Reggie sank back into his throne of stained mattresses and torn leather, the laughter gone from his throat now. Just silence. Thick. Ugly.
Aaron didn't speak. He let the bishop piece sit on the table between them. Let it breathe. Let it smell like war.
Reggie finally exhaled.
"You're serious," he said. Not a question. A surrender.
Aaron nodded once.
"I got six men," Reggie muttered. "Two of 'em can still shoot straight. One's got schizophrenia and a flamethrower. The rest'll run the second shit gets loud."
Aaron leaned in.
"I don't need perfect," he said. "I need hungry."
Reggie scratched at his throat scar. "Bishop took my voice for a year. Poured bleach in it, said it was a baptism. Said pain purifies."
Aaron's jaw tightened. "And you still worked for him after that?"
Reggie's eyes narrowed.
"Don't preach, Hughes. We all bled for that bastard. Difference is… now I'm ready to make him drown in it."
He reached under his mattress. Pulled out a sawed-off wrapped in electrical tape and regret.
"I'll ride with you. But not for free."
Aaron raised an eyebrow. "What's your price?"
Reggie looked him dead in the eyes.
"When we find Sienna Locke… she's mine."
Aaron didn't flinch. He didn't agree, either.
He just said, "Get your men. We move at dawn."
Reggie nodded.
Then grinned.
Like the devil himself had finally been offered a chance at revenge.