None wore camouflage or tactical gear. They had on faded jeans, canvas jackets, and baseball caps. They could have passed for oil workers, long-haul truckers, or farmhands.
“Reaper,” Jackson said quietly, stopping five feet away. He didn’t offer a handshake. His eyes moved over Caleb’s gray hair, calloused hands, and faded janitor’s boots. “We saw the local news. They’re calling it an officer-involved shooting following a suspected drug transaction.”
Caleb’s jaw tightened until a muscle jumped in his cheek. “Ethan was coming home from basketball practice. He stopped at a gas station. Vance pulled up behind him, claimed Ethan’s tail light was out, and demanded his phone. When Ethan reached for his wallet to show his license, Vance pulled him out of the cab, kicked him into the gravel, and put two rounds from his duty weapon through his knees.”
A heavy silence settled over the warehouse.
