I count the doors, the ways in and out. The muscle memory of a hundred similar nights tells me exactly how the place will feel, the way the steps will creak, how the paint will peel around the doorknobs.
“Five minutes,” I say, glancing at Carmelo. He grunts, but his hands are steady on the wheel. I click the mag in my Sig, check the safety, and glance at Sandro and Claudio. Both nod, eager or scared or both. Doesn’t matter.
The first SUV cuts its lights two houses down. The second and third park at opposing corners, sentries fanning out with umbrellas they’ll ditch once the shooting starts. Everyone knows what’s coming.
Inside the vehicle, we wait for the last call. Claudio murmurs into the mic, “Perimeter secure. No movement. All clear.”
I exhale, slow. “Let’s go.”
The doors pop open in sequence. The rain slams into us, but no one flinches. Hoods up, guns hidden beneath windbreakers. We move fast but not rushed, like men who own the night.
At the entry, Sandro plants a small charge beneath the buzzer panel and steps back. The pop is more static than sound, the lock gives, and we are inside. The acrid stench of cat piss makes my nose wrinkle. Our boots leave dark prints on cracked linoleum as we file in, one by one.
I lead up the stairs, counting breaths and floors. Carmelo is two steps behind, moving quiet for a man his size. The twins fan out as we reach the landing.
I press my ear to the door. Inside: TV noise, low voices, the high whine of a kettle on the boil. I raise a finger, and we stack up.
On three, I kick the door.
It splinters inward, and I hold my breath, assessing.
For a heartbeat, everything is still. I see the blur of two men at the table, one in a tracksuit, the other in his underwear. The target is on the couch, wrists bandaged, eyes wide as plates. He tries to stand, but Carmelo is faster. He crosses the room in three steps and slams the defector into the wall, knocking the wind from him.
Sandro covers the other two, gun up, stance perfect. Emilio sweeps the kitchen, checks for strays. I take the room in from the threshold, my gun raised, finger slack on the trigger.
The man in the tracksuit makes a grab for the knife on the table. I don’t give him the chance. One shot through theshoulder drops him, blood blooming in a perfect spray across the wallpaper. He screams, but I ignore it.
“Shut up.” I snarl as he whimpers, clutching his shoulder.
The defector is gasping, face pressed to the wall. Carmelo doesn’t let up, grinding his forearm into the man’s neck until his feet leave the ground.
“Easy,” I say. “We need him breathing.”
Carmelo lets up, and the man sags, wheezing. I walk over, crouch to meet his eyes. He reeks of fear and cheap vodka.
“You know who I am?” I ask, soft.
He nods, eyes streaming tears.
“Good. Then you know how this ends if you resist.” I flick the barrel against his temple, gentle as a pat.
He nods again, shivering.
I gesture at Claudio. “Tie the others. If they move, break a finger for each word.”
He smiles and it stretches his face in a way that makes him look like a fucking clown. It’s never a happy smile.
Carmelo pulls the asset upright, pushes him to the door. I walk ahead, gun pointed at the ground. The hallway is silent except for the slap of wet footsteps. Sandro signals the all-clear; our exit is clean.
On the street, the SUVs idle with doors open. My team moves with the same quiet as before, loading the asset and the two extras into separate vehicles. I check my watch. Three minutes, twenty-seven seconds.
I allow myself a single breath of satisfaction, then close the door behind me.
The raid is a message. The real war will start when they read it.
Rain turns the street into a mirror, shards of city light reflecting in the black water. I have the asset and my team ready to move, all engines running, when the call comes through. Not a phone, not an encrypted line— the flat report of three suppressed shots from the building across the road. Close. Well-aimed.
One pings off the SUV and we move.
