Chapter 1: Blood in the Rain
The rain came down like knives, slicing through the night and washing away the stench of blood—but not the bodies.
Jordan Reign stood alone in the alley, her breathing calm, controlled. Around her lay a half-dozen men—broken, bloodied, some dead, some wishing they were.
One of them coughed, a harsh rasp that echoed off the narrow walls.
She turned her head slowly.
He was crawling away, fingers clawing at wet pavement, dragging himself through shattered glass and mud.
"Still breathing?" Jordan muttered under her breath.
She took two long strides, boot heels cracking puddles beneath her. Without hesitation, she planted her foot on the back of his head and slammed him into the ground.
Hard.
Blood mixed with rainwater in a pool beneath his face.
"You want to run?" she said coolly. "Crawl back to your boss and tell him the next rat I see on my turf won't get the chance to scream."
The others hadn't fared better.
She'd taken out the first three with nothing but a crowbar and bad attitude. The fourth tried to shoot her—missed. He was now unconscious with his arm twisted the wrong way.
Jordan rolled her neck. Bones cracked.
"Is that all?" she asked no one.
That's when she heard footsteps.
Another wave.
From the darkness at the alley's far end, more men appeared—eight or ten this time. One held a bat, another a machete. They wore the Vultures' signature red-striped jackets, smug with numbers and overconfidence.
Jordan didn't even blink.
The biggest of them stepped forward. "Boss Reign," he said mockingly, "Looks like you're outnumbered."
She tilted her head.
"You sure about that?"
They charged.
She moved like a storm.
Jordan dropped low, kicking a man's knee in from the side. As he fell screaming, she twisted and grabbed the next attacker's collar, slamming her forehead into his nose with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed across her cheek, but she didn't stop.
She caught the machete mid-swing, yanked it from the attacker's hand, and spun. Steel met flesh. A scream echoed.
The bat guy came next—too slow.
She caught the swing on her forearm, gritted her teeth through the pain, and drove the machete's hilt into his ribs, then stabbed it into the ground beside his fallen body.
Three left.
One tried to run.
She threw a dagger into his thigh without looking.
The last two circled her, smarter than the rest. One pulled a chain from his belt, the other a switchblade.
Jordan cracked her knuckles.
"Let's dance."
They rushed.
Chain guy swung wide—Jordan ducked, grabbed the chain, and yanked him forward into her knee. His nose exploded. She didn't stop—grabbed the blade guy's wrist mid-swipe and jammed her elbow into his throat. He gagged and dropped the knife.
She didn't give him time to breathe. A final roundhouse kick sent him flying into the brick wall. He hit the ground and didn't get back up.
Jordan stood still in the middle of the alley, chest rising and falling, soaked to the bone.
The fight was over.
Again.
Blood coated her knuckles. A gash on her cheek dripped crimson down to her collar. But her eyes? Cold. Unshaken.
Then came the voice.
"Boss Reign," a man said from behind.
She turned slowly.
It was Marcus, one of her senior men—clean suit, black gloves, earpiece in. Always polite. Always careful around her.
He stepped over a body and kept his distance.
"The Elders request to see you."
Jordan stared at him. Silent. Unreadable.
"They say it's urgent. Political."
She pulled a cigarette from her jacket, lit it with a shaky flame, and took a slow drag.
Then exhaled.
"Tell them I'm busy," she said, voice low.
Marcus cleared his throat nervously. "They said you'd say that. But they insist—"
Jordan turned fully to him now, eyes sharp as blades. "You think I care what a table of retired cowards insist on?"
He said nothing.
"They send me to clean their mess, I do it. But they don't get to summon me like a damn dog."
She stepped over a twitching body and started walking away, rain splashing beneath her boots.
"When I'm ready," she added coldly, "I'll call for them."
Marcus watched her go, blood and water in her wake.
He didn't argue.
No one did.