“Who was it?” It’s Creed’s voice, rough like gravel. He emerges, one arm hanging useless in a sling but the other ready and steady. He’s a predator despite his injury, dangerous and demanding answers.
Scarface shakes his head, his lips pressed into a thin line. He knows talking will sign his death warrant, but so is staying silent. Fear has got him in a vice, squeezing tight enough for panic toseep through the cracks.
“Spit it out,” Creed pushes, stepping closer.
The burly man’s eyes dart to him, then to the floor. Silence won’t cut it, not tonight. Not with what’s at stake.
The tension is a live wire between us, sparking with every second he keeps his mouth shut. We need answers, and we need them yesterday. This war has been a long time coming, and now it’s on our doorstep.
“Talk,” Creed growls.
Justice’s arm tenses, the knife edge kissing skin. A bead of blood trickles down the man’s throat.
Scarface gasps, eyes bulging. “This here, it’s nothing. A taste.”
“Of what?” Creed’s words are ice.
“War,” the burly biker spits out. “You took tonight, sure. But what’s coming…” He chuckles, but more from fear than bravado.
“The Khans?” Creed probes, eyes narrowed.
Laughter erupts from the man’s throat, rich and dark with fake amusement. “No. It’s closer than that.”
A shadow moves forward—Reaper—vengeance radiating off him, his blade glinting.
The man recognizes him. His eyes go wide, he shakes his head, and then blurts out, “Diablo.”
“Diablo,” Creed echoes the word. “Shit.” He’s staring at the dirty concrete beneath us, and I can tell it isn’t just the floor he’s seeing. Disappointment creases his features, deep lines carved by betrayal.
His head tilts, his eyes locking with Reaper’s. A silent conversation passes between them, and the nod that follows is all it takes.
Justice is a coiled spring. He moves, a flicker of motion, and Scarface hits the floor hard. For a heartbeat, the guy looks up, thinking maybe, just maybe, he’s dodged a bullet.
He’s dead wrong.
Reaper steps forward, swift as a shadow, and there’s no hesitation in his movement. Steel flashes, biting deep, tearing through lies and flesh alike.
Blood arcs high, a gruesome fountain painting the night red. A choked gurgle rips from Scarface’s throat, the sound raw and primal. His body convulses, thrashing in the dirt on the concrete floor like some wounded animal fighting for its last breath.
“Damn,” I mutter under my breath, watching Scarface clutch at his throat.
The man’s final spasms slow, then still. The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. The acrid scent of blood and gunpowder stings my nostrils. My heart hammers in my chest. The body at my feet lies too still—the thrashing stopped, and the gurgling silenced. I watch until the man’s eyes fix on a point far beyond this world, the light fading from them as death claims another soul.
“Highway.”
Creed’s voice slices through the aftermath, quiet but carrying the weight of an order. He doesn’t need to say more. We’ve done this dance before—we know the steps by heart.
“Got it,” I reply, my tone even.
I look at him and see the hard set of his jaw and the tightness around his eyes. He’s our president, our leader, unshakeable and unbreakable. But tonight, I see something else there, a chink in the armor.
“Make sure they’re gone. Every last one,” he commands, his words leaving no room for error.
“Understood.” I acknowledge with a nod, my gaze sweeping the area.
It’s a grim job but necessary. We can’t leave any evidence behind or give the cops or our enemies anything to work with. We move like ghosts, erasing ourselves from the scene.
As I direct the cleanup, my mind races, piecing together thepuzzle of tonight’s events.
