Chapter Twenty-Six
The rain is a relentless curtain of gray, washing the grime of the city into the gutters, but it does nothing to wash away the stench of the waterfront. It’s a cocktail of rotting fish, diesel fuel, and the salty tang of the Hudson. It’s the perfect night for a funeral.
“Target is confirmed,” Yuri says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble in my earpiece.
He’s positioned on the rusted gantry of the adjacent building, a sniper’s nest with a perfect line of sight into the southern sector of the warehouse.
“Lorenzo’s vehicle arrived ten minutes ago.
Black Escalade, tinted windows. He went inside alone, save for two personal guards and a driver. ”
I adjust the strap of my tactical vest, the nylon biting into my shoulder. The weight of the Sig Sauer in my hand is a comforting constant. “And the shipment?”
“Being offloaded. Looks like pharmaceuticals. High street value.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, checking the chamber. “We aren’t here for the product. We’re here for the architect.”
“The architect has an army, Pakhan. I count twelve hostiles on the floor. Four on the catwalk. They’re carrying AKs and wearing body armor.”
I stare at the corrugated steel of the warehouse door, watching the water run down the rivets like tears. “Let them carry what they want. It won’t save them.”
“Breaching?”
“Breaching.”
We move.
The rain is deafening, drumming against the pavement and the metal containers scattered around the docks like chaotic applause. It covers the sound of our boots on the wet concrete.
I stay low, hugging the shadows, moving with the fluidity of water. Yuri is a ghost behind me, silent and deadly.
We reach the side delivery entrance. It’s a heavy steel door reinforced with a deadlock. Yuri kneels, attaching a small strip of C4 to the hinge. He looks at me, and I give the nod.
The explosion is a sharp, concussive thud that vibrates in my teeth. The door buckles inward, hanging off its hinges. Smoke pours out, curling into the wet night air.
I’m through the gap before the dust settles.
The interior of the warehouse is a cavernous cathedral of industry.
Halogen lights strung up high cast long, unnatural shadows across the concrete floor.
The air is thick with humidity and the smell of cardboard.
Rows of shelving units tower over us, stacked high with wooden crates marked with foreign stencils.
I spot the patrol immediately. Two men, smoking near the loading bay doors. They haven’t heard the explosion over the storm.
I raise the Sig and shoot two suppressed shots.
The back of their heads explode in red mist. They drop like sacks of wet cement.
“Two down,” Yuri murmurs.
We push deeper into the maze. The facility is waking up. Shouts echo from the far end of the warehouse—the office complex. Boots slam against metal grating. They know we’re here.
“Flank left,” I order. “I’ll take the right.”
Yuri melts into the shadows of the shelving units. I move right, keeping my back to the cold steel of the containers.
A group of three men rounds the corner, their weapons raised. They’re young, scared, scanning the darkness with wide eyes.
I don’t hesitate.
I step out, weapon extended. Double-tap the first. The second panics, fumbling with his safety. I put a round through his eye. The third tries to run, but Yuri steps out from behind him, a knife flashing across his throat. He drops without a sound.
It’s efficient brutality, the language of my world.
We clear the main floor in under five minutes. Seven bodies lie scattered in the gloom. The only sound left is the relentless drumming of the rain on the roof and the distant wail of sirens—cops, probably, drawn by the explosion. They’re still five minutes out.
“The office,” Yuri says, nodding toward the mezzanine level. “Lorenzo is pinned.”
I look up. A sheet of reinforced glass looks down over the warehouse floor. I can see movement inside, a man pacing. Two guards are standing at the door.
“Cover me.”
Yuri snaps his rifle up, aiming at the catwalk. “Go.”
I sprint for the metal staircase. Bullets chew into the railing near my hand, sending sparks flying. I duck, rolling behind a crate as the two guards open fire from the landing above.
I pop up, squeezing off three rounds. One guard spins and falls over the railing, crashing into a pile of pallets below. The second ducks back into the office, firing blindly.
I take the stairs two at a time. I reach the landing and kick the office door open.
Lorenzo is there.
He’s standing behind a massive oak desk, a phone in one hand and a pistol in the other. He has sharp features and dark eyes. The arrogance is the same. It radiates off him like heat.
“Gromov,” he says, lowering the phone. He sounds bored, not scared. “I wondered how long it would take you to show up.”
“I’m here to end the party, Lorenzo.”
“Party?” He laughs, a dry, humorless sound. “This is business, and you’re crashing the wrong deal.”
He gestures with the gun. “Kill him.”
The remaining guard steps out from the corner of the room, raising an assault rifle.
I dive behind a filing cabinet as the wall disintegrates under a hail of bullets. Drywall dust fills the air, choking me. I cough, checking my mag. Half full.
I need to move.
I signal Yuri.
A canister arcs through the shattered window, clattering onto the floor. I squeeze my eyes shut and cover my ears just as it detonates. A blinding white light and a deafening crack fill the room.
I’m up and moving before the guard can recover. I shoulder-check him, slamming him into the wall. He drops the rifle, dazed. I drive my knife into the side of his neck, twisting the blade. He gurgles and slides down the wall, painting the gray plaster in red.
Just Lorenzo now.
He’s shouting now, the cool facade gone. He fires blindly, the shots wild and panicked.
“Stay back! I’ll kill you!”
I walk toward him, the barrel of my Sig leveled at his chest. The smoke clears, revealing him standing there, hand shaking, chest heaving.
“You don’t have the balls, Gromov,” he spits, though his voice trembles. “You’re a suit. A bureaucrat. You don’t have the stomach for the blood.”
“I’m swimming in it, Lorenzo.”
I pull the trigger.
The shot hits him in the shoulder. He spins, crashing into the desk and knocking over a lamp. The pistol skids across the floor, out of reach. He howls, clutching his arm, blood blooming on his white shirt.
I close the distance, kicking him onto his back. I place a boot on his wounded shoulder, grinding down. He screams, a high-pitched, animalistic sound.
“Please!” he gasps. “Stop!”
“You came into my home,” I say, my voice dangerously quiet. “You threatened my wife.”
“It was business!”
“You made it personal.”
I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a simple brass Zippo. I flick it open. The flame dances in the darkness, reflecting in his wide, terrified eyes.
“No! Please, God, no!”
“God isn’t here.”
I pull a small canister of gasoline from my belt—standard issue for clearing nests. I douse him. The smell is sharp, overwhelming. He thrashes underneath my boot, his uninjured hand clawing at my ankle, begging.
“I’ll stop! I’ll pull back!”
I touch the flame to his coat.
The ignition is instantaneous. The fire roars up his body, a living thing, consuming the fabric and the skin beneath. He shrieks, a sound that tears at the eardrums, and rolls off the desk, batting at the flames.
It’s a gruesome sight. The smell of burning hair fills the room.
I watch him. I want him to suffer. I want him to carry the scars, the pain, for the rest of his short, miserable life.
“Pakhan!” Yuri shouts in my ear. “Police scanner is active. Two minutes out. We need to move!”
I look at Lorenzo one last time. He’s on the floor, writhing in agony, but he’s moving. He’s dragging himself toward the shattered window, driven by nothing but instinct.
He looks at me. Through the pain and the fire, his eyes lock onto mine. They’re full of hate.
I turn and run. I sprint down the metal stairs, taking them two at a time. The heat of the fire is pushing at my back, scorching my neck.
I hit the concrete floor and sprint for the side door.
“Yuri! Go!”
Yuri is already in the driver’s seat of the SUV, the engine revving. I dive into the passenger seat, and he floors it before the door is even closed.
Tires spin in the wet mud, then grab, launching us forward. We fishtail out of the alleyway and onto the main road, just as the first police cruisers crest the hill, their light bars cutting through the rain.
I look back.
The warehouse is fully involved now. Flames are shooting out of the broken windows, licking up the sides of the building. It’s a beacon of destruction in the night sky.
“Is he dead?” Yuri asks, glancing in the rearview mirror.
I watch the fire consume the structure. I think about Lorenzo dragging himself toward the window. I think about the hate in his eyes.
“He was alive when I left him,” I say, a cold knot forming in my gut. “Barely.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He won’t be alive for long. The building is going to collapse.”
“You should have double-tapped him,” Yuri says, his voice flat.
“I’d rather leave him to suffer.”
I lean my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes. The adrenaline is fading, leaving me exhausted and aching.
The anger remains.
***
The city is a graveyard of shadows at 3:00 a.m. The usual hum of traffic has died down to a sporadic cough of taxis and the distant wail of sirens that never seem to stop in Manhattan. The rain has stopped, leaving the streets slick and black, reflecting the dying neon of the marquees.
I steer the SUV through the empty streets, the engine purring low. My body aches—a deep, bone-weary throb that radiates from my shoulders down to my fingertips.
The warehouse raid was a success in terms of logistics—we destroyed three million dollars’ worth of product and put a significant dent in Lorenzo’s distribution network—but a failure in execution.