Chapter 6
Chapter Six
brAUN
The Wolves howl as they sprint through the tunnel. I roll my eyes and march into the darkness, my eyes adjusting to it effortlessly.
“I wish they wouldn’t fucking do that,” Coast grumbles beside me. “Gives me the heebies.”
Kylo gives him a pointed look, or what I assume is one, since he’s wearing his mask.
“What?” Coast shrugs. “I just don’t get why they want to give away their position.”
“We all hunt differently,” I answer him. And it makes sense. While we hide behind our masks and use the disguise to terrorize our targets, the Wolves use their presence and approach to terrify their victims. I have nothing against it, but it does pose a threat when we want to remain silent.
Instead of running, we take our time in the tunnel, essentially giving our target longer than a ten-minute head start because who said we weren’t generous?
The Reapers are just like us in that sense. We lead our prey into a false sense of security until all of a sudden, we’re on them like the predators we suppress.
Where the Wolves get off on the thrill of pressuring their targets to make mistakes, the Reapers use strategy and the skills they’ve honed from years in the military.
Every move is calculated and precise; their ability to identify weaknesses and predict movements makes them just as dangerous as we are.
I swear, they just use the run for practice, keep themselves in peak condition when they’re not out in the world doing whatever the fuck they do.
The Phantoms and Serpents are pretty new to the run, and I haven’t had the chance to witness in detail how they do things, but everyone is vetted here, so I don’t care as long as they don’t jeopardize the game.
“Still,” Coast grumbles. “It’s fucking creepy.”
This time, I’m the one who gives him a pointed look.
None of us is a saint here, despite the fact Kylo, Coast and I are part of the Saints.
Ironic, really. We ride with the Saints, the bikers who live on the East side of Deadwood, but we rarely hang out at their clubhouse.
The Heathens keep to themselves for a reason.
We've never liked the way the Saints run things.
They squeeze every last drop out of the people under their protection, demanding loyalty while giving very little in return.
Protection only means something when it's offered freely.
Otherwise, it's just another form of control.
They tighten their grip every chance they get, policing every corner of the East Side until people are too frightened to breathe without permission.
We'd rather our people come to us because they choose to, not because they fear the consequences if they don't.
It’s why the three of us stepped out of the clubhouse and started making our own way. Though we never claim to be anything but Heathens, we have certain rules we follow. I wish I could say the same for the Saints.
Like any situation that doesn’t serve its purpose, we would leave.
But it’s easier said than done. Remaining in the club—in a way—allows us to keep an eye on things.
Plus, the only way to leave the Saints is by blood spill, and while I enjoy the thought of staining the streets, this town doesn’t need any more chaos.
It’s why we hold The Midnight Run every few months.
We allow the chaos to take control of us for several hours, using the event to stretch the legs of our demons and unleash the carnage we crave.
We hunt. We chase. We remind ourselves what it feels like to live on instinct instead of responsibility.
Because no matter how disciplined we are, every man who steps into the forest carries something savage inside him, and pretending otherwise only makes it harder to control.
The run is just a way for us to blow off steam. We don’t care about who wins here because the reality is, we win either way.
If the girls get captured, we can do whatever we want to them for three months. Sounds barbaric, but we never do anything the girls don’t want, and we make sure that they’re always safe.
Most men here enter the run for the prize of having a woman in their beds, their domestic slave at their beck and call. We’ve never had an issue with getting a woman in bed. We chase because we crave what is asked of us, what the girls have lost and want to regain.
Control.
And the majority of the time, it’s to take out somebody who has wronged them. That obviously comes with a vetting process, but almost all of the time, we accept the request because I doubt any woman who comes to The Midnight Run to be chased through the woods is here to ask us to hurt an innocent.
The problem is, we sometimes get ahead of ourselves—or should I say, the monsters do. Once the run starts, it’s difficult to keep the door closed on the chaos. The leash is off, and our impulses run wild.
We almost always play to win.
If a girl gets captured, she belongs to the group that caught her for the next three months.
Outsiders hear that and assume the worst. They hear claimed and picture chains and cages.
The reality isn't nearly as sinister. Every woman who signs up knows exactly what she's agreeing to before she steps into the tunnel.
Boundaries are laid out before they sign their name, and they're respected without exception.
Consent isn't optional, and neither is their safety.
The chase might feed the predator in us, but we never cross the line.
That's the unspoken rule everyone follows. Overstep, and you don't just answer to your own crew—you answer to every man who enjoys the game.
On the off chance a girl wins, she earns something far more valuable than bragging rights. For the next ninety days, the crew whose flag she captures owes her a favor. No questions. No negotiations. She can ask for anything.
And we have no problem acting out our rage on some unsuspecting victim.
In less than five minutes, we clear the tunnel leisurely and head out into the forest. The air is crisp, the evidence of Spring still lingering. I inhale the scent of cedar and earth, closing my eyes as I ground myself for a moment.
“Which way?” Coast asks as the Wolves howl again.
I glance down at the earth beneath my feet, the mud deformed from a footprint that looks exactly like a boot. A small one that’s heading in the direction leading deeper into the forest.
I step forward and gesture ahead of us. This is where the fun really begins.
“That way.”