“Could be anyone.” Reaper’s hand hovers near his sidearm, eyes locked on the approaching vehicle. “Could be trouble.”
“Or could be just what we’re expecting,” I toss in, but I’m scanning the stretch of road, wary. There aren’t many reasons for a truck to roll through here. It could be lost.
Winchester’s voice cuts through the tension. “Might wanna play it safe. Justice and I can take to the trees… keep an eye out.”
Creed looks at him, a ghost of a smirk twisting his lips despite the pain etched in his face. “It’s a damn truck, Winchester, not a goddamn ambush.”
“Right,” Winchester drawls, but the look he shoots me says he isn’t convinced. “But you know how I love nature.”
“Me too,” Justice says.
“Fine,” Creed concedes. “Go be one with the wilderness, boys.”
Justice’s nod is quick, a silent agreement. He reaches into his saddlebags with practiced ease, pulling out the Glock. It gleams for just a split second before he tucks it away, hidden but ready. He doesn’t say a word as he melts into the trees, blending into the scenery. Winchester follows suit, just another whisper in the wind, vanishing without a trace.
“Always the cautious one.” Creed chuckles, shaking his head.
“Better safe than sorry,” Reaper adds, though his eyes never stray from the dust cloud that’s heralding the truck’s arrival.
“Let’s see what thispresentis all about, then,” Creed says, flexing his injured shoulder with a wince.
“Ready for whatever’s coming,” I reply, my hand resting on the grip of my piece. The comfort of cold metal under my fingers steadies me.
“Let’s hope it’s just a delivery,” Reaper mutters.
But we’re all thinking the same thing—in our world, nothing is ever just anything.
The rumble of the truck grows louder, its engine growling like some caged beast finally set free. Something about this whole setup feels off.
The truck rolls to a stop, and the driver’s door swings open with a creak. A mountain of a man steps out, boots thudding on the asphalt. His frame is bulky, muscles straining under the fabric of his shirt as if the cotton is a second skin.
“Present,” he grunts, his accent thick, the syllables rough around the edges. He thrusts the keys toward Creed, who takes them without flinching. “For you.”
“Who are you?” Reaper demands, voice like gravel.
“Boris,” the man says, tapping his chest with a meaty finger. His eyes dart between us, sizing us up as friends or foes.
Creed pockets the keys, his face unreadable. “What kind of present?”
“Good present.” Boris’ attempt at reassurance comes acrossmore like a warning.
I take a step forward, my instincts screaming.
What if this goes south?
What if it’s a trap?
But I push those thoughts down and lock them away. No room for doubt now.
“Let’s see it then,” Creed’s voice is steady.
Boris strides to the back of the truck, a hulking mass of confidence. The grin plastered on his face says we are either about to strike gold or walk into a damn ambush. I follow closely behind Creed and Reaper, my gut tight with anticipation.
“Come, come,” Boris calls out, waving us on like we’re old pals at a reunion rather than potential rivals or targets.
“Showtime,” Reaper mutters, and there’s that flicker in his eyes, the one that speaks of danger and excitement all wrapped up in one deadly package.
The truck doors fly open with a metallic crash that echoes off the trees. They stand wide like the gates to some forbidden armory. Inside, it’s a goddammed arsenal. Row upon row of sleek, deadly firearms gleam under the Florida sun. My pulse kicks up a notch. This isn’t just hardware—it’s a statement.
