Page 81 of Reaper
We file out into the alley, the cool night air hitting us like a slap after the warm, smoke-filled interior. True to Madam Lin's word, a beat-up white van rumbles down the narrow space between buildings exactly five minutes later. The side panel is dented, rust eats at the wheel wells, and one headlight flickers intermittently.
The driver's face is hidden behind dark sunglasses despite the late hour. He jerks his thumb toward the back without saying a word.
"Charming," Tank mutters, but we pile into the van anyway. The interior smells like stale cigarettes and something I can't identify but don't want to think too hard about. No windows in the back, just metal walls and a single overhead light that flickers worse than the headlight.
The ride takes us deeper into Sacramento's underbelly, through neighborhoods where even the streetlights seem dimmer. When we finally stop, I can hear the city's pulsedifferently here — sharper, more desperate. It’s a place where people disappear and nobody asks questions.
The driver slides open the van door, and we step out into an alley that makes the one behind the mahjong club look like a tourist attraction. Graffiti covers every surface, broken glass crunches under our boots, and the air carries the unmistakable cocktail of piss, garbage, and something chemical that makes my nose burn.
A narrow doorway leads into what looks like it used to be a warehouse. No signs, no markers — just a steel door with multiple locks and a guy the size of a refrigerator standing guard. He nods to our driver and steps aside.
The moment we cross the threshold, my skin crawls. The main floor is set up like a casino floor, but darker, seedier. Card tables, dice games, and electronic machines that look like they were stolen from legitimate establishments. But it's not just gambling happening here.
In the corners and along the walls, I spot the telltale signs of a drug operation. People hunched over small mirrors, others with the glassy-eyed stare of fresh highs, and dealers moving through the crowd with practiced nonchalance. The sweet, acrid smell of burning heroin mingles with crack smoke and something synthetic that makes my stomach turn.
My old life calls to me, and the addiction that will always burn in my blood sets my hands shaking. Not badly, but enough that I shove them into my pockets. The familiar itch starts between my shoulder blades, spreading down my arms like fire ants under my skin. This place is everything I've been running from, everything that led to Vanessa's death, packaged up and presented like a fucking welcome mat to hell.
Adriana puts her hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “I know,” she whispers. “You can stay strong. I believe in you.”
A thin man in an expensive suit approaches us, his movements smooth as silk. Despite being surrounded by all this chaos, he looks perfectly at ease, like he's conducting business in a corporate boardroom instead of a drug den. He's smaller than I expected, maybe five-foot-eight, with silver threading through his black hair and lines around his eyes that speak of someone who's seen too much.
"You must be Madam Lin's friends," he says, his accent carrying just a hint of something that might be Chinese but has been smoothed by years in America. "I am Charlie Eng, head of the Brotherhood of Heavenly Fire. Welcome to my establishment."
Charlie Eng extends a manicured hand, and I shake it despite every instinct screaming at me to keep my distance. His grip is firm, controlled, and he holds eye contact just a beat too long.
"Madam Lin tells me you have business with the Russians," he says, his voice carrying an odd warmth that doesn't match his surroundings. "Ruslan Volkov has made many enemies recently. It seems his reach has extended beyond what some might consider... prudent."
The way he says it makes something cold crawl up my spine. There's an undertone there, something that suggests he knows more than he's letting on.
"We have mutual interests," Adriana says carefully.
Charlie nods, his dark eyes shifting between us. "Yes, I imagine you do. Especially given what happened in Boise." He pauses, letting the words hang in the air like smoke. "Such a tragedy when someone so young dies under... questionable circumstances. The official story rarely tells the whole truth, does it, Mr. DeMarco?"
The blood drains from my face. The familiar sounds of the drug den around us suddenly feel muffled, distant. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
Charlie's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Oh, I think you know exactly what I'm talking about. Emergency rooms can be such chaotic places. So many people coming and going. Sometimes things happen that aren't... documented properly."
I feel Adriana's grip tighten on my shoulder like a vise, and when I glance at her, I catch the look she's giving me—sharp, calculating, suspicious. That same expression she wore when she first wanted to put a bullet in my head. My stomach drops.
“If you’re saying Vanessa didn't die overdose, you’re getting bad information," I say, the words scraping out of my throat like broken glass. “I was there. I held her body.”
Charlie straightens his tie with deliberate precision. "But we're not here to discuss ancient history, are we? We're here to discuss the current Russian problem. I have an office upstairs where we can talk in private. Come with me.”
Adriana's hand slides down from my shoulder to my arm, her grip becoming a lifeline as much as a restraint. I can feel the questions radiating off her, the suspicion that's been building since we started this operation crystallizing into something harder and more dangerous. And as we follow Charlie to his office, I can feel her eyes boring into me, seeking truths that are better left buried.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Adriana
Alarm bells ring in my head, and all I want to do is pull Reaper aside, set him down somewhere well away from all the addicts getting high, look deep into his eyes, calmly, lovingly, and scream in his face: “What the fuck is this guy talking about?”
But I can’t.
Because we’re in a Triad den, and I doubt they’d appreciate me interrupting the important assassination conversation to find out what the man I love has been keeping secret from me about my sister’s death.
So, I swallow the rage burning in my throat like acid and force myself to focus on the task at hand. Charlie Eng watches me with those calculating eyes, and I can feel Reaper's tension radiating off him like heat from a furnace. But when I don't immediately drag him outside for answers, I sense his shoulders drop just a fraction.
Good. Let him think I'm being professional. Let him think I'm not dying inside.
