The city blurs by in streaks of sodium and neon.
At every light, I expect a van to pull alongside, a gun to appear in the window.
But nothing happens, not yet.
Lena kills the headlights two blocks from the warehouse.
We park in the shadow of a burned-out supermarket, engine running.
I take inventory—four bodies, six guns, no plan.
Perfect odds.
Fiachra cracks the window, takes a drag, and says, "You ever regret it?"
I know what he means, but I pretend not to.
"Regret what?"
He grins, teeth bared.
"All of it."
I shrug.
"Regret's for people with time."
He nods, satisfied.
The warehouse is a slab of concrete, graffiti tagged in layers so thick the original color is a mystery.
The only light comes from a single security bulb over the loading bay.
Through the rain, I see shadows—men moving, the shapes of weapons cradled close.
Lena checks her watch, then turns to me.
"You want to go in loud or soft?"
"Loud," I say.
"Always loud."
We get out, moving in a line.
The rain is a curtain, muffling the sound of our footsteps.
We cross the lot, hugging the shadows, until we're twenty meters from the target.
Fiachra points.
"Second story window. Two lookouts."
I glance up, spot the gleam of a cigarette tip.
"They're bored."
"Not for long," Fiachra says.
