Matteo’s with the extra security guys I’ve had hanging around. Good. If shit goes sideways, I want him there.
Three soldiers cram into my backseat as I drive toward a dive bar in Bratva territory. Stupid? Maybe. But this is our first real lead on Lightning, and these fuckers are pushing poison to my dancers.
“We grab Toxic,” I tell them, eyes on the road. “Make him talk. He’s dealing, so he knows something.”
The bar sits like a sore in the worst part of town. I park behind it, engine ticking in the silence.
“Matteo and I take the back. Rest of you cover the front in case he runs.”
We move into position, guns drawn. Through the kitchen door, we find one kid washing dishes with earbuds in, oblivious. I press my barrel to his skull and yank out one earbud.
“Turn around. Slowly.”
The kid’s maybe eighteen, skinny and scared shitless.
“How many in the bar?” I ask.
“F-four? Five? Plus the bartender.”
“All bikers?”
“Yeah. Except one guy. Think he’s mob.”
Bratva. Perfect.
I shove him in a supply closet that reeks of bleach. Kid looks ready to piss himself. He won’t be a problem.
Through the porthole window, I spot them. All bellied up to the bar, including Viktor. Matteo goes rigid beside me. That particular grudge runs deep.
One of them’s bragging about my dancer using under my nose—must be our guy. Candy made me look weak, and the anger burns.
One biker asks when she’s showing. Toxic reaches for his phone.
Shit.I fumble for Candy’s phone to silence it, but I’m too slow. The message dings, loud as hell in the silence.
“What the fuck? Is she here?”
No point in subtlety now. I slam through the door with Matteo, already firing.
Chaos. Beautiful chaos.
My soldiers crash through the front. Perfect timing. We’ve got them pinned, outnumbered. Men dive behind overturned tables, the bar, anything solid. I duck behind a pillar as bullets chew up the wall beside my head.
Plaster rains down, choking the air with dust. My ears ring from the ricochet, every shot a thunderclap in the cramped space.
I need Toxic alive, but the others are fair game. The guy lining up another shot at me gets his brains sprayed on the wall behind him.
Should be easy cleanup from here, except?—
A door I didn’t clock bursts open. Four more fuckers with guns.
My soldier Logan takes one center mass, drops instantly. Another screams, clutching his leg.
“Fuck!” I shout. The math just flipped. “We’re leaving!”
The word tastes like ash, but I’m not getting everyone killed over my half-assed plan.
We retreat, dragging our wounded. Logan’s body stays behind, cooling on the dirty floor, and leaving him there feels like ripping out my own guts.
