Page 22 of Tank

Dagger grins, a feral glint in his eye. "That's the spirit, Tank. We'll make 'em pay for every fucking tear she's shed."

The weight of their support settles on my shoulders, a reminder that I'm not alone in this fight. The Iron Reapers are more than just a club - we're a brotherhood forged in blood and bound by honor.

As we gather around the table, our heads bowed in silent prayer, I feel the energy shift. The air crackles with anticipation, the promise of retribution hanging heavy.

Mason's voice is low and steady as he speaks. "We ride at nightfall. We hit 'em hard and fast, no mercy. For Sophie, for every soul they've shattered."

A chorus of "ayes" echoes through the room, a solemn vow to see this through to the bitter end.

I close my eyes, picturing Sophie's face. Her strength, her resilience, her unwavering spirit in the face of unspeakablehorrors. She is the light guiding us through this darkness, the beacon calling us home.

We will not fail her. We will not falter.

The Iron Reapers will ride, and heaven help anyone who stands in our way.

EIGHT

SOPHIE

I sit hunchedover the table, papers and maps scattered in front of me. The harsh fluorescent light above flickers, casting an eerie glow. My hair hangs tangled in my face as I scribble furiously, memories flooding back. The stench of stale cigarettes and motor oil clings to Perdition's walls.

Gotta connect the dots. Piece this shit together. Those sick fucks won't get away with it. Not again.

I grip the pen tighter, knuckles white. Tears sting my eyes but I blink them back. No time for that. Just focus.

The door creaks open and heavy footsteps approach. I stiffen, ready to bolt. Fight or flight mode, always. Then a familiar gravelly voice:

"Easy there, little one. It's just me."

Tank. His presence fills the room, commanding yet calming. Instinctively, my shoulders relax a fraction.

He comes to stand beside me, work-roughened hands braced on the table edge. Peers down at my chaotic notes, brow furrowed.

"Looks like you're making progress." His tone holds a hint of admiration. "This is good shit, Sophie. Real good."

I glance up, meeting his intense gaze. Something flickers there - pride maybe? I'm not used to that.

"Just trying to nail these bastards." My voice comes out hoarse, thick with unshed tears. "Won't let it happen to anyone else. No matter what."

Tank nods slowly, a solemn understanding passing between us. He's seen evil, same as me. Lived it. Survived it.

"We'll get 'em, little one. I promise you that." A vow, low and fierce. "You've done your part. Let me and the boys handle the rest."

I shake my head vehemently, blonde tangles flying. "No. I need to see this through. Need to be there when they go down."

"Sophie..." He sighs, running a hand over his beard. Weighing the risks, the cost. "It ain't gonna be pretty. Could get real ugly, real fast."

"I don't care." The words burst out, raw and desperate. "I can't just sit here while you all put your asses on the line! Not after everything..."

My voice cracks, tears finally spilling over. Angrily, I swipe at my cheeks. Fucking weakness. But Tank doesn't judge, doesn't pity.

He crouches down to my level, dark eyes holding mine. "Hey. Look at me." Gentle but firm. "You're one tough bitch, you know that? Stronger than most men I know."

A wet, shaky laugh escapes me. "Damn straight."

His lips quirk. "Damn straight," he echoes. "So if you're set on doing this, I got your back. Me and the whole fucking club. You hear?"

I nod, throat too tight for words. He squeezes my shoulder once, solid and reassuring. A lifeline. Then stands to his full towering height.

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