I flatten the defector into the floorboards, pinning him beneath my boot, then bark at Carmelo to stay down. My hand finds my sidearm before my brain even finishes identifying the threat.
“Castillo’s. They’ve been watching,” I say as the men nod, getting ready.
Every man in the convoy knows it’s coming sooner or later.
Sandro is already out of the SUV, moving low, sweeping his gun across the neighboring doors and windows. I clock six potential angles of attack. The shots keep coming, quick and disciplined, always in threes.
Handcuffing my prize to the steering, I pop the passenger door and roll behind the engine block. The rain is ice on my neck. The cold clears my head. Across the street, two shadows break cover, making for the alley. I let one go; I drop the other with a single shot through the knee. He howls, tries to crawl, but Sandro is on him in seconds. No mercy.
In the rear SUV, a window shatters. Glass hits the pavement in a glittering arc. I hear Claudio’s voice, rough and loud: “Motherfucker!” That’s his only warning before a grenade skitters across the asphalt and lodges under the rear tire.
“Down!” I shout, voice cutting through the storm. The concussion is muffled by the SUV’s frame, but the blast hammers my chest, fills my ears with white noise. , all I see is static.
But I’m not dead.
I crawl, blood in my mouth, up onto the curb. Two more men are down. Carmelo jumps into the SUV to check on the target.
“Status,” I snap into the comm.
“He’s got a cut but he’s fine.” Carmelo says.
Renzo: “Clear. Two down.”
Claudio: “Alive. The other two were hit in the cross-fire. Dead.”
“Fucker almost shot me!” Emilio roars before popping off another round.
I check for targets. Nothing but silence and dead men. No more shots. Whoever set this up doesn’t care about their casualties, only that we bleed.
“Move,” I say. “We’re hitting the next house.”
My own voice sounds strange. Calm, even. Getting in, I drag the defector upright, shove him into the passenger seat, moving his handcuffs from the steering wheel to the door handle, before getting in the back.
Carmelo hisses, “Should I kill him?”
“Later,” I say. “Sandro go scope their safehouse.”
We take off a couple of minutes after Sandro, giving him and the twins a moment to search before Carmelo and I arrive with the defector.
Sandro gets on the radio, voice low. “The girl’s not here.”
I frown. “What?”
“Intel said the woman was supposed to be here. I don’t see her.”
That’s a variable I don’t like. “Check the perimeter. If she’s still breathing, find her.”
Sandro and Emilio break off to check the alley while Claudio takes watch.
I roll down the window, let the cold burn the stench from my nose. My mind is already moving three steps ahead—who knew about the raid, which rat needs gutting first, what the old man will say when I report about the ambush.
From my jacket, I pull a pack of smokes, light one, and draw until my lungs hurt. Carmelo drums his fingers on the steering wheel, restless. The defector moans, head lolling to the side.
I flick ash onto the sidewalk, watching each ember die.
From the comm, Sandro’s voice: “Found something. Back entrance, east side. Movement.”
Opening the door, I drop the smoke, snuff it with my heel, and rack the slide on my Sig. “Let’s finish.”
