Right now, we’re ensuring it’s the Crimson Wheelers who taste death.
“Done,” Fingers exclaims triumphantly.
He snaps the laptop shut and slides it into his bag with one hand while firing off a few rounds with the other.
“Time to blow this joint,” I declare, signaling the retreat with a sharp whistle.
I’m a shadow behind Reaper. He’s a damn force of nature,barreling through the Crimson Wheelers with nothing but muscle and steel. I watch, almost in awe, as he grabs a rival by the collar, headbutting him hard enough to send him sprawling.
“Should’ve stayed down,” Reaper growls out as the guy tries to crawl away.
This one’s trying to beg, blood bubbling from his split lip. Reaper doesn’t hesitate. His knife flashes, a silver streak in the dim light, and then there’s silence. It’s quick, clean, and surgical.
“Damn,” I mutter under my breath.
Two more try their luck, rushing him like that’s going to save them. Reaper sidesteps the first and sends him crashing into the second. They’re entangled, confusion etched on their faces. Reaper’s boot meets a ribcage, and there’s a crunch that has me wincing.
“Pathetic,” Reaper spits out.
His blade finds flesh again and again. No shots are fired, just the slick sound of a knife cutting life short. Two thuds, bodies hitting the floor. Reaper stands, chest heaving, drenched in the proof of his kills.
“Good thing you’re with us,” I say, clapping him on the back.
Reaper only nods, his eyes already scanning for the next threat.
The survivors are herded inside the clubhouse, like cattle to the slaughter. The air is thick with fear and gun smoke, walls echoing with the ghosts of their fallen brothers.
“Talk,” Reaper commands, his voice deadly calm. He’s got this way of speaking that chills you to the bone.
One by one, they will spill their guts, hoping for mercy. Reaper’s knife glints in his hand, a silent judge.
“Diablo Cartel?” he asks the first, who is shaking so bad his teeth chatter.
“Money… they paid for protection,” the Wheeler stammers, eyes darting around, seeking an escape that isn’t there.
Reaper nods, and it’s over before the guy can blink. Next, next, and next—each confession sealed with a final slice.
“Last one,” Reaper says, almost bored.
The last Wheeler is crying now, snot and tears mixing with the dirt on his face. “Please,” he whimpers.
“Did you think you stood a chance?” Reaper’s voice is a whisper of death.
The guy looks directly at me and gasps just before Reaper’s knife ends the conversation for good.
All five are gone.
The questions hang in the air, unanswered whispers drowned in blood.
Without being told, I pour gasoline over the bodies. The smell of it clings to my hands, a pungent reminder of the task at hand. I douse the buildings as well, the liquid splashing over wooden floors and lifeless faces, erasing their identities as easily as we snuffed out their lives. My boots soak up the fuel as I walk, leaving dark, wet prints on the wooden floor.
“What about the women?” I ask Reaper.
There are a few of them huddled together at the back of the clubhouse. Reaper shrugs, but I’m not about to kill females who didn’t join in the fight or can’t look after themselves.
“We could let them go?”
Slowly, Reaper shakes his head from side to side. The blood of his enemies covers most of him, making him appear more monster than man.
