Page 53 of Dagger

Sledge kills the engine, and we step out. The night air’s sharp, carrying a faint bite of smoke and oil. Sergei’s guys watch us close, hands twitchy near their weapons.

“You’re late,” Sergei says, his Russian accent thick.

“Traffic,” I deadpan.

He doesn’t laugh. Instead, he waves one of his men forward, a guy lugging a bag. Sergei unzips it and dumps the cash onto the hood of the SUV. I step up and start counting. It doesn’t take long to see something’s off.

“You’re short,” I say, looking Sergei dead in the eye.

His smirk tightens. “It’s enough.”

“Enough” doesn’t cut it,” I say, my tone hard. “We agreed on a number, and this ain’t it.”

The air shifts. Sergei’s guys start moving, hands brushing holsters. Sergei straightens, his own hand resting near his hip. “Maybe you misunderstood the deal.”

“I don’t misunderstand numbers,” I say, stepping closer. “You either pay what’s owed, or this deal’s done.”

Then it all goes to hell. One of Sergei’s guys lunges at Sledge, and before I can blink, fists are flying. Sledge drops one with a hard right hook, but another grabs him from behind, locking an arm around his neck and pressing a gun to his head.

I don’t think. My hand goes to my belt, yanking my knife free. The blade’s out and flying before the guy even sees it. It buriesitself between his eyes, and he drops, dead before he hits the ground.

The rest of the Russians freeze, wide-eyed and pale. Sergei curses, his hand inching toward his weapon, but I’ve already got mine drawn, aimed square at his chest.

“Get in your cars and leave,” I say, my voice low and cold. “Now.”

Sergei hesitates, his jaw working as he weighs his options. Finally, he barks something in Russian, and his men scramble to their vehicles. They’re gone in seconds, tires squealing as they vanish into the night.

I holster my gun and turn to Sledge. He’s catching his breath, his eyes darting between me and the body on the ground.

“You good?” I ask.

He nods slowly. “Yeah. Thanks to you.”

We climb back into the truck, the silence heavy. I pull out my phone and call Mason. He picks up quick.

“What happened?” he barks.

“They tried to short us,” I say. “It got ugly. One of their guys is down. They bolted, but we’ve got the guns.”

There’s a long pause before Mason speaks again, his tone sharp. “Get your asses back to the clubhouse. Now. This is bad, Dagger. Real bad.”

“On our way,” I say, hanging up.

The truck hums along the road, the weight of the night sitting heavy between us. Finally, Sledge clears his throat.

“Hey,” he says, his voice gruff. “Thanks for having my back out there. I mean it.”

I glance at him, surprised. “You’d have done the same for me.”

He smirks, the tension easing just a little. “Yeah. Guess we’re cool now.”

The clubhouse lights come into view, the sound of bikes rumbling in the lot. We’re not out of the woods yet, but tonight proved something. Sledge and I might not always see eye to eye, but when it counts, we’ve got each other. That’s the way it’s gotta be in the Reapers.

When Sledge and I walk into Perdition, the place is rowdy like it usually is. The music’s loud, voices louder, and there’s an energy that makes it feel like the walls themselves are alive. But it’s not time to party—we’ve got shit to deal with.

We push through the crowd, heading to the back room where business goes down. The meeting room’s packed, all the members gathered around the table while the rest stand pressed against the walls. It’s a tight fit, the air thick with smoke and tension.

Mason’s already there, leaning on the edge of the table, his face set like stone. As soon as we walk in, all eyes are on us. I nod at Mason, and we start laying it out—the Russians trying to short us, the fight, Sergei’s man ending up dead.

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