But glass bullshit does have its advantages. I take out a spyglass and peer through the enormous sliding doors. Inside, several men are lounging in couches, drinking vodka and beer, smoking cigars, and talking animatedly.
Among them is Marat. I spot him at the end of a couch, watching intently as a man strides in front of the group. I smile to myself, a vicious excitement filling my core, until I spot the main attraction.
Kaan Aslan’s giving some kind of speech. His hands do most of the talking, gesturing wildly. He’s a furry bastard, a square and hairy prick, with deep lines on his face and grease permanently under his fingernails. They say he came from nothing back in Turkey and built his way to a fortune in the HVAC industry. But that wasn’t enough. He decided drugs were more fun than air conditioners, and his empire tripled over the years, growing rapidly under his ruthless and clever leadership.
My stomach rumbles as I look over the rest of the group. They’re mostly Turks under Aslan’s command, except for Marat and Vadim. A strange part of me is thankful there aren’t more. I don’t know what I would have done if I found out there were even more traitors in my organization than I had realized.
Killed them, probably. So not much different.
“Targets confirmed,” I say into the earpiece. Daniel raises his own spyglass beside me.
“Fuckers look comfortable,” he says, sounding amused. “Should we change that?”
“On my mark.” I shoulder my rifle and dig in my pack. Inside I find a cute little grenade. It’s strangely pretty, these new models,much sleeker and more aerodynamic, made to be thrown long distances.
And they carry a punch.
I slip from the bushes, run forward a few paces, jerk off the tab on the top, and heave the fucking thing at the glass door.
“Mark,” I say.
The grenade shatters through and explodes.
I sprint forward before the last shards hit the ground. My boots crunch over shrapnel. I hammer into the home, gun up, as chaos erupts.
Shooting screams into the night. My men assault from all sides. Shouts in Turkish ring out. I kill one, another, another, but there’s smoke everywhere. The grenade lit a fire. All that cheap rented furniture is going up like kindling. The drapes are burning and flames lick the ceiling, sending ash across the white paint. Daniel’s at my side, laying into the room, but I can’t tell where anyone is.
“Report!” I yell, roaring forward. A man comes out of the gloom and sideswipes me, sending me staggering. I get my gun up and shoot, but I miss. He brings a knife down with a growl, and the blade is inches from stabbing into my heart. It hits my bulletproof vest and snags, and the bastard throws his weight onto it. I feel the edge bite into my chest, sliding, ripping through ceramic plates. The bastard’s snarling in my face, burns rippling red and ugly across his ravaged skin, and I realize it’s god damn Vadim.
“You fucking… traitor!” I snap my forehead into his nose. It breaks with a satisfying crunch. Blood sprays warm across myface. I scream as the knife cuts into my muscle and heave forward, slamming my fist into Vadim’s mouth. Teeth break under my knuckles.
“Fuck you!” he screams, falling back, clutching at his ruined mouth. I grab his knife and rip it from my chest before leaping on him.
“You deserve worse.” I stab into his neck twice, sending gouts of his blood spurting into the room, half of it sizzling in the fire like cooking meat. He gurgles, crying out, and tries to stem the bleeding. But I stab him again, and again, attacking him like an animal, letting all my rage flow forward.
I feel a hand on my shoulder.
“He’s dead.” Daniel pulls me back from Vadim’s mangled, wound-riddled corpse. “Come on, they’re scattering.”
I grunt, stumbling back, and find my rifle in the wreckage. The fire is getting out of hand. We’re forced back into the yard, stumbling into the night. My earpiece is static and the occasional shout, but everything is chaos. I sprint around the side of the house, but the fucking place is enormous. I nearly run straight over more of my men, but manage to gather half my force before we reach the front.
Gunfire pins us down. Turkish soldiers are covering their leader’s escape. Aslan’s limping, bleeding from a few wounds, but he’s still alive.
“Concentrate on the leader!” I bellow over the shooting. I do my best to aim for him, but the guards are too densely packed. I kill more than a few of them as Aslan reaches a black car, staggering through the rear. Bullets rip into the window and door, but it must be built from iron plates.
I roar with rage as the car peels out. I try to surge forward, but Daniel tackles me to the ground. “Get the fuck off!” I kick and push, but he holds me tight.
“You chase and you’re dead. Come on, we have to fall back.”
“Fuck that! I want him! The bastard!”
“You got Vadim. We picked off half their leadership. Aslan’s kneecapped. It’s time to fucking go!”
I know he’s right. My bloodlust is getting the better of me. I let him drag me up and away as my men lay down covering fire. We retreat in good order through the back yard to our agreed-upon escape route, scaling the wall, and jogging across a short field to where several trucks are waiting.
I collapse into the back of one. Daniel shoves in beside me. The drivers pull out, kicking up dirt and dust. Smoke curls lazily into the air and the mansion’s a blaze of fire through the back window.
It’s quiet for a few minutes as we drive through L.A. following the planned route. My jaw’s tight with frustration.
