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However, Reaper wasn’t going to concentrate on that club. At least not yet. The Russos were a much bigger threat than any outlaw MC. Without La Cosa Nostra, the Souls had no one to pay them for being mules.

No drugs, no money, no service.

With his AXMC secured back in its case, his dark, nondescript clothing, his cap pulled low, and sunglasses once again covering his eyes, he worked his way back through the empty building the same way he got in, making sure he wasn’t spotted. By either humans or security cameras.

With sirens blaring in the distance, he had no doubt the area around the restaurant would soon be cordoned off. Luckily, where he parked the very boring sedan with the fake license plate Vi kept at the Warehouse for these kinds of missions wasn’t anywhere close to that.

He had no issues getting back to the Warehouse. Once he swapped out the communal Chevy for his Bronco, he quickly shot Vi a text: Mission accomplished. Heading home.

Only, he was surprised when he didn’t get an answering text. That wasn’t like her. No matter how late it was when he finished a job, if he texted her, she texted him back an acknowledgement.

On the twenty minute drive back to the farm, her silence ate at him.

He shouldn’t worry about her since she was more than capable of taking care of herself. She also shared a house with Indie, an Air Force vet, also very capable of doing what needed to be done.

But still…

Both the Souls and La Cosa Nostra were not organizations to fuck with, then let your guard down. If they ever found out the DAMC and the Shadows were involved in these “hits,” they would strike back hard and without mercy.

La Cosa Nostra could and would easily wipe out every damn member of the DAMC if they thought the club was a threat.

That was also why the details of their plan needed to be kept contained to a small core group. While all patched members, prospects, and women had been advised to stay vigilant, they didn’t know much more. Anything else was kept on a need-to-know basis.

He turned into the long stone lane that would take him past the farmhouse and to the cabins deeper in the woods. Yeah, woods. While the Doughertys called it a farm, the property hadn’t been a true farm for at least a hundred years. It was more woods than open space, which also helped with privacy.

One of the remaining features left behind from when it was an active farm was the large pond behind the house. He could picture himself sitting in a rocking chair at the back of the wraparound porch, sipping an ice cold beer, listening to the critters, while watching the sunset.

He liked his moments of action; he also appreciated moments of peace.

As he slowly drove past the farmhouse, he didn’t see any interior lights illuminating the windows.

Maybe she was asleep. If so, she had gone to bed early.

When he passed the back corner of the house, he noticed an amber porch light. And since the light wasn’t bright—so as not to attract bugs—he barely saw the shadowed figure on the cushioned porch swing.

His heart immediately jumped into his throat and he slammed on the brakes. After pulling into the home’s parking area and setting the emergency brake, he shut off his Bronco and unfolded himself from his vehicle. In a few long strides, he was at the bottom of the steps leading up to the wood porch.

“About time,” she said.

About time?

“I was getting worried.”

“You aren’t the only one.” He asked, “Why didn’t you respond to my text?”

“I would’ve if I had gotten it. You know the coverage can be spotty out here. When I didn’t hear from you I decided to come outside to wait. If you weren’t back in the next hour, I would’ve sent someone out to find you.”

As a good team leader would. “Should probably keep a satellite phone here.”

“Probably. But the last thing I’m doing when you’re on a stakeout”—her eyebrows lifted on that last word—“is ringing your phone in the middle of it.”

“I put my phone on silent when I’m doing a stakeout. But it wasn’t on silent when I texted you because the mission was over.”

“For tonight.”

“For tonight,” he echoed. The whole job was far from finished and wouldn’t be until the Russos were only a memory. “Well, I’m good. You’re good. A couple of Russo goons aren’t good. So, everything is how it should be.”

“Right.”