Page 77 of Reaper
I adjust my uniform, the polyester scratching against my skin like guilt. The weight of my fake service weapon — a Glock purchased from a shady dealer — feels heavier than usual, even though I’ve carried one exactly like it for more years than I care to count. Everything feels different when you're crossing lines you swore you'd never cross.
We move toward the building, Susan trailing behind us with the expression of someone walking to her own execution. I don't blame her. I feel the same way.
"Remember," I whisper to Mayhem as we climb the stairs, "make it look real. But not too real."
"Relax, Detective. I've been arrested enough times to know how this goes."
That doesn't reassure me as much as he probably thinks it should.
We reach the third floor, and I can hear voices through the thin walls of apartment 3B. Russian accents - fake ones, I know, but they sound convincingly harsh. My heart hammers against my ribs as I position myself beside the door. This is insane. No, this is beyond insane. This ends careers and starts prison sentences.
But those twenty people inside need help, and sometimes the system I swore to serve moves too slowly for people who are bleeding.
I catch Mayhem's eye and nod. He raises his boot and kicks the door with enough force to splinter the frame but not enough to actually hurt anyone inside. The crash echoes through the hallway like a gunshot.
"POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!"
We storm through the doorway, weapons drawn, and I have to fight not to stumble at what I see. The scene is perfectly orchestrated chaos - three masked figures in black, clearly the "Russian gangsters," standing guard over a huddled group of terrified people. The rescued captives look genuinely afraid, which makes sense since they have no idea this is all theater.
One of the masked men — Tank, I think, based on his massive frame — raises his hands slowly. "We are not doing anything wrong, officers."
His Russian accent is terrible. Absolutely terrible. He sounds like a bad Bond villain, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
But then I see him. Reaper. Even with the ski mask covering his face, I know those eyes, know the way he holds his shoulders. He's standing protectively in front of a young woman who can't be more than nineteen, and something in my chest twists painfully.
Is this how he protected my sister, even as he used her?
Is this how he’s using me, too?
"HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!" I shout, my voice carrying all the authority I can muster while my heart tears itself apart. The third masked figure — Diesel, judging by his height and the way he moves — slowly raises his hands, but his fake accent is even worse than Tank's.
"We do not want trouble with police," he says, sounding more like a cartoon character than a dangerous criminal.
The rescued captives press closer together, their eyes wide with terror and confusion. They don't understand that this is salvation dressed up as violence. They can't know that the monsters guarding them are actually their saviors, and the police bursting through the door are just more players in Reaper's elaborate game.
"DOWN ON THE GROUND! ALL OF YOU!" Mayhem bellows. The three masked men comply, dropping to their knees with their hands behind their heads. Reaper's eyes find mine through the holes in his ski mask, and I see something there that makes my chest ache — regret, maybe, or apology.
But sorry doesn't undo the web of lies and manipulation. Sorry doesn't bring back my sister. Sorry doesn’t quiet the questions that echo in my heart — what really happened to Vanessa? What was it that Mayhem hinted at earlier?
"Officer, you secure the suspects," I order, my voice steadier than my hands. "I'll check on the victims." I move toward the huddled group of captives, holstering my weapon and pulling out my badge. "It's okay. You're safe now. We're police officers. We're here to help."
A young woman with bruises around her wrists looks up at me with hope so raw it nearly breaks me. "Police? Real police?"
"Real police," I say, and the words taste like ash. "We're going to get you out of here. Get you somewhere safe."
Behind me, I hear the metallic click of handcuffs as Mayhem secures the three "criminals." The sound echoes in my chest like a death knell. Even knowing this is theater, watching Reaper's hands get cuffed behind his back makes something violent and protective rear up in my throat.
I hate him. I love him. I want to save him and destroy him in equal measure.
"Susan!" I call toward the hallway. "We need you in here!"
She appears in the doorway, and her expression shifts from nervous dread to professional competence the moment she sees the rescued captives. This is what she does, who she is — someone who helps people escape from nightmares.
"Oh, honey," she whispers to the young woman with the bruised wrists. "You're going to be okay now. I’ve got you."
The next twenty minutes blur together in a haze of careful orchestration. Susan works with quiet efficiency, speaking to each person, explaining what's happening, guiding them outside to the waiting van.
I watch Mayhem guide the three "criminals" toward the door, their hands cuffed behind their backs, and my throat constricts. Even knowing this is all performance, seeing Reaper shuffling forward with his head down makes something primal and protective surge through my veins. The ski mask hides hisexpression, but I know those shoulders, know the way he moves when he's carrying guilt heavier than chains.
