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“Looks like a Lucci general,” Mackensie says. “Probably offering cash in exchange for intel on our operations.”

Mackensie is rarely wrong when it comes to matters like this. And I have no reason to doubt him this time either.

I know what comes next.

So does Mackensie.

The Lucci man and my snake of a street soldier? They’ve got no idea.

“Let’s move,” I say, my voice low and locked-in.

“Yes, Pakhan,” Mackensie replies. “Guns?”

I nod and watch as Mackensie reaches into the back seat and passes me a silenced pistol. He takes one for himself too and the pair of us quietly but quickly exit the SUV and make our way across the street.

“Lucci man first,” I say, my voice a low growl against the sudden influx of passing traffic.

“Got it,” Mackensie answers, his eyes trained on the two men as they exchange words far too casually, both of them unaware as to their impending fate.

As rain begins to fall, I remove the safety from my pistol and aim directly at the Lucci general. We’re close, but not close enough to shoot just yet. A homeless man spots the pair of us and hurriedly gathers his belongings and scurries away, his face full of a well-worn fear and a survival instinct that’s telling him to get the hell out of the vicinity in triple-quick time.

“Time’s up,” I say, Mackensie and myself now close enough to have gotten the rat and the Lucci man’s attention.

Without pause, we fire silent but lethal shots into the Lucci man, his body crumpling to the floor before he can utter a single word.

“H-h-h-hey, it’s not how it l-l-l-l-looks,” the traitor says, his hand scrambling for something in his pocket.

Mackensie shoots the man in his arm and then his leg, bringing him to his knees.

“Fucccccckkkkk,” the man cries, his face full of anguish as blood seeps from his wounds and through his clothes.

“Tell me the truth,” I growl. “Tell me what you were doing with the Lucci man.”

“I… I… I…” the man says, seemingly unable to get his words out.

Mackensie shoots him in his other arm, up high near his shoulder, typically where a bullet will go in one side and out the other. We both step closer to him. He’s making things far worse than they need to be.

“I’d speak now,” Mackensie says. “That’s unless you want us to take you to a warehouse on the edge of town and let our interrogators drain every last bit of intel out of you.”

“N-n-n-no, I’ll speak…” the man says, seemingly under the delusion that he’s going to be allowed to live if he offers the truth now.

It’s far too late for that.

“So speak,” I say.

“The Lucci family… they wanted information on… you,” the man says. “Where you move, what times, how much security. They said they’d kill my wife and kids unless I turned.”

“Oh, so that money was just a little gift was it?” Mackensie spits, cracking the man across the face with the butt of his pistol. “It wasn’t the case that you were gladly offering up information in exchange for cash?”

“Enough,” I say. “I’ve heard more than enough.”

And with that, I raise my gun and fire a single shot between the man’s eyes.

There will be no tomorrow for him. No second chances. No opportunities to win my trust back. Only the hot flames of hell that rats, informers, and the disloyal find themselves burning in for all eternity.

“Leave his body here, and the Lucci man’s too,” I say. “The world can see what happens when you cross Dmitri Pakev.”

Mackensie nods and rifles through the man’s jacket and takes his gun, and then the envelope of dirty cash he was given.