The Saints and Sinners have a history written in blood and bad timing.
Five years ago, before either club had learned how to stand steady, Havoc and Grim crossed paths on the same cartel route outside Mercy Creek. Both men were hunting the same shipment. Both thought the other was in the way.
It should have ended with bodies wearing cuts.
Instead, it ended with Havoc dragging Grim out of a burning building while Grim held pressure on a bullet hole in Havoc’s side, both of them cussing each other too hard to die.
Six girls made it out that night.
After that, the Saints and the Sinners stopped circling each other like threats and started answering the phone when the other called.
We don’t share territory.
We don’t share command.
But when traffickers cross the mountains, we share blood.
So if Grim sends intel, I listen.
But only half.
The rest stays inside that café with Talia.
I’m standing right outside the front window, close enough to see the counter, the front booths, the waitress moving with a coffee pot.
I can’t see the back booth anymore. The van killed that angle.
My jaw tightens.
I shift two steps along the window, trying to see past the reflection and the van’s white side panel.
Still nothing.
“Shadow,” Ghost says.
“Talk.”
“Grim says the source is clean.”
That gets the rest of my attention.
Grim doesn’t call anything clean unless he’s already dug the grave for whoever made it dirty.
“There’s a name in the asset list,” Ghost says.
Something in his voice changes.
I stop moving.
“Who?”
“Brianna Hardy.”
The street goes quiet.
Not really. There are cars, voices, a dog barking somewhere down the block, the café bell jingling as someone leaves.
But none of it reaches me right.
