how quickly you’d respond, what kind of numbers you’d bring.”
I circle back around to face him, keeping the knife visible. “And the bank? Why target civilians?”
“Orders,” the one to his right chimes in, perhaps hoping cooperation might save him. His voice trembles like a plucked string. “Make it messy. Public. Force a response that would look bad for you with the locals.”
My jaw tightens so hard I can feel my teeth grinding together. “You were going to shoot innocent people to make us look bad?”
“Not shoot,” the third one says, finding his voice at last. Blood bubbles from his nose with each word, his face a mess of swelling and bruising from Demon’s handiwork. “Just scare them. Create chaos. Make the town think you can’t protect them.”
I laugh, a sound devoid of humor that echoes off the metal walls. “And how’s that working out for you?”
None of them answer. Smart.
“How many more are coming?” I demand, moving to stand directly in front of the middle one. He seems to be the leader of this pathetic trio. “And when?”
He hesitates, eyes darting to his brothers. Calculating. Weighing loyalty against survival.
I don’t give him time to decide. The knife flashes down, embedding itself in the wooden arm of the chair between his fingers. So close I can feel the fabric of his sleeve against my knuckles. He jerks, a strangled sound escaping his throat.
“That was a warning,” I say softly. “Next time, I take a finger. Then another. And another. Until you run out of things to lose.”
“Twenty more,” he gasps, eyes fixed on the knife quivering in the wood. “Coming tomorrow night. Planning to hit multiple targets at once: the high school, the hospital again, the police station.”
My blood runs cold at the mention of the hospital. Of Xavier. The image of him in those blood-soaked scrubs, bullets flying around him, flashes through my mind. The darkness inside me surges, threatening to overtake my carefully maintained control.
“Names,” I demand, yanking the knife free. “I want the names of everyone involved in planning this.”
“I don’t know all of them,” he insists, shrinking back as far as the zip ties will allow. “Just that Riggs is leading it. He’s got a personal beef with your president. Says Grey disrespected him at some rally last year.”
Riggs. The name registers immediately. A vicious bastard with a reputation for unnecessary cruelty, even by outlaw standards. Known for targeting families rather than facing enemies directly.
“Where are they staging from?” Butcher asks from behind me, his voice a low rumble in the shadows.
“Motel off Highway 9,” the Reaper answers, words coming faster now, as if speed might save him. “The old Bluebird place. They’ve taken over the whole back section.”
I exchange a look with Butcher and Demon, a silent communication born of years working together. They nod, understanding the plan without words needed.
“Please,” the middle Reaper begs, desperation creeping into his voice. “We told you everything. We’re just foot soldiers. We didn’t know—”
“Didn’t know what?” I cut him off, leaning in until our faces are inches apart. “Didn’t know that threatening innocent people would have consequences? Didn’t know that coming into Devil Souls territory would be a death sentence?”
Fear widens his eyes, the bravado completely gone now. “We have families,” he whispers. “Kids.”
Something flickers in my chest, not quite sympathy, but recognition. These men are soldiers following orders, just like we are. But they chose their side. They chose to threaten my town. My people. Xavier.
“You should have thought of that before you put guns in the faces of bank tellers,” I say, straightening. “Before you shot up a hospital with patients who couldn’t even run.”
I stare at the three men before me, their fear palpable in the musty warehouse air. They’ve given us what we need: the location, the numbers, the names. Now comes the part that separates men like me from civilians like Xavier.
The thought of his name steadies my hand. These men were part of a plan that would have put him in danger again. That would have brought violence back to his hospital, to the place where he saves lives.
I nod to Butcher and Demon, a silent signal we’ve used too many times before. Their expressions mirror my own, cold, resolved and certain. This isn’t personal satisfaction. This is necessary elimination of a threat.
“Wait,” the middle one starts, eyes widening as he realizes what’s coming.