Page 7 of Hellfire's Mercy

My blue Prius looks hilariously out of place next to their motorcycles. Hellfire opens the driver's door, and I realize he intends to drive.

"I can drive my own car," I protest.

"Get in," he says simply, in that tone that brooks no argument.

I find myself sliding into the passenger seat before I can think better of it.

The car feels smaller with him in it, his presence filling every inch of space. He adjusts the seat back as far as it will go, and I try not to stare at how his large hands look on my steering wheel.

We drive in silence for a while, heading toward the port. The other two members follow on their bikes, keeping a discrete distance. The port has been Cedar Falls's lifeline for decades, bringing jobs and commerce to our small town. Lately, though, there have been whispers about increased security, restricted areas, and missing inventory.

Hellfire parks near the water's edge, in a spot with a clear view of the main loading docks. The late afternoon sun glints off the water, and somewhere a seagull screams.

"What are we doing here?" I ask.

"Teaching you why you're really useful to us." He lights a cigarette, cracking the window. "The Outlaws aren't just running guns anymore. They're trafficking people."

My blood runs cold. "What?"

"Using these docks." He gestures with his cigarette. "Container ships from South America, Eastern Europe. People desperate for a better life, paying everything they have, only to end up as slaves."

"That's..." I struggle to find words. "If that's true, why hasn't anyone stopped them?"

"Because everyone is afraid of them." His jaw tightens. "Every time we try to bring attention to it, the complaints disappear. Evidence vanishes. Witnesses change their stories."

I pull out my reporter's notebook. "How long has this been happening?"

"Two months that we know of. It started around the time they first hit one of our weapons stashes. They want all of Cedar Falls for them, to do with it as they please." He watches me write. "No one believes us. We're just criminals in their eyes. But you..."

"I can write about it," I finish his thought. "But I can't just publish accusations without proof. I need evidence, documents, witnesses willing to go on record."

"That's why you're here." He turns to face me fully, and my breath catches at the intensity in his eyes. "We'll get you what you need. But you have to understand – this isn't just about writing a story. These people's lives are at stake. And the Outlaws will kill to keep this quiet."

"I'll need to verify everything independently. Interview sources, check records."

"You'll have access to what we know," he nods. "But you follow our rules. No moves without clearing them first. No meetings without protection."

"And if I find nothing? If I can't prove anything?"

His eyes fix on the docks. "That's why we're here now. Got word there's a shipment coming in at 4. Wanted you to see it with your own eyes."

I check my watch – just over an hour to wait.

"Won't they notice us sitting here?"

"Tinted windows," he says, "And they're not looking for a Prius." His lips quirk up slightly. "Doubt they expect the president of Iron & Blood to be caught dead in one. The other two members are hiding behind the car to be safe, too. This isn’t our first rodeo, you know?"

We sit silently for a while, watching dock workers move around in the distance. The tension in the car is thick with more than just the anticipation of what we might witness. Every time Hellfire shifts, his arm brushes against mine, sending little sparks through my body.

"Tell me what I'm looking for," I say, pulling out my notebook again.

Professional. Keep it professional.

"The ships come in under legitimate shipping companies' names," he explains, his deep voice filling the car. "But certain containers get special treatment. Different paperwork, specific guards. They move them at odd hours, usually to warehouses just outside town."

I scribble notes frantically. "How did you figure it out?"

"Mark, one of our prospects. He used to work the docks. Started noticing patterns. Strange sounds from containers. Guards getting paid off." His jaw tightens. "Then he disappeared. Body turned up three days later, made to look like an overdose."

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