I take the long way down West Hamilton; a street that’s lined with dive bars and well known for trouble. It’s not the Reapers’ main stomping ground, but they buzz around every once in a while, like flies around garbage. I step over a broken bottle in the middle of the sidewalk and ignore a scantily clad woman who smiles at me and offers me blow. “Either kind,” she clarifies with a wink.
I can’t help but think about the upper-middle-class yuppies who live a handful of blocks away and say shit like “we live in the most peaceful time in human history” while sipping overpriced lattes. They don’t come down this way. They’ve never seen an underaged prostitute or someone ODing on the sidewalk. What’s it like to live your life in a bubble like that, so sure that bad things only happen to bad people?
I stop on the corner to wait for the light, tugging a butterscotch out of my pocket and popping it into my mouth while I’m at it. There’s a bus stop just on the other side of the street, and there’s a boy who can’t be more than sixteen sitting on the graffitied bench with his hands in his hoodie pockets, a nervous scowl on his face and a bounce in his knee. Out of the corner of my eye I see the crosswalk light change, but I’m rooted in place. He doesn’t belong on this street. He doesn’t belong anywhere near the kind of shit that happens here.
The door to the bar right behind him swings open and my blood runs cold as two men step out. They’re large and rough looking, one of them with a shaggy beard and the other sporting tattoos that crawl all the way up his neck and cover his bald head, both of them with Sleepless Reaper patches on their leather vests. My fists clench and my heart stutters to a stop for just a second before breaking into a gallop.
Maybe they won’t notice the kid.
Walk right by, I try my damnedest to command them telepathically, as if that has any hope of changing what’s about to happen. It’s like watching a National Geographic special. You know that the baby gazelle drinking from the watering hole is about to get dragged under by the crocodile that’s swimming closer and closer, but the gazelle doesn’t see it and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Except Icanstop it, and I fucking will. I crunch down hard on the candy between my teeth and shove my hand into the pocket of my leather jacket to make sure I have my mask on me. I do. I always do. My pistol is loaded and handy too, tucked away until I’m ready for it.
The bearded Reaper spots the kid first, slowing his steps, the predatory glint in his eyes visible even from across the street, even in the fucking dark, I can see his attention latch onto his prey. He slaps his buddy’s arm to get his attention, and they move in on their unsuspecting victim without a word spoken to each other. They don’t need words; they’ve made this exact play so many times it must be muscle memory by now.
They take a seat on the bench on either side of the kid, and I have to force myself to stand still, not to draw any attention just yet or give them any reason to think I give a shit what they’re up to. I’m just a guy standing on a street corner, minding my own business. I can’t hear them from here, but I know in my bones what they’re saying. A memory I didn’t know still lived in thedepths of my brain is suddenly shaken loose, and it plays in my mind in fucking 4K resolution.
I was only a few years older than that kid looks, lost in the wrong part of the city, too cocky and sure of myself to admit that I could possibly be in any danger. I hadn’t lived in Wildcliff long, maybe a few months, but just being out from under my parents’ thumbs, living in the city alone made me feel like I was street smart and worldly. I wasn’t scared the way he is, but I should have been. I wandered into a bar and I noticed him immediately. He was older, a little bit charming, and he offered to buy me a drink. I didn’t see through his act at the time, and from the way I can see the kid across the street starting to relax and smile just a little, I know he doesn’t see it either. A couple of drinks and an hour or so of the man feeding my ego, telling me how mature I was for my age, how brave I was for being in Wildcliff all alone. By the time he invited me back to his place to party, I didn’t hesitate. I’d never done any drugs harder than weed before, but I wasn’t about to turn down his offer to smoke some meth, not at the risk of him thinking Iwasn’tmature and brave.
It doesn’t take anywhere close to an hour for these two Reapers to flatter the kid. Probably closer to two minutes before he stands up and starts to follow them down the street in the same direction I was already headed.
Alessio is still in the back of my mind, but he’ll have to wait. I have more important things to take care of before I crawl through his window again.
I count to ten to give them just enough of a head start that they won’t notice me following them before I cross the street, not bothering to wait for the light. A car slams on its brakes and blares its horn at me, but I barely notice it. I pull my mask onto the top of my head, so it sits like a beanie for now, ready for me to tug it down to obscure my face if and when I need to, and I follow.
The Sleepless Reapers think they’re the baddest predators in this jungle, but what I lack in numbers I make up for with stealth and persistence. I shake off the lingering hold of the memory I was just lost in and remember something important. They’re not the crocodile at the watering hole, I am. They’re the lions—flashy, obvious, too cocky for their own good. They don’t even see me lurking under the water, drawing closer and closer while they’re focused on their baby gazelle.
Enjoy your last few minutes of feeling invincible before you feel my teeth.
ALESSIO
As much as I’m dying to call a car and haul ass back to my apartment to wait for Spettro, part of me is feeling just a little bit petty about the way he left last night. I decide to walk instead, take my time. My window is already unlatched, so he’s free to climb through and wait for me. And if he ends up annoyed or frustrated that he has to sit around with his dick in his hand waiting for me to get home, if he decides I deserve some kind of punishment for it, that’s fine with me. A little smile tugs on my lips and heat starts to simmer in my gut as I turn down West Hamilton to take the long way back to my apartment.
I may live in a penthouse with a security guard in the lobby, but some part of me definitely recognizes streets like this as home. Just because the Morettis know how to make a damn good profit doesn’t make us any better than most of the criminals and lowlifes in this city. Smarter maybe, but not better. Except for the Sleepless Reapers. There’s a special place in hell for them. But the rest of them? The dope dealers and the prostitutes, guys like Spettro who make a living taking shit thatdoesn’t belong to them? They’re not bad, they’re just desperate people doing what they have to so they can get by.
A couple of drag queens stumble out of the bar a few feet ahead of me and start taking swings at each other, so I cross the street to stay out of that mess. I don’t need to be anywhere near it when they realize the six-inch platform heels they’re wearing would make excellent weapons. A bus hisses to a stop up ahead. The doors swing open, but nobody gets out. Smart choice this time of night, honestly. There’s nothing but trouble to find out here after midnight.
I see a few people eye my suit, my watch, maybe even the telltale bulge of my pistol under my suit jacket, and I smirk to myself when each of them decides I’m not worth fucking with. Also a smart choice.
There’s a flickering glow coming from the alley between two buildings up ahead, like a light that’s not quite ready to commit to burning out just yet, but it’s done trying to be useful. Just as I start to pass it without giving it a second thought, a pained grunt draws my attention and I slow my steps. Whatever’s going on down there isn’t any of my business, and frankly it would be a full-time fucking job to make every mugging or assault my problem. So, it takes me a few seconds to work out why I slow down at all, until my gaze lands on two Harleys parked nearby. Plenty of people ride motorcycles in this city, and they don’t look the least bit out of place on West Hamilton, but the hairs on the back of my neck stand up anyway and an excited flutter tugs at the pit of my stomach.
I couldn’t be lucky enough to stumble across The Ghost in action, could I? I doubt it, but it would be stupid to not at least take a quick peek to make sure. I unholster my gun and hold it down by my side as I quietly slip into the alley for a better look. It smells like piss and garbage and the gravel crunches under my careful footsteps.
“Here,” I hear a muffled voice say, “take this money, buy a bus ticket, and go home. Trust me, there’s nothing but death and destruction down the path you’re on right now.”
There’s a quiet sniffle and then footsteps move rapidly towards me. I dart out of the way, ducking behind a dumpster seconds before a small figure sprints past, shrouded in shadows, and disappears.
What the hell did I walk into here? I stay low but crane my neck to peek around the dumpster. In the halo of the flickering light, two men are kneeling with their hands behind their backs. Another jolt of excitement rushes through me. Without a doubt, they’re Reapers. Which means The Ghost must be here too.
I try to lean farther out to get a look, but the gravel shifts under my feet, making too much noise. One of the Reapers looks in my direction, a spark of hope in his eyes like he thinks someone is sneaking down the alley to save him. Not a fucking chance. A hand darts into my field of view, wearing a black leather glove and clutching a pistol with a silencer attached.
The Ghost.
He pistol whips the bald Reaper right across the face, eliciting another pained grunt and drawing his attention away from me.
“No one is coming to save you,” The Ghost growls in a low, menacing voice that sends a hot tremor down my spine that goes straight to my dick.
Shit, why do I feel like I’m cheating on Spettro right now? I reach down to squeeze my swelling cock through my pants and hold my breath as a shadow looms over the Reapers. I’ll let The Ghost finish what he started, and then I’ll let him know I’m here. I’ll deliver the message that he needs to get it together and stop being so sloppy if he wants to stay out of trouble, but there’s no reason I can’t enjoy the show in the meantime.
He doesn’t waste any more time taunting the Reapers. He doesn’t monologue or tell them why they’re here, on their knees in a reeking alley, staring down the barrel of his gun. Maybe he did that before I got here or maybe he doesn’t see the point in wasting his breath when they’re about to die anyway. The first one doesn’t even have time to react before the quiet sound of the bullet moving through the silencer and embedding itself between his eyes whispers through the alley. He slumps forward and his friend jumps to his feet, piss soaking through the front of his jeans as he tries to make a run for it. He doesn’t even manage to step over the body of his dead cohort before he lets out a surprised grunt and crashes to the ground too.