Page 54 of Shadow's Edge

“Okay, you’re shooting from right to left,” I instructed, watching her closely. She needed to follow that order exactly, or this wouldn’t work.

“Right,” she murmured, already lost in the task.

She wasn’t even explaining what she was doing—this was instinct for her, muscle memory taking over.

“Can you notify people that we’re firing?” she asked, never taking her eyes off the target. I knew her ribs were still giving her hell, and shouting wasn’t happening today. Not that it needed to, the plan was for everyone to be inside.

“Live rounds firing!” I called out anyway. Better safe than sorry.

The sharp crack of the rifle echoed through the air as I tracked the shots through my binoculars. One after another, she took out the targets, each hit making my heart pound harder. The precision, the focus, she was fucking lethal.

When she finished the last shot, she lifted her head and grinned. “That was fun.”

I smirked. “You’re not done yet.”

Her brows knitted together as I nodded toward a crate set apart from the others.

Curious, she shifted, adjusting the scope again. Her fingers moved expertly, making tiny calibrations before she froze.

I held my breath.

She wasn’t looking at just any target.

Balanced on top of the crate was a small matchbox, and on top of that was an engagement ring. This addition was vastly different from the last time.

She slowly looked up at me, her mouth opening and closing a couple of times before she finally just… nodded.

That was all I needed.

Epilogue 2

Preacher

It took everything in me not to lay out the fat bastard in front of me the second we pulled up to the 412’s compound. My fingers itched for it, but I couldn’t blow our cover—not yet.

The asshole put on a big show, all fake grins and open arms, ushering us into the clubhouse like we were old friends. I made a mental note to touch as little as possible—the place was fucking disgusting. The air reeked of stale beer, sweat, and something foul I didn’t want to identify. Glassy-eyed whores draped themselves across furniture, barely dressed, their skin glistening under the dim yellow lights. A few of them were still snorting lines off the tables, some so far gone they barely noticed our entrance. It was as cliché as it got, just another group of lowlife bastards playing king of the junkyard.

A movement in the hallway caught my eye, and what I saw shattered the last shred of restraint I had.

A girl—young, barely seventeen—was desperately trying to pull her top together as she backed away from one of the men. The look in her eyes twisted something in my gut. Fear. Humiliation. She wasn’t consenting to whatever had just gone down.

That was it.

I gave the signal, and in a blink, my men had their weapons raised. We had the advantage—surprise, sobriety, and experience. And we took it.

Satan, the pathetic excuse for a man, lay bleeding on the floor in front of me, gasping like a fish. I pressed the barrel of my gun against his sweat-slicked forehead, voice steady as I repeated the question.

“Where’s Olivia?”

“She’s not here,” he wheezed, his breath ragged. A dark stain spread beneath him, and I grinned when the acrid scent of piss hit my nose.

“What do you want us to do with them, Pres?” Gauge asked, dragging the VP across the floor like a sack of garbage.

“Take them to the warehouse.” My grip tightened on the gun. I leaned in close, letting Satan see every ounce of certainty in my eyes. “Then we’re going to go get Olivia.”

His bloodshot eyes went wide as the realization sank in. We knew. We knew everything.

“That’s right, fucker.”

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