45. Fuck Around And Find Out
45
FUCK AROUND AND FIND OUT
AIDAN
I t’s nearly three a.m. I drum my fingers idly on the dash of the SUV. My thoughts drift back to the penalty box and Rory Kostalova.
“It’s getting late,” Liam grumbles from the backseat where he sits next to Alex. “Are we doing this or not?” He repeatedly loads and reloads his gun, growing antsy.
I can’t blame him. We’ve been staking out this warehouse now for hours with nothing to show for it.
“Not yet,” I reply. We need to confirm there are girls inside. One wrong move could spook the traffickers and we could miss any actual shot at throwing a wrench into their new, lucrative Boston operation. A reliable contact pinpointed this warehouse in particular as a temporary holding area they take girls, before auction. But there is no sense in storming the place if they’ve already moved them.
We know we have the right place when a nondescript white delivery van rolls up to the side door of the warehouse and a variety of suits step out.Suits strapped with AK-47s. Their attention is on the van and not scanning the surrounding area for potential threats. Arrogance like that gets you killed. It also points to inexperience.
I sit forward. Koen’s fingers curl around his gun, dragging it off the dash. He snaps his fingers to get Liam and Alex’s attention in the back seat. The mood shifts from bored to lethal in a few quick seconds.
A burly looking fellow steps out from the passenger side door. A cigarette hangs out of his mouth as he barks orders to the others. Two more armed guards appear from inside the warehouse.
As the back door of the van opens, the men haul out more than a few scantily clad women. The girls cower away from the men, their hands restrained in front of them. The men rush the girls along, herding them through the warehouse door.
One girl has to be dragged from the back of the van. A dark-haired beauty. She puts up a fierce fight. At barely five-foot-three she doesn’t stand a chance against the two Italian mafioso who wrestle her out, shoving her toward the others. One by one, they disappear into the warehouse.
My grip on the steering wheel tightens when the burly fellow steps forward, plucking one girl out of the group as they pass by him. He wrenches her arms with such force it nearly takes her off her feet. To no one’s surprise—it’s the little dark-haired girl.
The man hauls her backwards, slamming her back up against the side of the van, catching her before she slides to the pavement. Tenderly, he strokes the hair out of her face before burying his fist in it, wrenching her head to the side. She fights him, not giving up, but with his full weight pressed against her, there’s little she can do.
I watch as he takes the cigarette out of his mouth and presses it down on the soft, exposed skin of her neck. He covers her mouth when she screams and laughs at her pathetic attempts to wriggle away from him.
I click the safety off my gun, reaching for the door, but Koen’s hand on my upper arm stops me.
“Not yet,” Koen repeats my own words back to me, his mouth in a tight line.
He’s right; attacking now would jeopardize the entire plan. And it’s only because I see the promise of death in his black eyes that I drop my hand from the handle with a low, frustrated growl.
The pathetic excuse of a man finally releases the girl. She immediately spits in his face.
I spy a small smile pulling at Koen’s deep frown at the balls on her. The mafioso backhands her for it. The force of the hit takes her down to the ground.
Two of his guards pick the girl up by her arms and practically drag her into the building as she continues to struggle against them, desperately fighting being taken inside. Once they all disappear, I look to Koen.
My brother tightens his grip on the handle of his gun in his hand with grim resolve on his face. “Ready?”
I nod, checking with Liam to see if he’s ready—but he’s already halfway out of the car.
Together, the four of us move swiftly and slowly. The building has cameras, but they do not properly account for the shadows created by the building. There is no moon tonight and we’re dressed all in black. Balaclavas and hoods obscure our faces and we move strategically through the camera’s blind spots until we reach the door.It’s unlocked.
Arrogance.
Koen leads us through it. They have one guard manning the entrance. He’s dead before his body hits the ground. But the gun shot announces our presence to the rest.
Wooden crates are stacked high, reaching as far as the eye can see. Narrow aisles in between. The crates are haphazardly placed, with no rhyme or reason or sense of order. Fucking Italians.
A nearby container is open, its lid leaning against the side of the crate. Liam reaches in, pulling out a sharp looking military grade rifle. I lean forward, recognizing the Kalashnikov seal on the gun’s barrel. A Russian manufacturer. Koen and I exchange looks. Interesting .
And definitely something to discuss later.
Gunfire sounds ahead of us. Gunfire Alex quickly returns, providing us cover.
Koen motions for us to separate into two groups. We peel apart, using the crates to conceal our movements while the Italians continue to unload on the area we were just in.
Liam and Alex get off a couple of shots as they dash to the left while Koen and I proceed silently to the right. Alex takes one guy down with a clean head shot while Liam catches another fucker in the leg and he falls, his gun slides across the concrete floor.
A few more steps and we have a clear view of the main area of the warehouse.
There are three Italians left on their feet, two of whom are currently engaged in a firefight with Alex and Liam, facing away from us. The third, closest to us, stands guard over a girl at his feet.
I recognize the hell-raising brunette from the parking lot. She’s on her knees, clothes shredded—nearly naked. Rope binds her hands and feet together. Blood runs down her back from several raw breaks in her skin. I do a double take, spotting the whip still clutched in the burly guard’s hands. They were punishing her.
Koen acts before I can, standing up from where we are crouched behind the crates, moving quickly and completely exposed. His gun is trained on the man closest to the girl. I swear under my breath, scrambling to cover him. He lets loose two shots, hitting the man in both the knee and the hand holding the whip. He collapses to the ground, howling, cradling his bleeding hand into his chest.
The commotion draws the last two Italian’s attention, giving Alex and Liam an opportunity to take them both out. Then it’s just the big burly fellow, currently sneering up at Koen’s gun from where he sits on the floor.
The furious look in my brother’s eyes gives me pause. It’s rare to see Koen’s emotions so plainly. No matter the situation, Koen always manages to remain focused and unfazed, always doing what needs to be done with cold, calculated precision. “Tie him up,” Koen growls before lowering to one knee and tending to the trembling girl on the concrete floor.
Liam and I heave the man up, shoving him into a nearby metal chair. He attempts to fight us, but injured as he is, he’s no match. I smile when my fist makes contact with his jaw. The satisfying crack of bone is music to my ears.
“You’re dead men,” He spits at us when Liam finishes securing his hands and feet to the chair. “You don’t know who you’re messing with.”
Slowly, I pull down my balaclava and lower my hood, cocking my head to the side as I peer down at him. “The South Side is Irish territory,” I say, letting my lilting accent loose with my words. “And you don’t sound too Irish to me, do you now?”
The man has the good sense to shut his trap. His face pales.
“Call for backup,” Alex calls, returning from the back office areas. “There’s at least thirty girls back here.”
Liam swears, pressing his phone to his ear.
My blood is boiling with anger. It only grows hotter as I watch Koen help the girl to her feet, sliding his sweatshirt over her shaking, bloody body.
Grabbing a metal folding chair, I slide it around in front of the Italian, dropping into it so we are eye level. His eyes dart wildly around, searching for help that’s not coming. “Look, man, I—I’m just a hired gun,” he jumbles out. “I only do what I’m told.”
“And who does the telling?” I play with the gun in my hand, re-loading the cartridge.
His mouth snaps shut, a look of unease on his stupid face.
“Plot twist: it gets worse for you.” I click the safety off my gun. My eyes flick to his, trying not to smile at the growing look of dread spreading across his face. “Whatever comes out of your mouth next determines how much worse.”
He licks his lips.
“Whose warehouse is this?”
My man doesn’t miss a beat when he gives his answer, “Matteo Carroza.”
Pleased with the confirmation, I straighten, holstering my gun, and reaching for the baseball bat Liam found lying around somewhere.
“Wait, wait!!” The goon panics. His eyes flash between my face and the bat in my hands. “I have more—more information, please!” I let the bat swing in my hand. Round and round it circles; the Italian’s eyes watching apprehensively as I step closer to him.
“I’m waiting…” I tilt my head, watching as the man’s pants darken in his seat.
He looks between me and Liam, a pained expression on his face.
“Times up,” I grin, winding up the bat one more time.
“No!” The man screeches. “I know who ordered the hit on Declan O’Rourke!”
The bat freezes.
“It was the Lion, the Russian Lion—Adrik—Adrik Kostalov.” He nods furiously. “He put the hit out that left old Dec’ dead.”
I stare at the floor, processing the words. He could be lying, but all of us have been waiting for this smoking gun. We know he’s not. There are so many repercussions to the Italian’s statement, but only one question comes to mind; Did Rory lie to me?
Slowly, I raise my head. And I bury the bat in that motherfucker’s skull.