Page 143 of Tell Me Pucking Lies

“This isn’t about product,” I say. “This isn’t about money. This is about territory. If the Reapers think they can walk into my side and take what they want, they’ll learn otherwise.”

A young guy—barely twenty, still has that nervous energy of someone who hasn’t been beaten down yet—mutters, “That’s war, Koa.”

My smile is small. “It is war.”

Oxy shifts against the wall, arms crossed. “You sure you want to do this now? You’re not healed up. You should rest.”

I ignore him. “I want eyes on every highway leading out of town. Anyone wearing masks, anyone driving unmarked vehicles, sedans, anyone asking about me or our connections—get me their location. Don’t engage.”

“What about the drop points?” another dealer asks.

“They hold,” I say firmly. “We continue our shit. Like I said, it’s not about money, it’s not about anything but them crossing the line. Got it?”

That gets a few nods. They understand what I’m saying. It’s not exactly war, just eyes.

The Reapers won’t know shit. They don’t connect with this side of things, not always. They’ll turn a blind eye because they serve a different purpose.

“Someone talk to the South contact,” I add. “Tell him if he wants to stay neutral, he’ll keep his people out of it. I don’t needthem transporting what they took from me. And if he’s not going to hear it, he’s next.”

Oxy whistles low. “You’re serious.”

I glare at him. “When am I not?”

I stand, start pacing. My body hurts with every step—ribs grinding, skin’s burning—but I ignore it. Pain keeps me sharp. Reminds me I’m alive.

Oxy speaks again. “You really think they’ll give her back?”

My eyes flicker. Just once. “They won’t have a choice.”

I move to the small table, grab a folded map from the drawer, and spread it out across the surface. Three counties. My routes marked in red, drop points in black, safe houses circled.

I point at the border between West Pointe and Blackridge—the Reapers’ territory.

“They’re here,” I say. “But I know all their spots because this is my home.”

I trace the line with my finger, stopping at a narrow corridor of road that cuts through nothing but trees and abandoned farmland. “Remote, quiet, barely patrolled. They’ll think it’s safe.”

I pause, look up at the men. “It’s not.”

I point out a few more of their places on the map.

I fold it and shove it into my jacket pocket. “Now, just keep your eyes open. I’ll handle the rest.”

Oxy pushes off the wall. “Alone?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re out of your damn mind, man.”

“Maybe.” I pause at the door, glancing back at the men scattered around the trailer. “Anyone asks where I am, you don’t know.”

“And if we get hit?” one of them asks.

My expression is calm, knowing it won’t happen because they won’t want a war with me. “Hit back harder.”

I walk out into the cold morning light—bruised, bleeding, every step agony—but fueled by something worse than pain.

Rage. Pure, focused rage.