We didn’t think we’d have to deal with this neighborhood again after De la Rosa went down. We were wrong.
“Elena traced the bastards to a block just west of Pulaski,” I say. “Five exits, one loading dock, no guards on the perimeter as of an hour ago. But she flagged at least two thermal signatures near the south corner. Could be heat decoys. Could be men.”
Alexei shifts gears, pulling up to a curb across from a dark, crumbling warehouse with a corrugated steel façade and broken windows boarded over. The kind of place people disappear into.
“We go in quietly,” he says. “Two entrances. You take the north. I’ll cover the west side. No shots unless necessary. And if we happen to find the one who touched her?—”
“I’ll take his hands first,” I say flatly, interrupting him. “Then we’ll talk.”
He smiles. “Sounds like you’re in love.”
I ignore his comment, not because he’s wrong, but because I don’t want to waste time on words that don’t change a damn thing.
We get out and rain soaks through my coat instantly. I pull the hood up and keep my head down, eyes scanning. No movement yet.
“We clear?” Alexei murmurs.
I nod once. “Let’s go.”
We split up. My boots hit puddles, soundless in the downpour. I make my way toward the north entry, keeping close to the wall, finger brushing the trigger guard of my sidearm.
The door’s ajar, suggesting either carelessness or a welcome mat.
I slip inside, darkness swallowing me whole.
The hunt begins.
I find a door to my right and push it. It creaks open with the groan of rusted metal. Fluorescents buzz overhead, half-dead. The smell is industrial rot—chemical residue, dust, stale sweat.
The warehouse is a maze of crates and stacked pallets. We sweep through in slow arcs. I raise a hand when I spot a folding table in the corner of the room, documents strewn across it.
Receipts. Codes. Shipment logs. Names. A few I recognize. One is circled. An alias I haven’t heard in years.
No fucking way.
I pocket the page.
I hear metal shifting. Footsteps. My instincts flare just before gunfire erupts from above. I dive sideways as bullets rip into the space where I just stood. Wood explodes, shards flying. Alexei is already moving toward me from the other end of the building, returning fire with surgical precision. One shooter goes down screaming, a shot straight through his clavicle.
Two more drop from the catwalks. I roll behind a forklift, heart hammering but focus clear. One of them tries to shoot Alexei. I step out and take him down with two in the chest. He folds instantly.
Another rushes me, low and wild. I sidestep, plant my foot, and drive my elbow into his temple. He drops. I put one in the back of his head to be sure.
Three down. At least two left.
Alexei moves like a phantom—calm, efficient, lethal. He drops one with a clean shot through the ribs. The last man panicsand tries to run. Alexei hits him in the chest. He collapses with a grunt, crawling, bloody hand reaching for the knife he just dropped.
I’m already there, standing on it.
He’s young and has a tattoo of a scorpion crawling up his neck. His teeth are stained from nicotine, sweat soaking his collar. I kneel beside him, gun in hand.
“Name,” I growl.
He smiles through the pain. “Too late, Russian. You’re in it now.”
I press the barrel against his knee. “Try again.”
His lips twitch. A broken laugh. “Christian wants you to know…”
