Chapter 14 Killian
Chapter Fourteen
KILLIAN
The darkness inside the shipping container is heavy. It has a weight to it, pressing against my eardrums, smelling of things I shouldn’t be smelling in the middle of a firefight.
Gunpowder. Industrial grease. And under that, sharp and undeniable, the musk of sex.
I know what I walked into. I know what the crooked belt buckle means.
I know why Alessandro is breathing like he just ran a mile, and why there is a wet, dark stain on the Kevlar of his tactical vest that catches the sliver of light from the doorframe.
The realization hits me in the gut, a low, hot pull that I don't have time to examine.
I file it away. I lock it in the same box where I keep the memory of his mouth on me and the fact that ten minutes ago, he put a bullet in a man’s head to save my life.
"Are you hit?" I ask.
My voice sounds like gravel.
"No." Alessandro is standing three feet away. I can’t see his face, but I can hear the effort it takes for him to steady his voice. He’s wrestling his composure back into place, forcing the tremors out of his hands through sheer will.
"One hostile down in the alley behind the south loading bay. I took his weapon."
He killed a man. And then he came in here and wrecked himself in the dark. The Prince. The Strategist.
"How many on your side?" he asks.
"Three engaged. Two down. The third pulled back toward the main road." I touch the cut above my eyebrow. It’s throbbing, a hot, rhythmic pulse against the bone. "The sniper moved. I lost the sight line. He’s in the elevated structures east of the target building. If we stay here, he’ll find an angle. "
"Then we can't go back to the car."
"No. The Volvo is burned."
Silence settles in the container. The steel walls tick as they contract in the cooling night air. I can feel him in the dark—not just his presence, but the heat radiating off him. He is a live wire, buzzing with adrenaline and the residue of whatever he just did to himself.
"South," I say, forcing my brain back to the map. "There's a rail yard two blocks past the fence line. Maintenance vehicles are parked overnight. Older models. Easy to steal."
"You want to hotwire a car."
"I want to leave this metal coffin before they start putting holes in it."
I crack the door. Just an inch. The security light outside has cycled off, leaving the gravel lot in a wash of grey shadows. No movement. The only sound is the distant, mechanical hum of the treatment plant and the wind rattling the chain-link fence.
"On me," I say. "Stay tight. If you see a shadow move, you shoot it."
"I don't need instructions, Killian."
"Then stop talking and move."
I push the door open. The cold air hits us, biting through my sweat-soaked shirt. I step out, the Glock raised, sweeping the roofline. Alessandro is right behind me. I can hear his breathing, shallow but steady. He moves quietly for a man who spends his life in boardrooms.
We move along the row of containers. I keep my profile low, knees bent, boots rolling heel-to-toe to minimize the sound on the gravel. We reach the fence line. There’s a gap in the chain-link where the wire has curled back like a lip.
I go through first. The metal snags my leather jacket, tearing the shoulder. I ignore it. I scan the drainage ditch on the other side—concrete-lined, dry, full of trash.
"Clear," I whisper.
Alessandro follows. He slips through the gap without a sound.
The rail yard is a graveyard of rusted iron and weeds. We cross the ditch and jog toward the maintenance lot. It’s fenced in cyclone wire, but the gate is held shut by a padlock that looks like it hasn't been oiled since the Reagan administration.
I holster the Glock. I grip the gate where the hinge meets the post. I brace my boot against the concrete and pull. The metal groans, a high-pitched shriek that sounds like a scream in the quiet night. The weld snaps.
I shove the gate open.
"Inside," I say.
There are four vehicles. A white panel van with two flat tires. Two flatbed trucks that look like they’ve been stripped for parts. And a grey sedan—a Ford, maybe late nineties—that looks heavy, ugly, and functional.
I go for the sedan.
I wrap my jacket around my elbow and punch the driver’s side window. The glass shatters, crumbling inward. I reach through, unlocking the door.
I slide into the driver’s seat. It smells of stale cigarettes and old vinyl. I jam a screwdriver from my multitool into the ignition housing, twisting until the plastic cracks. I find the wires. Strip them. Spark them.
The engine catches with a roar, coughing a cloud of blue smoke before settling into a rough idle.
Alessandro is already in the passenger seat. The ?korpion submachine gun is across his lap. The Beretta is on his hip. He looks pale in the dashboard lights, his hair messy, his eyes dark holes in his face.
"Seatbelt," I say.
"Drive the car, Killian."
I slam it into reverse. We shoot backward out of the lot, tires spinning on the loose gravel. I swing the nose around and gun it toward the service road. I kill the headlights. We drive by moonlight, the road nothing more than a strip of lighter grey in the darkness.
"We've got a tail."
Alessandro’s voice is calm. Too calm.
I look in the rearview. Twin beams of light cut through the dark behind us, bouncing violently as a vehicle hits the potholes at speed. They are closing fast.
"Range?" I ask.
"Two hundred meters. Closing." Alessandro turns in his seat. He braces the ?korpion against the headrest, aiming out the shattered rear window.
"Hold on."
I floor it. The Ford protests, the engine whining, but the heavy chassis holds the road. I drift around a corner, the rear end sliding out before the tires catch. We hit the access road that runs parallel to the train tracks. It’s straight. No cover.
Crack-crack-crack.
Automatic fire. Rounds impact the trunk, a sound like a hammer hitting a metal drum.
Alessandro doesn't flinch. He waits for the bounce to settle, then squeezes the trigger. The ?korpion barks, a rapid stutter of noise that fills the cabin with the smell of burnt powder. Brass casings ping against the dashboard and the windshield.
Behind us, the headlights swerve.
"Hit?" I ask.
"Windshield or radiator," Alessandro says. He ejects the magazine, checking the load by feel in the dark. "They're slowing down."
I risk a look. The pursuing car has veered off the road, plowing into the embankment. One headlight dies. The other points uselessly at the sky.
"We're clear," I say.
I keep the speed up for another two miles, weaving through the industrial maze until I’m sure we’re ghosts. Then I slow down. The adrenaline starts to recede, leaving behind the cold, damp reality of the night.
And the pain.
It starts as a warmth spreading across my left side. Just below the ribs. At first, I thought it was sweat. Then I thought it was rain blowing in through the broken window. But it’s sticky. And it’s getting hot.
I shift my weight, and a sharp, tearing sensation radiates from my flank. It feels like someone touched a soldering iron to my skin.
I’ve been shot.
I don't look down. I keep my hands at ten and two. If I look, I’ll have to acknowledge it.
If I acknowledge it, I have to tell Alessandro.
And if I tell Alessandro, he’ll try to fix it, and I am not ready for his hands on me.
Not yet. Not while the smell of what happened in that container is still clinging to him.
"Where are we going?" he asks. He’s scanning the road, the ?korpion resting on his knees.
"Safehouse," I say. My voice is tight. "Off the grid. It’s a property my grandfather bought in the seventies. Cash. No paper trail."
"You sound certain."
"It doesn't exist, Alessandro. No deed. No title. No utility bills. It’s a brick box on a dead-end street by the river. Only three people know about it. Me, Rory, and Da."
I take a hard right, the tires splashing through a deep puddle. The water sprays up, hitting the side of the car.
"Only three people knew about the coin, too," I say quietly.
The silence in the car gets heavier.
"Seamus," Alessandro says.
Hearing the name out loud makes my stomach turn. Seamus Maguire. My godfather. The man who sat at my kitchen table every Sunday. The man who gave me my first knife.
I saw him. I saw his face under the security light. He was meeting with a Russian lieutenant. He sold us out. He sold me out.
"He's the leak," I say. The words taste like ash. "He gave them the coin. He told them about the tie. He set up the frame."
"Why?"
"Money. Power. Spite. Does it matter?" I grip the wheel until my hands hurt. "He tried to kill you to start a war. He put a target on Rory’s back."
"We'll find him," Alessandro says. "And we'll deal with him."
"I'll deal with him."
The pain in my side flares, a sudden spike that makes my vision blur for a second. I grunt, shifting in the seat.
Alessandro looks at me. Sharp. Assessing.
"You okay?"
"Fine," I lie. "Just stiff."
He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't press it. He goes back to watching the road.
I drive for another twenty minutes. The blood is soaking into the waistband of my jeans now. I can feel it pooling in the seat. I’m getting cold. The heater in the old Ford is broken, blowing lukewarm air that smells of dust, but the chill is coming from inside me.
I turn onto a dirt road that runs along the riverbank. Weeds scrape the underside of the car. The safehouse is at the end—a single-story brick structure with boarded-up windows and a roof that sags in the middle. It looks abandoned. It looks like a tomb.
I kill the engine.
The silence rushes in, ringing in my ears. No sirens. No traffic. Just the rain drumming on the roof and the sound of my own breathing, which is too fast and too shallow.
"Stay here," I say. "I'll clear the interior."
"I'll clear it with you."
"Stay in the car, Alessandro."