The first police cruiser rolled into the Lawson Customs parking lot less than five minutes after the sound of sirens reached the garage.
Blue and red lights washed across the workshop walls while officers spread through the property with practiced efficiency. Two moved toward the broken rear entrance, another secured the front of the garage, and a fourth immediately began checking on the injured Black Reaper lying on the concrete with a gunshot wound through his leg.
The others had vanished. The surviving attackers had fled before the police arrived, disappearing into the night and leaving their injured behind.
I leaned against my workbench while one of the paramedics checked the shallow scrape along my forearm.
"It barely broke the skin." I said.
"I know. I'm checking it anyway." The
