Young stumbled forward, not toward a plan, but toward the only shadow that promised to hide him.
Tonio hit the deck, concrete chips stinging his face. He rolled behind a stack of weathered cargo pallets. The wood splintered under the onslaught. He counted the shots, the pattern of theweapon. A long burst. The guard was panicking, trying to spray and pray.
The firing stopped. The distinct click of a magazine release was all the invitation Tonio needed. He rose, and with one shot straight to the chest, the guard dropped.
He was up and running again, his breath even, his world narrowed to the dark opening of the storm drain. He could hear Young’s frantic, scrambling footsteps echoing from within, the clatter of him stumbling in the dark.
Tonio paused at the entrance. He took a breath and plunged inside.
The world went from chaotic daylight to confined, echoing blackness. The air was thick with the smell of damp concrete, rust, and stagnant water. His light cut a narrow beam through the gloom, illuminating a large, circular tunnel about eight feet in diameter. A shallow stream of runoff trickled down the center.
The sound of panicked flight was ahead, amplified by the tunnel’s acoustics. Then, a gunshot.
The report was deafening in the enclosed space. The round ricocheted off the wall near Tonio’s head with a high-pitched whine. He dropped into a crouch, switching off his light. Darkness, absolute and suffocating, swallowed them whole.
“I know who you are… Valachi’s dog.”
Young’s voice cracked, tight with fear. “I can pay… anything. Name your price.”
Tonio stared down at him. The man’s eyes were wide, raw.
Another shot. This one was wild, aimed at nothing. The flash illuminated the tunnel for a split second. Tonio saw him. Young was backed into a slight alcove, a maintenance niche, his face a mask of sheer terror, his expensive suit filthy and torn.
The flash also showed Tonio the way. A metal walkway, a narrow ledge along the curved wall.
He holstered his pistol, the movement silent. Using the rough concrete for purchase, he pulled himself onto the ledge. He became a specter, moving above the water, invisible and unheard.
Tonio was directly above him now. He could smell the man’s fear-sweat, hear the frantic click of the hammer falling on an empty chamber. Click. Click. Click. “I can pay… anything. Name your price.”
He dropped from the ledge, pistol already back in hand. Tonio’s arm shot out, a viper strike. He caught Young’s wrist, twisting it with a brutal, precise motion. The bone snapped with a dry, sickening crunch. Young screamed, a high, pathetic sound that was cut short as Tonio slammed him back against the concrete wall, pinning him there.
For a long moment, they were frozen. The hunter and the prey, in the bowels of the earth. The only light was the faint glow from the tunnel entrance far behind them, casting them in silhouette.
Tonio looked into the eyes of the man who had ordered hits, who had destroyed lives, who had threatened the one good thing in his own fractured life. He saw no grand villain, no worthy adversary. Just a pathetic, broken man.
This wasn’t about justice for the world. That was happening back on the tarmac, with the FBI and the cameras. This was personal. This was for Sofia. This was to ensure this worm could never, ever threaten her again.
He raised his pistol.
Young’s good hand, hidden in the folds of his jacket, flashed upward. A derringer, a tiny, last-ditch weapon. A final, desperate trick.
There was no time to dodge. The roar of the small gun was immense in the tunnel.
Tonio fired a single shot.
It was perfectly placed. A neat, dark hole appeared in the center of Senator Young’s forehead. His body went slack, a puppet with its strings cut, and slid down the wall into the trickling water.
A fraction of a second later, Tonio felt the impact. Young’s wild, dying shot had hit him. The round, fired upward at an angle, had skipped off the concrete ceiling and slammed into his side, digging a furrow just below the edge of his ceramic plate armor.
It felt like being hit with a sledgehammer. The breath exploded from his lungs. The tunnel tilted hard; his knees almost buckled before training locked them again. A white-hot lance of pain seared through his torso. He grunted, stumbling back a step, his hand instinctively clamping over the wound. It came away warm and slick with blood.
Not good.
He looked down at Young’s body, the sight already blurring at the edges. The job was done. Permanently.
“It’s finished. He’s gone. Took one in the side. South storm drain. Come pull me out before I bleed out in this shithole,” he rasped into the comm.
Luc’s voice cracked back instantly. “Copy—two minutes, fratello. Stay with us.”
