"And if they don't step aside?"
"Then they don't step aside."
Emilio lowers the binoculars. "What about Lorenzo?"
I've thought about this. Lorenzo Castillo is valuable. He's Marco's son, the heir to the Castillo operation, and killing him would ignite a war that makes the current conflict look like a playground fight.
"If he's in the building, he lives," I say. "For now."
Claudio glances at me. "And if he's between you and Alexandra?"
"Then he moves or I move him."
We exit the SUV.
The night swallows us. Three men in black, armed and silent, crossing empty concrete like shadows. Emilio splits off first, angling toward the fire escape on the building's north side. He moves fast, low, his boots making no sound on the pavement. Within thirty seconds he's a ghost against the brickwork, scaling the ladder with the fluid ease of a man who's done this a hundred times.
Claudio and I circle south. The loading bay is a wide steel shutter, padlocked, but beside it there's a service door with a standard deadbolt. Claudio produces a pick set and has it open in eleven seconds. I count. Old habit. Knowing how long things take keeps me grounded, keeps the adrenaline from turning into something sloppy.
The door opens into a storage area. Dark, cluttered, smelling like motor oil and cardboard. Crates stacked against the walls. A forklift parked in the corner. Beyond the storage area, a corridorleads toward the main section of the building, and at the far end I can see light bleeding under a closed door.
I tap Claudio's shoulder. Two fingers forward. He nods and moves right. I move left.
My earpiece clicks once. Emilio, on the roof. The spotter is down. One.
We reach the door at the end of the corridor. I press my ear to the wood. Voices on the other side. Low conversation, relaxed. The sound of men who don't expect trouble.
I open the door.
The room beyond is a common area. Card table, chairs, a television playing some show with the sound off. Three men. One at the table with a pistol beside his coffee cup. One on a couch, rifle across his lap. One standing near a window, checking his phone.
The one at the table sees me first.
His hand moves toward the pistol. I put two rounds in his chest before his fingers close around the grip. The suppressor coughs twice, soft and precise, and he folds forward onto the table. His coffee cup tips and rolls off the edge, shattering on the concrete floor.
The one on the couch is faster. He's already lifting the rifle when Claudio's shot takes him through the throat. He makes a wet, gargling sound and collapses sideways, the rifle clattering to the floor.
The one at the window spins. I'm on him before he can raise the phone, let alone a weapon. My left-hand clamps over his mouth. My right drives the knife into the base of his skull. He drops without a sound.
Four down. Emilio's spotter plus three.
I lower the body to the floor and wipe the knife on my thigh. My heart rate is elevated but controlled. Steady. Every sense heightened, every nerve tuned to frequency. The world has narrowed to corridors and doorways and the stairwell that leads to the third floor.
To her.
Claudio moves to the east stairwell and checks. Clear. He signals, two fingers up, indicating the next floor. I take point.
The stairs are concrete, industrial, echoing if you're not careful. I place each foot at the edge of the step where the sound is absorbed by the wall joint. Old technique. Learned it from a man who learned it in a war I was too young to remember.
Second floor. Landing. A hallway extends in both directions. Doors on each side, most closed. One open, spilling light into thecorridor. I hear a radio playing. Something tinny and foreign. A man's voice singing along, off-key.
I signal Claudio. He goes right. I go left.
The first door I reach is closed. I press my ear to it. Nothing. Move on.
The second door is open a crack. I push it with my rifle barrel. Empty room. Mattress on the floor, ashtray overflowing, clothes piled in a corner. Someone sleeps here but isn't here now.
The room with the radio. I approach from the left side, back flat against the wall. Inside, a man sits at a desk with his back to the door, scrolling through webpages on a laptop. The radio is beside him, tinny speakers filling the room with sound that covers my approach.
