I end the call abruptly. It seems that someone needs to be reminded that I built this kingdom with my own two hands. I’ve been directing from the shadows for too long.
There are things you delegate, and things you handle yourself. Hinto has made it clear which category this falls into.
The ride south is quiet; the kind of silence that sharpens instead of soothes. Nika sits in the passenger seat, eyes forward, expression unreadable, while several vehicles follow behind. We’re completely conspicuous and those who know what Baranov Tech gets up to in the shadows step into buildings quickly and stay out of the way.
The hangar comes into view, floodlights cutting harsh lines across the concrete.
SUVs roar across the cracked concrete, tires screaming as they cut hard angles, engines still running as doors are thrown open. Street bikes skid in sideways, riders already dismounting with weapons up, the air filling with the sharp percussion of boots hitting ground and metal being racked with practiced speed. Twelve of us fan out instinctively, a living machine honed by years of working together, each man knowing where to be without a word exchanged.
I spot them immediately.
Hinto’s men are smart enough to know better, which makes their presence an insult. One man is crouched near the fuel line, hands busy with something small and precise, while another keeps watch by the door, cigarette glowing briefly before disappearing.
They think they have time.
They do not.
I step out of the vehicle and walk toward them openly, my footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. The lookout turns first, eyes widening, his hand moving too slowly toward his waistband.
There are seven of them inside the hangar, spread too comfortably, tools and equipment laid out in a way that assumes privacy and time. That assumption costs them everything. The lookout opens his mouth to shout and the first shot drops him before his fingers close around the grip. The sound ricochets through the hangar, sharp and final. The others scatter, shouting, tools clattering to the ground.
The first shots tear through the space like lightning, deafening and immediate, glass shattering, sparks flying as rounds hit steel. One man goes down before he even turns, another spins and collapses against the wing of the aircraft with a wet sound.
They recover fast; I’ll give them that. Hinto doesn’t recruit amateurs.
I cross the distance in seconds and drive the first man into the fuselage with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs. The detonator skids across the concrete. I kick it away without looking, then bring my elbow down hard enough to feel bone give.
He crumples, sobbing, and I crouch in front of him, leveling the gun at his forehead. Around me, my men hunt down the others ruthlessly. Shots ring out; not shouting. They’re as silent as ghouls slipping out of nightmares.
Someone screams my name.
I turn just in time to see one of mine hit the ground hard, blood pooling too fast, too dark. Another follows moments later, caught by a burst of automatic fire that tears through him before anyone can react. The losses land like blunt force trauma to mychest, but there is no time to stop. There will be time later to make someone pay.
The fight tightens, brutal and close. Steel meets steel. A knife flashes and disappears. I feel the impact before I hear the shot, a hot, punishing force slamming into my side that knocks the breath from my lungs. I stagger but stay upright, teeth bared, returning fire until the man responsible drops with a surprised look on his face.
Five of Hinto’s men are dead by the time the last one tries to run.
That’s when I see her.
She is fast, slipping through the periphery of the fight like she knows exactly where not to be. A woman, younger than I expect, hair pulled back, eyes sharp and assessing even as she moves. For a split second our gazes meet, recognition flaring there, something calculating and dangerous. She’s familiar in a way I can’t place—I’m sure I don’t know her.
Nika shouts a warning, but she’s already gone, disappearing into the shadows beyond the hangar before anyone can give chase.
I file her away even as pain blooms hotter in my side, spreading with every heartbeat.
Two of Hinto’s men are alive. Barely.
They’re dragged forward, forced to their knees on the oil-slicked concrete, faces pale, eyes darting between me and the bodies around them. I stand over them, blood soaking my shirt, the taste of copper thick in my mouth. My vision swims at the edges, but I keep my voice steady.
“You’re going to tell me everything,” I say quietly.
One of them starts to speak, words tumbling over each other, desperate and incoherent. The other stays silent, jaw set, defiant in a way that suggests he thinks this is room for negotiation.
There isn’t.
I raise my gun and shoot the silent one in the head.
The sound is sharp. His body collapsing sideways in a heap. The remaining man screams, the sound tearing out of him as he tries to scramble backward, hands slick with blood.
