The targets realize immediately that this isn’t gang warfare—it’s a coordinated hit.
“What the fuck is that smoke?” one of them yells.
“Gas!” another shouts. “Someone’s gassing us!”
“Fuck,” I hiss into my comm as gunfire erupts from multiple positions, my heart pounding erratically. “They made us.”
“I see it,” Alessandro’s voice crackles back, but he sounds calm despite the fact that my entire plan is falling apart. “Stay low. I’m moving to flank.”
But I can’t stay low.
Two of the targets are already moving toward escape routes I hadn’t properly secured, and if they get away, the whole operation fails.
The Families will see it as proof that I can’t handle complex missions, that I’m too inexperienced to deserve their respect.
And that isnotacceptable.
I make a desperate play, breaking cover to pursue the fleeing targets.
I know it’s stupid.
It’s exactly the kind of reckless move Alessandro warned me against.
But I’m still smarting from our earlier argument, still burning with the need to prove that his careful, measured approach isn’t always superior to decisive action.
And then the voices start—all of them at once, a cacophony of conflicting advice that makes my head pound.
Take them now!Giuseppe’s harsh voice roars.Show no mercy! Hunt them down!
Wait,Sophia’s voice whispers urgently.This is a trap. Use their desperation against them.
Think first!Matteo’s voice cuts through the chaos.Assess the risks. Consider your positioning.
I want to scream, clutch my head, and tell them to shut the fuck up. The overlapping commands crash together in my skull, each one demanding immediate attention, each one contradicting the others.
I can’t focus.
I can’t think clearly with all of them shouting at once.
So I do the only thing that feels natural—I follow my gut and charge after the fleeing targets, desperate to silence the chaos in my head with action.
The first target spots me immediately and opens fire.
I dive behind a shipping container as bullets spark off the metal around me, my heart hammering with the realization that I’ve fucked up badly.
This isn’t controlled anymore.
It’s a firefight, and I’m pinned down with limited ammunition and no backup plan.
My throat burns with emotion and I swallow it down. Now is not the time to absolutely lose my shit.
“Bianca, what’s your position?” Alessandro’s voice is sharp with concern.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “Pinned behind container seven,” I manage to say, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. “One—no, two targets are still mobile, heading for the north exit.”
Silence on the comm for several seconds that feel like hours.
Then: “Cover me.”
