Silas pulls up a map on his laptop. “Kozlov operations. I count seventeen businesses in Vegas alone. Front companies, cash operations, distribution networks.”
“Burn them all.”
“That’s going to take?—”
“I don’t care how long it takes. I want every single Kozlov operation destroyed by morning.” I turn to face him. “AndI want every one of their associates dead. No warnings. No negotiations. Just eliminate them.”
“You’re going to start a war.”
“They started it when they took Savannah.” I grab my jacket. “I’m just going to finish it.”
My phone rings. Dmitri again.
I answer. “You made a mistake.”
“Did I? I’m looking at your wife right now. She’s crying. Begging for her baby’s life. Doesn’t seem like I made a mistake.”
“You showed me where she is.”
Silence.
“That warehouse,” I continue. “The walls are concrete. Exposed beams in the ceiling. Broken skylights. High ceilings. That narrows it down significantly.”
“You’ll never find it in time.”
“I don’t need to find it. You’re going to bring her to me.”
“Am I?”
“Because starting in about ten minutes, every business you own is going to burn. Every associate you have is going to die. Every operation you’ve spent years building is going to crumble.” I walk toward the door. “And it won’t stop until you give her back.”
“You can’t?—”
“Watch me.”
I hang up.
Alexi is waiting by the elevator, phone pressed to his ear. “Chicago is mobilizing. New York wants confirmation on targets. Moscow is standing by.”
“Tell them all targets are green. No restrictions. No rules of engagement.” The elevator doors open. “Anyone associated with the Kozlovs is fair game.”
We ride down in silence. When the doors open to the parking garage, there are already twelve cars waiting. Armed men in dark suits standing beside each vehicle. Silas’s best operators, the ones who handle the problems that can’t be solved with money or diplomacy.
“First target?” one of them asks.
“The shipping warehouse on Industrial Boulevard. Kozlov uses it to distribute product throughout the southwest.” I get into the lead car. “Burn it. Kill everyone inside.”
The convoy pulls out, twelve cars moving through Vegas traffic like a funeral procession. Except we’re not mourning the dead.
We’re making them.
The warehouse on Industrial Boulevard is a large metal building surrounded by a chain-link fence. Two guards at the gate. Security cameras on every corner.
We don’t bother with subtlety.
The first car rams through the gate. The guards reach for their weapons, but my men are faster. Two shots. Both guards down.
The convoy pours into the lot. Men exit vehicles with weapons drawn, moving with military precision toward the warehouse entrance.
