THE REAPER’S LEDGER

The Jeep rattled violently as it bounced down the unpaved logging road, its high-beam headlights slicing through the dense, dripping canopy of pine trees. Inside, the atmosphere was thick enough to cut with a hunting knife. Mac drove with both hands locked white-knuckled around the steering wheel, his eyes glued to the winding dirt track ahead. Vance sat in the passenger seat, a Mossberg 500 shotgun resting flat across his knees, while Reno and Brick crammed into the back seat, their breath fogging up the cold windows.

"Slow down, Mac!" Reno yelled over the roaring engine and the screech of low-hanging branches scraping against the metal roof. "You want to drive us straight into a ditch?"

"Shut up and watch the tree line," Mac barked back, not taking his eyes off the road for a fraction of a second. "She didn't walk out into the highway. A kid that age can't cover five miles of wilderness on foot in ten minutes. Someone picked her up."

"Who? Out here?" Brick asked, peering out the side window into the pitch-black woods. "There ain't a soul living within twenty miles of this ridge except for loggers and hunters, and season doesn't open for another month."

"The same person who sent her into the diner," Mac said grimly.

The Jeep crested a steep ridge and began descending toward the edge of Blackwood Lake. Through the tangle of birch and pine, the skeletal frame of an old two-story log cabin loomed against the dark water. Its porch was sagging, windows shattered, and the front door hung half-off its iron hinges, creaking mournfully in the midnight wind.

And parked right in front of the rotting porch was a rusted-out black Ford pickup truck with no license plates.

Mac slammed on the brakes. The Jeep slid sideways on the wet pine needles before coming to a violent stop just twenty yards from the truck.

"Everyone out," Mac ordered, grabbing his heavy Colt Python from the glove compartment and clicking the hammer back with a sharp, metallic clack. "Move fast, stay low, and if you see movement, don't ask questions. Shoot first."

The four men piled out of the vehicle, boots hitting the damp earth with heavy thuds. They fanned out in a classic tactical wedge, sweeping their weapons toward the darkened cabin. The lake water lapped rhythmically against the rocky shore, a steady, hypnotic sound that only made the oppressive stillness of the woods feel heavier.

As they reached the edge of the porch, Mac noticed something strange.

There were no fresh tire tracks in the mud around the pickup truck, other than the ones the Jeep had just made. The truck was covered in a thick layer of pine needles and dried leaves, as if it hadn't been moved in years. Yet the hood was warm—faint wisps of steam rose from the radiator grill, curling upward into the cold night air.

"Someone drove this truck here tonight," Vance whispered, tracing a finger across the dusty fender and finding clean skin underneath. "But they didn't leave tracks getting in."

"Because they didn't come by road," a voice called out from the dark doorway of the cabin.

The four bikers froze instantly.

Standing in the shattered frame of the front door was a figure draped in a heavy, oversized corduroy coat. The hood was pulled down low over her face, casting her features in deep shadow. In her small, pale hand, she held something heavy and metallic—a weathered leather-bound ledger book, its edges stained with dark, dried spots that looked suspiciously like old blood.

"You're late, Mac," the little girl said. Her voice wasn't frail anymore. It was clear, steady, and carried an eerie, metallic echo that didn't belong to an eight-year-old child.

"Who are you?" Mac demanded, taking a slow step forward, his revolver raised and locked directly on her chest. "Show me your face."

The girl tilted her head slowly, a chilling, humorless smile stretching across her small face as she pulled back her hood.