That got through.
For a second, something sharp flickered behind Dante’s gaze. Then the smirk came back, thinner.
“So what?” he asked. “You’re here to hold my hand through a slow night?”
“We’re here to make sure you walk out the door when this place closes,” I said. “Whether or not anyone tries to make that harder is up to your friends in Philly.”
Before he could respond, something rippled through the air below us.
You get a feel for crowds when you spend enough nights in rooms with too much liquor and not enough sense. The shift was subtle at first. A sway in the movement instead of a flow. A buzz that wasn’t just laughter.
Then a shout from near the front doors. The kind that cuts across the heavy bass and chatter. Glass breaking in a way that wasn’t a bartender’s accident. A woman’s scream.
Dante’s head whipped toward the floor below. So did all of ours.
Movement at the entrance. Figures pushing against the crowd instead of with it. A flash of metal where there shouldn’t be.
“Down!” Abenzio barked.
The front windows of the club blew inward, glassexploding in a spray that caught laser light and scattered it. Bullets chewed through the entryway, thudding into walls, bar fronts, bodies. The bass kept going, gunfire almost muffled in the soundscape.
People moved all at once. Some dropped. Some ran. Some froze and became obstacles or targets depending on how the night felt about them.
The flicker of muzzle flashes near the entrance lit up faces twisted in something beyond fear. Cartel boys in black shirts, Vincino soldiers in dark jackets with that same clean money stink all over them. I saw a familiar face in the mess—a Serpent patch near the door, maybe two. They’d brought their snakes along.
The windows of the VIP lounge door shattered next.
Glass burst inward in a glittering wave. The first round would’ve taken my head off if Jersey hadn’t slammed into me from the side.
We hit the floor hard. My shoulder throbbed from landing on it. His weight crushed the breath out of me. I heard Turnpike curse as he grabbed the edge of the table we’d been standing near and flipped it on its side. Bottles toppled, shattered. Liquid and glass slid across the floor.
“Move!” Turnpike barked.
We rolled, crawled, dragged ourselves behind the overturned furniture as more rounds punched through where we’d just been. The windows along the VIP edge went spiderwebbed and then gave entirely, glass raining down onto the dance floor below in adeadly glitter.
I scanned the lounge quickly, heart thudding in time with that bass rumble still pulsing in my bones.
Raptor was crouched behind another table closer to Dante, eyes huge, gun in his hands. Dante was half-crouched near the glass with Abenzio, both returning fire in controlled bursts down at the men below. Azzarello had his gun out too, posture perfect behind his boss.
The club lights hadn’t stopped. Color strobed over everything. Red, blue. It made it impossible to tell blood from champagne from backlit sweat.
“Front left, by the bar,” Jersey shouted, peeking over the edge of the table just long enough to send two rounds into a shadow. “Three cartel, two in suits. Serpents near the pillar!”
I rose to a knee, braced my arm on the table edge, and took aim. A Vincino suit using a screaming woman as a shield popped his head up at the wrong time. My bullet kissed his forehead. He dropped. The woman scrambled away on hands and knees, dress torn.
The air smelled like spilled liquor and fear.
They wanted chaos. Cover. Too many bodies moving for anyone to see who was shooting who until it was too late.
Raptor shifted, trying to get a clean line. His hands shook, but his jaw was set.
“Take your time,” I yelled over, voice sharp. “You don’t spray, you place. Breathe. Sight. Squeeze.”
His eyes flicked to mine for half a heartbeat.He nodded once. Then he leaned out just enough and fired.
One of the cartel guys near the lower bar jerked and went down.
“Good,” Jersey yelled. “Good shot!”
