He glances at me. "Boss, if they've got the numbers?—"
"Doesn't matter." I look at him and let him see what's in my eyes. "I'm walking out of there with her. Anyone who tries to stop me dies. That's not a plan. That's a fact."
Sal nods and focuses on driving.
We cross the bridge in silence. My phone buzzes with an update from one of our guys watching the warehouse. Confirms movement inside. Lots of it. This is the place.
We meet the others in an abandoned lot a few blocks from the warehouse. Don Marco's best soldiers, heavily armed, faces hard with experience. I don't waste time with names or introductions.
I lay out the plan in seconds. "Front door breach. Flashbangs first. We go in fast, spread out, shoot anything that moves. I'm going straight to the center for Francesca. You clear the perimeter and cover my exit. Questions?"
No one asks any. They know how this works.
"Rocco, how long to breach the door?"
One of the men—older, scarred face—nods. "Less than a minute to set the charge."
"Do it. Everyone else, stacked and ready. You," I point to the one with the sniper rifle, "find a perch. Anyone comes out that back door, you drop them."
"Got it, boss."
We move in formation, weapons up, using the surrounding buildings for cover. The warehouse squats in the middle of the industrial block, ugly gray concrete with a flat roof and rusted metal siding. No cars outside. No visible guards.
They're all inside, waiting.
Rocco runs to the door with the breaching charge while we cover him. He works fast, placing the C4, running the det cord back to us. We stack up on either side of the entrance. I'll be first through. Sal behind me, the others fanning out after.
Rocco looks at me. I nod.
He triggers the charge.
The explosion is deafening. The door disintegrates, blown inward in a spray of metal and concrete. Before the debris settles, I'm moving.
Flashbangs go in first, arcing through the smoke. Then they detonate and the world goes white.
I'm through the door before the echo fades.
The warehouse interior matches the blueprint. Open space, concrete floor, metal rafters. And men. So many men. Bratva soldiers, armed, turning toward us with weapons raised.
I start shooting.
The first man catches rounds center mass. He goes down. The second takes a headshot, his skull snapping back in a spray of red. I'm moving between them, gun up, finding targets. Third man raises a rifle and I put rounds in his chest before he can fire.
Behind me, my team is spreading out, engaging targets. The sound is overwhelming. Gunfire echoing off concrete, shouting in Russian, the wet smack of bullets hitting flesh.
I don't stop moving. I head straight for the center of the warehouse. A man steps into my path and I shoot him in the face. Another comes from my left and I drop him center mass.
Then I see her.
Center of the warehouse, tied to a chair, surrounded by chaos. She's alive. Her face is bruised, her wrists bloody from the zip ties, but she's alive.
A Bratva soldier stands next to her chair, gun pointed at her head.
I stop moving. Raise my weapon. Line up the shot.
He's shouting something in Russian, using her as a shield. His hand is shaking. He's scared.
He should be.
