Fausy nods and pulls out his phone.
I realize we’re going in blind. The smart approach would be to conduct surveillance first and assess what we're dealing with. But I can’t wait. If I don’t point my destruction at something deserving of it right now, I’ll end up doing something stupid. Like burning down Zerilli’s house instead. With Giada in it.
“What are we going to do with the women?” Caelian asks. “We can’t just leave them on the street.”
“I’ll warn Chief Knowles. Make sure they show up to get the women somewhere safe.”
***
The house is in a rundown section of town behind the Tampa airport, on a street where people tend to mind their own nefarious business. We pull our caravan of six blacked-out Range Rovers into a tiny unlit chapel parking lot on the corner of the street and pile out. It’s now almost two in the morning. We’ve all sobered up and are running on adrenaline and the high of promised violence.
I step up to Fausy, who’s handing out weapons to the soldiers from the back of one of the SUVs. Like the rest of us, he’s dressed in black pants, black long-sleeved shirt, black balaclava, black combat boots.
“Use the silencers on the guards. We need to neutralize as many as we can without alerting whoever’s inside. We don’t want them to start using the women as hostages.” I make sure I have the soldiers’ attention. “Half of you hit the front with Fausy, half go through the back with me.”
“And what about any Johns that are in there?” Gunnar asks as he checks his own weapon.
“Fuck ‘em,” I say. “They go down, too.” I’m not in a generous mood. I turn to Rocco, who’s leaning against the SUV, muscular arms folded against his chest. “Once we get all the women out, you’re up.”
He gives me a smirk and a salute.
My gaze sweeps over our small but lethal army. “Everyone ready?”
“Ready,” they say in unison.
I lead five of the men through the backyards of the neighboring houses, until we’re crouching behind a row of overgrown bushes between the target and the house next door. There’s a sliver of moonlight and a warm breeze rustling the palm trees.
Three men sit in plastic lawn chairs. There’s the light burble of conversation, and the cherry red of their cigarettes glowing in the night.
I motion to three of the soldiers and they take aim. Holding up three fingers, I start the countdown. Three, two, one…
Three softpffsecho in the night.
All three men jerk back in their chairs and fall silent.
I motion the crew forward, and we make our way into the yard, our footfalls noiseless in the sandy soil and sparse grass. We approach the dead men, and I smile. Three perfect shots to the head. I nod my approval and step on one of the lit cigarettes, grinding it under my shoe.
There’s a small, cracked cement pad in front of a sliding glass door.
We line up against the side of the house and, ignoring the sweat rolling down my face, I peer inside.
A cluttered kitchen sits in darkness. Beyond that, there are lights on in the house.
I carefully put pressure on the glass door, and it glides open.
Unlocked. Cocky fucks. Soon to be dead fucks.
I slide it open further, enough for us to slip inside the kitchen. As we stand there, the laugh track of some TV show reaches us from the next room. I hold my fist up to tell the men to stay put and then silently move to peer around the wall into the living room.
Six men are lounging on the furniture, beer bottles rest in their hands and litter the coffee table. One of them says something in Russian and the others laugh. No women present.
Perfect.
I motion for the soldiers to line up behind me. We’ll wait until the other team breaches the front door and hit them together.
A man suddenly swaggers out from the hallway beside the TV. His shirt is untucked, his face flushed.
The Russians chuckle. One of them mutes the TV. “You enjoy little Katerina, yeah?”
