Most importantly, alert.
The Greek guards who work for the Zervas brothers wait near the yawning mouth of his warehouse directly next to the harbor. Men I know as Greed and Envy have had their real names burned to ash.
Greed leans against a crate, smoking, eyes dull. Envy stands perfectly still, like a coiled wire. Both of them straighten when they see me. Greed speaks, low and deep. “The tracker our men installed shows the truck willbe here any minute.”
“Aye,” I say, pulling out my AR, as he vanishes back into the shadows.
Minutes later, headlights blaze in the distance, growing fast. A matte-black Mercedes Sprinter van grinds to a halt, brakes squealing in front of the warehouse.
I step forward, the AR steady across my chest.
A man climbs out in a bulky coat with Bratva ink across every hairy knuckle.
The fuckingBratvaare the sellers? I’m going to murder the head of the Greek mafia.
The Russian’s eyes sweep me up and down. “Show me,” he hisses in rough English. “I was told to only trust a man with the mark.”
“You’re only going to see this once,” I say without my accent and tug at my collar to expose the fake tat that is ugly, but tonight it earns me currency.
The guy studies me, then glances at Greed and Envy.
“Those are my backup.” I jerk my chin behind me.
The man mutters something in Russian, then shrugs. He’s a courier. And a low-paid one, obviously. He disappears behind the van, and I breathe in relief, hearing the back door rattle open.
That’s when floodlights, white-hot and blinding, break out across the dock, from a motorboat speeding toward the pilings.
Before I can decide who to shoot, gunfire shreds the silence. Bullets spark against the concrete, snapping the air.
“Too early,” voices snarl in the dark.
“Shite,” I hiss. “This was a setup. An ambush.”
I spin around, lifting my AR just before seeing a baseball bat arcing toward my head.
Head pounding, I open my eyes to find myself, body aching and broken, under a blood-stained sheet.
“You’re okay,” Trace says, but the worried lines around his taut mouth make him look ten years older.
Fuck, this job is killing both of us.
“What happened?” I stir on a gurney. I don’t need to look around to know we’re in a back-alley clinic because hospitals are too risky to bring someone like me.
“You took a blow to the head,” my brother answers.
“I was ambushed.”
“Shane is pulling camera footage,” Trace says, sitting with me. “And checking ballistics from the shells left behind.”
“Is Shane pissed at Ares for roping me into this side gig?” I mutter.
“You would have been killed on this side gig if my men didn’t drag you away from the gunfire,” Ares says, emerging from the shadows.
Damn it…
“Where are Greed and Envy? Are they all right?”
Trace closes his eyes and whispers, “They’re dead.”
