A couple of minutes later, tires screeched around the corner, and the SUV skidded to a stop beside us.
We moved fast, loading up.
Henri shoved the dead body into the back like he was hauling a sack of meat. I heaved the live one—barely conscious—into the cargo area beside his buddy. I shoved him back enough to shut the overhead door, making his legs bend awkwardly and eliciting a groan from him.
“Julian, you’re on cleanup duty. My guys will be here shortly. Watch your back,” I ordered, moving to the passenger side.
Lucian struggled to climb into the rear seat. Rory got behind the wheel, and I jumped in beside him as Henri got in behind me.
“Drive,” I ordered. “Navy Yard. East warehouse.”
“Got it,” Rory said, peeling out hard.
I pulled out my phone and fired off a message to DarkMatter’s response command.
Code Red. Sacrifice Lockdown. Full perimeter. No one in or out. All eyes on Delgado’s enforcers.
Then I called Luca.
He answered on the second ring.
“What’s up?”
“They got the girl from Cipher,” I said. “Delgado’s men showed up just after we arrived at the theater where she was hiding. They snatched her right in fucking front of me! I dropped one. Have one in custody. Working on cleanup.”
“Cops?”
“None yet, but Lucian says they’ve passed by on patrol. I’ve got Julian staying back to help with the cleanup. I need your people greasing palms fast—NYPD, city sanitation, the usual.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“You know where Delgado lives?” I asked.
He paused. “He moves often, but I’ll find him for you.”
“I’m going to make him regret breathing,” I hissed.
“You still have one of his men alive?”
“Yeah. He’s going to talk.”
“You want me to send someone?”
“No. This part’s personal. I’ll handle him just fine.”
Luca was silent for a beat. “Make it hurt.”
I ended the call. The man groaned in the back. Good, ’cause that was the best he was going to feel ever again.
We rolled into the Brooklyn Navy Yard just as the sun was rising. All was quiet.
Our warehouse was a holdover from the Soviet days—steel-reinforced, soundproofed, off-grid. No immediate neighbors. No questions.
Rory backed the SUV up to the loading dock, and we hauled Delgado’s men out—the deadweight first, then the whimpering bastard who’d tried to play soldier in a war against an enemy he’d woefully underestimated.
The inside of the warehouse smelled like bleach and the rot of death—scrubbed just enough to fool no one. The windows had a layer of grime blocking most of the light from outside.
Plastic tarps were already laid out, waiting to be wrapped around bodies before they took their final ocean fishing expedition. Rusted chains swayed from ceiling beams, and a meat hook hung from one of the center supports, positioned above a floor drain.
