Chapter One: Leone
Theairinthewar room stinks like adrenaline and sweat.
Someone smokes in the hallway, but no one inside dares light up. Too much paper, too much ink, too much time spent recording every weakness the Castillo’s have shown us in the past six months. I stand behind the head of the conference table, flanked by six men, all in black. Five soldiers. One logistics.
None are stupid enough to sit.
The wall clock ticks and it distracts me. I stare at the map splayed across the table, corners weighted with sidearms. Most of the city is a sickly yellow, but sections of the map are stained a deeper gray where wear and tear has colored it. A dozen red circles crawl down the east side, spidering from the city center to the docks. Each is a safehouse. Each is a promise. One is supposed to hold the defector who nearly cost us the last shipment.
And one holds a girl.
Aurelio gave me no reason why we needed her, only that we must find her and bring her back.
My hands are folded behind my back. No need to brandish authority when my presence suffices. The soldiers stand at attention. Even Claudio, twice my size, stands as if I’ll snap his neck for breathing wrong.
The logistics man—Simone—clears his throat and gestures at the map. “Our target is here. Via the alley. Third floor, rear stairwell. Intel confirms two hostiles, perhaps a third. The asset is marked in blue.” He slides a grainy printout across the table. The defector’s eyes are blacked out, mouth open mid-yell.
Weak men always show their teeth when cornered.
I study the photo. “Vehicle?”
“Nothing on record. Intel says on foot. They might use bikes.”
I nod, then run my gaze across my team. Every man here killed someone for Aurelio. Most have killed for him, through me. His right-hand. His most trusted.
I measure the way they hold their arms, how their eyes dart but never rest on my face for more than a heartbeat. Only Carmelo meets my eyes. He wants violence, bloodshed, death.
I keep my voice flat. “No guns unless necessary. Suppressors. We need the asset alive.”
Beside me, Renzo taps the silencer of his Glock against the edge of the table. The tension shows on his knuckles in white lines, but the rest of him stays carved from marble.
“We hit the building from both ends,” I say. “Two teams. I’ll take the lead with Claudio, Emilio, and Sandro. The rest provide perimeter and extraction. I want this finished in under three minutes.” I look around the room. If shit goes sideways, Emilio and Claudio (the twins), are our best shots. Aggressive psychopaths with no conscience. “If the asset dies, you wish you died with him. Understood?”
Carmelo nods first, a deep, slow dip of his massive skull. The others follow.
I gesture to Simone, who produces a battered briefcase from under the table. Inside, comms, earpieces, zip ties. He passes them out like communion wafers. I slide an earpiece in, test the mic, then chamber a round in my Sig, slow and deliberate.
“The girl is in the safehouse across the street.”
Easy enough.
The rain intensifies outside. It thunders against the windows, making the interior fluorescent lights flicker. No one speaks. They watch me, waiting for the cue. I check my watch. 01:12.Always the best hour for ghosts and men who want to become them.
I signal, and we move out. Black gloves, black balaclavas, movements synchronized. No wasted motion. I lead down the corridor, through the maze of locked doors and false walls that make up Aurelio’s headquarters. I hear the thrum of engines idling in the lot before I see the SUVs—three matte-black beasts lined nose to tail. A driver waits in each, the windows down enough to keep the glass from fogging.
I take shotgun in the first vehicle, Carmelo behind the wheel. The others fall in line without orders. Sandro sits behind me, gun resting on his thigh, his knee bouncing a silent tattoo. Emilio is last, eyes glued to the rearview, always expecting a tail even when there’s none. The rest split between the other two vehicles.
The wipers fight the downpour, losing every third pass. Streetlights pass in liquid blurs, the city empty except for dogs and shadows. We hit the first intersection and Carmelo lets the engine idle, waiting for the other two SUVs to catch up. In the silence, I can hear the men breathing, the rain drumming, the sticky click of Sandro’s tongue as he checks his teeth for the fifth time.
“Calmati,” I say, not turning around. “It’s a simple extraction.”
Sandro laughs under his breath. “When has it ever been simple?”
I crack the window. “Simple enough if you don’t fuck it up.”
He stops fidgeting.
We roll through side streets, the path mapped and memorized. By the time we pull within two blocks of the target, there is only one light on in the building. Third floor, as promised. My eyes trace the fire escapes, the street-facing windows, the alley behind.
